#honestly it could just be the prose that ticks me off. hold on i can make other post about that

[wheatstar]

why is shadow so hard to get through i want to be done with it so bad... really really not looking forward to thunder

#rot.txt #thank god my hold on thunder is taking forever. hopefully i can push through shadow in five weeks #im also rereading forest of secrets to cleanse my pallet while staying on wc and its so much better... #i forgot how much i like tigerclaw. my friend tigerclaw (he would hate me) #and also brokentail being bullied by kittens. AND YELLOWFANG i miss when she wasnt horrible.. #this has been said before but the old cats are all so much more interesting than the new ones #its like i said before its not for lack of good ideas (though there are a lot of bad ideas too) its just a lot of bad execution #sooo many cool ideas in asc of a murder mystery or calling back to old arcs. but theyre not doing it very well #really i just wish nightheart and sunbeam werent pov characters. i care about whats happening with frostpaw so much more #im kind of rushing through the nightheart and sunbeam chapters so i can get back to riverclan #but even in riverclan im not safe.... splashtail is there. i dont want him to be there #and not in a “the villain is mean so i dont like him!” way i just dont think hes very interesting #i really like a lot of wc villains its disappointing when theyre boring #honestly it could just be the prose that ticks me off. hold on i can make other post about that

[spyglassrealms]

hey there! I got here via your dream post and stuck around to read your writing. The “realistic” sci fi worldbuilding is very cool - especially detailed explanations of how tech like FTL travel works! Have you considered running a homebrew campaign, or partnering with someone who writes character/plot driven fiction? I find that tends to generate a larger audience. Your character first-person writing has some interesting ideas! Quick tip - the overuse of commas chops up sentence flow and makes prose more difficult to read. Try editing to remove some!

Hey anon, I appreciate the ask and the compliments very much! Thanks for joining me here in my little corner of the web! I'm really glad you like my work; that makes me very happy to hear because I pour a lot of time and love into it!

...Buuut you've sort of hit a nerve here so I hope you're prepared for an essay response! I'm sorry in advance for how long this turned out to be and I hope this doesn't drive you off, eheh. Again, I do genuinely appreciate the feedback.

See, my default method of storytelling is speculative fiction: a concept or set of concepts is the center of the work, and almost all my characters are just cogs in the story machine. Sure, I have some characters I’m attached to, but the vast majority are just there because they have to be. They’re not the point of the story. Characters ARE important, but they rank lower to me than worldbuilding. When I generate story ideas, the characters are just temporary vehicles for the audience to connect with a concept I’m presenting.

And with that, we come to the problem that you've brought up which kicks me right in the ass every time: people always latch onto the characters, and don't give half as much of a damn about the setting. Yeah, I'm sensitive about that! Because I fall in love with technical details like planetary system structure and the mechanics of warp drives in much the same way as everyone else fixates on their "blorbos." That's why, when it comes to original work, you'll pretty much only find worldbuilding and writing posts on the blog –not to say I don't ever post anything about my OCs, but I can write whole essays about setting details and none of my OCs have that same depth.

And, anon? I'd like you to imagine how alienating that feels. I can't help but be upset when all of my friends are having fun making character playlists and talking about shipping while I'm sitting over in my corner with a twenty-page spreadsheet detailing the statistics of hundreds of stars and planets that nobody wants to read, because it's boring to everyone but me! I have tried to get involved, making characters for the hell of it to play in the same space as my friends. I wanna be excited about them, but they just don't hold my interest nearly as much. I can't change this, and it kinda fucking sucks sometimes!!!

Yes, sure, I could absolutely partner with someone who's better at characters and character-centric plot than I am! That's a good and practical suggestion! But you know what would happen? People would latch onto those characters and pay them much more attention than the setting they stem from, and I honestly don't think I could cope with that. I've tried this too, actually; I'm the one doing most of the heavy lifting when it comes to the Midnight Sea lore. I love getting into the gullyworks, tinkering around and fitting all the pieces together, making the world tick like a well-constructed mechanism. I know my friends like that about me too! That feels good! I just wish I got more credit/attention for that in itself, rather than for what it enables. I'm the minority when it comes to fictional focus, and I just have to live with that.

Also, yes, I'm aware I have a tendency to use lots of commas. I'm very sorry it hinders you, but it actually helps me when I read things back and when I'm organizing my thoughts. I'm sorry but that's a stylistic choice I don't think I can shake, but I'll try to be mindful of my comma usage going forward. ^~^;

Let me reiterate just one more time that I genuinely appreciate your ask, and I hope you stick around! I'm glad you're here! I'm sorry this got a little venty and I hope this doesn't come off as defensive or rude. It's just that this is something I feel strongly about and I wanted to take the opportunity to be honest about one of my biggest and most persistent struggles.

#spy answers asks #spy has thoughts #also @ my friends who are reading this: I love you very much and I am not upset with any of you at all #worldbuilding #meta

[ducktales-wco-oo]

✩ { @calvinsmuses​​​ } ✩ - Continued from ★

{ ☆ } He’s calling them by that name. 

Even now, when he’s doing what Jayden KNOWS he is trying to do again, Carroll calls them by that name. Like it still means something. Like it somehow is supposed to make what he’s about to say okay. Like he hasn’t called Jayden that for years, held them and comforted them and supposedly loved them for years and PROMISED years more... and is now about to break that promise. Those many promises. Again... 

How is it that Jayden can be certain he could never feel worse than he does at a moment— like the first time he was kicked out of a home, or the second time he was 'returned’ and realized that the problem may be him, or the time when he realized he couldn’t recall how many families it had been... the time he decided that it didn’t matter anymore... that it couldn’t matter anymore if he was going to survive... that time when he broke his own rule and allowed himself to think someone might actually want him around for good- only to believe that he didn’t.

But here he is... small and pathetic and dangerously-close to shattering right in front of the man he both wanted to believe he COULD break in front of, and yet now doesn’t think he should. Because if he does, if Jayden allows himself to splinter into the millions of pieces he can feel stabbing at his heart— puncturing his lungs and making it difficult to breathe, causing his chest to feel like it may concave until he disappears into himself entirely —then he’ll simply be proving what Carroll is unwittingly telling him... 

That Jayden is not good enough.

If Jayden was, this wouldn’t be a problem. Carroll wouldn’t feel the need to push them away AGAIN. Wouldn’t think that Jayden is so pitiful, so helpless that they can’t survive some long distance. That they’re so emotionally weak, they NEED the constant attention. The constant hugs and kisses and... and maybe they have grown dependent on it. Have gotten accustomed to Carroll being there for them— aside from that time when he wasn’t —and now... Now the thought of being without Carroll is an unthinkable as losing a limb. Worse than that honestly. He could make due without an arm, or a leg, or Hell- even his sight; stubbornness likely being more than enough for them to continue pursuing a career in design. But being without Carroll in their life... it feels as if they’d be giving it up entirely.

Because Carroll is as ingrained within it as breathing... Always has been, since they first met if Jayden is being honest; even if at the start he’d been reluctant to allow the new duckling to get too close. But somehow, Carroll had wormed his way in... and stayed there. Throughout everything that came and went in Jayden’s life, and the friends that followed who also managed to stay despite Jayden’s expectations, Carroll was the constant... Maybe Carroll’s right. Maybe his life would be better without Jayden in it. He just NEEDS to ‘learn not to love him’. 

Needs to learn not to love him. For ‘their’ sanity. Carroll’s sanity. Because loving Jayden just doesn’t work... It doesn’t work. It never works. It doesn’t work and Carroll needs to build his own life. Jayden hadn’t been aware that the one he was living right now was so shitty. That Jayden wasn’t part of his actual plan. That the life Carroll REALLY wanted doesn’t have them in it. Forever... What a fucking joke. And Jayden was the idiot who believed it... and throughout it all, Carroll still keeps saying that he LOVES them. Keeps showering them with empty praise and flowery prose, nervous and fumbled as it may be... Like it’s supposed to help matters.

All it does is prove to Jayden that they really are worthless... If someone like Carroll— sensitive and sweet and on the verge of tears... and yet still smart enough to know that Jayden isn’t someone to settle for —doesn’t have it in himself to want them around, then who would? Who should? ... They loved Carroll. Love him... Allowed themselves to TRUST in him, to let their walls down... to not worry about being anything but themselves... and look what that got them? They drove him away. Proved everyone else right. Made it to where even Carroll realized that as much as he might claim to love holding them and kissing them and taking comfort in their company... they weren’t good enough for ‘forever’. Not by a long-shot.

And yet Jayden knows that if they aren’t careful, they’ll try anyway. 

Pleas for Carroll to stay already lie on the tip of their tongue, Jayden swallowing thickly as if that will shove them down. But they simply lodge in their throat alongside their heart, an uncomfortable sensation that rivals the twisting in their guts and the burning in their eyes, Carroll’s form blurred beyond recognition as tears overtake hues of green. He’s going to cry. He already knows it... There’s no mistaking the way they overflow and drip down his cheeks, flattening fluffy feathers with streaks that scald. But if he’s going to cry, then he damn well isn’t going to beg while doing it. Isn’t going to make Carroll think even LESS of him than he already does. Isn’t going to shatter only for Carroll to step over the pieces and OUT the door... 

He might be crying... but they can still yell while doing it. 

They have to.

They have to do something.

❝  Do I know?  ❞  Words sound so broken that at first, Jayden isn’t even certain he spoke them; quiet and shaky and taking every ounce of effort he has just to pass his lips. Fists balled at his sides to hide the way hands want to fidget with the end of his hoodie or sleeves — a nervous tick he was never able to shake —chest shakes with labored breaths, it taking all of Jayden’s willpower to speak through the suffocating sobs that linger just beneath the surface. But talking seems to be keeping the worst at bay... So he keeps talking. Whatever that may bring.  ❝  Because all I REALLY know is that this is the second time you’ve decided to break your promise. Forever and always was nothing but a- a bunch of CRAP!  ❞

❝  And I never even asked you to make it!  ❞  Granted, Jayden had been the one to mention ‘always’ first. But they never forced Carroll to make that promise in return... Still, that doesn’t stop cheeks from flooding with warmth— shame and embarrassment mingling together into the feeling of wanting the floor to swallow them whole —Jayden unable to keep from putting most of the blame on themself for bringing it up at all. Even if Carroll had repeatedly hammered that point in afterward, Jayden had opened the gates. They had allowed this to happen... They had been STUPID enough to believe it meant something.  ❝  YOU did that! You did everything! You’re the one who said you loved me! You’re STILL saying it! Like- Like what? That’s supposed to make this better? Supposed to make it OKAY that you’ve spent years stringing me along like some idiot who actually thought that- that... ❞

No. He can’t stop. Don’t stop... Keep going. 

❝  Y-You should have just left me THE HELL ALONE!  ❞  Voice trembles, expression more pained than the anger Jayden wants to convey. Confused... Betrayed. Glossy eyes focused on Carroll as if answers can even be found, he weakly continues,  ❝  Why didn’t you just stay away the first time? You LEFT me and then- then you said you missed me... and now you’re saying you’ll be better off without me and I fucking KNOW THAT! I know that and I knew that and I- I... You don’t get to just- You don’t get to say you love me and... and DO this... again....  ❞  Losing steam, all Jayden wants to do is curl up in his bed and sob until his voice finally gives out and he won’t have to hear the wretched sound. But glossy glare remains riveted on Carroll, unwilling to lose whatever time he may have left to see him,  ❝  So don’t- don’t give me that CRAP about how great I am or any other flowery, poetic bullshit. Because we both know you’re just talking out of your ass like you ALWAYS do.  ❞

❝  You know... I’m used to people deciding I’m not worth their fucking time. I expect it. And yeah, it’s kinda shitty to tell someone they’re a lost cause, or just not worth the effort of helping, or god forbid- aren’t ‘fit for a family’ -whatever the FUCK that is supposed to mean.  ❞  Jayden hurriedly gripes, air quotes accompanying phrases they’d been told far too often through their life... Breath hitching, fresh tears brim as Jayden bitterly spats,  ❝  But at least those assholes had the decency to be upfront with me! Not make me the fucking dumbass who thought things might be different, when everyone else probably read the writing on the wall the FIRST time Mr. ‘Forever-And-Always’ wanted to play tongue twister with some theater tramp!  ❞  { ☆ } 

#(Have an icon in mind that I WILL be needing to draw because rip my Heart... but not right now) #(That shall have to be a picture or something... because I gotta literally yeet this out NOW) #( :'DDDDDDDDDDD ) #ducktales-wco-oo #⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ; ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴘᴜᴛ ᴜᴘ ᴀ ᴍɪᴅᴅʟᴇ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋʏ ❞ ¦ 「 Jayden IC 」 #⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴀʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɢʀᴏᴡ ᴜᴘ; ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴜꜱ ❞ ◌ ᴛᴇᴇɴ/ᴀᴅᴜʟᴛ ¦ 「 Jayden 」 #⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴛᴡɪɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀᴘᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴜʙʙʟᴇ ɢᴜᴍ ❞ ¦ 「 Carroll 」 #calvinsmuses #♡ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ʜᴏᴡ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍɪꜱꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘʟᴀɪɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ? ❞ ¦ 「 Jayden and Carroll 」 #⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴛᴀʟᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴅᴏ ʙᴀᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ʟᴜᴄᴋ ᴛᴀʟᴇꜱ! ❞ ¦ 「 RP 」

[fanficfeeling]

You’re So Adorable - Jaskier x Reader

A/N: SO sorry this took so long, writer's block really hit me hard on this one, especially once I decided to dabble with a new style, but I'm really happy with how this came out and I think I pulled through and delivered! I rather had fun with this, however frustrating my writer's block was, and I hope you enjoy :)

Request: Can I request “You’re so adorable.” With Jaskier? Thank you dear! -& (For & Anon)

Warnings: Second hand embarrassment 

Word Count: 1387

Requests are OPEN~

~~~

You always hate it when you and Jaskier have to go your separate ways while traveling for a while, for whatever reason it may be. However, there is one good thing that comes from being parted from your beloved bard: letters. Of course, pieces of paper are no match for actually being with him, but being the master of prose and poetry that he is, he finds a way to make them work. He always finds a way to make it work.

It seems that just when you're missing him the most is always when you receive them.

~~~

My Dearest,

    I figured I would write because I thought you might be missing me. Fear not, for I am doing perfectly well and should be returning to you shortly. Geralt's company pales in comparison to your magical presence, but he does keep me quite busy. It seems he never slows down, it is a surprise he doesn't keel over from exhaustion at the rate he moves! Alas, I suppose that is what mutations are for. It is impressive watching him fight, you know, when I can get close enough. Watching him take down all the darkest evils in this world, it's enough to give you hope that this world might some day be a better, safer place.

I'm sure I've seen at least half of the beasts you can even find on this continent traveling with him. It is valuable experience, sure, and riveting from a distance, but even I am ready to leave Geralt to it and stay far, far away now after a few too many close encounters with razor-sharp beast claws. I do not mean to worry you, though. I am yet to find a situation I cannot talk my way out of. The phrase, "Geralt, help!" always does the trick, I find.

Besides that, when I do not get to watch Geralt in action, of course I sit off somewhere, getting some work done on a piece or two. I finally managed to finish a song that is greatly inspired by you, in fact, the other day, and I cannot wait for you to hear it! I will have to perform it for you once we are together again. I do miss you terribly, you know. It is terribly regrettable to be parted from you for so long, and I must admit that the longer we are apart, the more I find myself thinking of you at an increasingly constant rate. Cheers to when we will be together again, yeah? Can't wait to hear back from you.

Sending my best and warmest regards,

Jaskier

~~~

Jaskier,

It was a pleasure to hear from you, if a bit alarming. Joke all you want, but if I hear about you coming anywhere near any 'razor sharp' claws again, Geralt and I will be having a few words, I can promise you that.

Speaking of, how is Geralt? Mutation or no, make sure he gets some rest from time to time, would you? I know he is an awe-inspiring force, but he can't protect this world from the creatures of the darkness all by his own strength, and he should not have to. He deserves some time off, honestly, don't you think? Not that he would ever take it.

I wish you were here so we could laugh at that together.

I miss you, too. It sucks being apart for so long. I enjoy your letters, thoroughly, but it is nothing compared to being with you in person. Your voice is the most endearing thing about you, after all. I can't wait to hear it again. I can't wait to hear that new song, either. I will hold you to that promise of having it sung to me! I am sure it is absolutely inspired.

I would tell you a little bit about what I have been up to, but I am sure it is all dreadfully boring by comparison to what you are up to, so I will spare you the details. No witchers, monsters, or titillating song for me. I can't wait until we are together again so that you can help keep things interesting. I am terribly bored!

I hope to see you soon.

All my best,

Yours

~~~

Dearest,

Firstly, I would just like to say, I long to hear what you are up to, exhilarating adventures or no. I spend most of my days wondering what you are doing at this very moment, and I would at least like to hear if I'm guessing correctly! In all honesty, I just want to hear about you, if you are doing alright, what you are doing to occupy your time. I would hang on to every word you wrote.

Secondly, we should not have to write much longer. If Geralt speaks the truth, we should be near you in about two weeks' time, and I'll hop off of Geralt's trail and come meet up with you. I will happily forget the hunting monsters business to spend time with you, love. Tales of adventure are wonderful, but love ballads are better, yes? And speaking of love ballads, I have been revising that one I promised you, just to make sure it is perfect. It gets better with each passing day, I think, and I cannot wait for you to hear it. I was going to play it for a crowd, first, just to get some feedback, but I figured you would have at me for that one, so I refrained.

Funny, it is, how you can inspire me even when you are not around. In music, yes, but in everything else too, honestly. Sometimes I'll find myself in a tricky situation and asking myself what you would do, or I'll be about to so something "idiotic", in the words of Geralt, and I will find myself asking if you would approve of it. The answer is usually no, of course, and I find it keeps me in line. Most of the time. I guess you just help me be a better person even when you're not here.

Here's to being together again so you get the joy of keeping me in line in person.

Yours, Jask

~~~

You don't bother to respond to that one, because you figure he'll almost be with you by the time he gets it.

He will be with you.

As the days tick down on his estimate, you get much more antsy with every passing day. You wonder what he could be doing. You wonder how close he might be. It's absolutely tantalizing, to say the least.

As almost two weeks have passed, in the afternoons, you find yourself walking by the road you figure he'll be coming from, and standing and waiting for a while. Just in case. Just so that you can have the chance to greet him as soon as possible. It's torture staying in one place for so long, but if it means you'll get to see him sooner, it will have been worth it.

One day, you stand there, waiting. You're about to give up for the day, go back to your room, but then you hear it: singing. You start think you're crazy, maybe just hallucinating things, sad from missing him.

But no. There it is, getting clearer.

When a humble bard, graced a ride-along...

Then you see him, as he begins to come into view, walking along besides Geralt on roach, humming his most famous tune.

"Jaskier!"

At the sound of your voice, the singing stops. You watch, as he searches out for you, and when he lays his eyes on you and grins that sweet grin of his, you break out into a run. He does the same.

When you meet in the middle, he twirls you around in delight, and you laugh, joyously, absolutely grateful to be in his arms again.

He pulls away from you for just a moment, cupping your face in his hands and laughing breathlessly, "You are adorable."

You lightly smack his shoulder at that, protesting wordlessly, and he just laughs again, pulling you into him for another hug.

"I expect to hear that song any minute now, you know." You mumble into him, and you feel his chuckle.

"Anything it takes to be close to you."

#jaskier x reader #jaskier #geralt #the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #x reader #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fandom #the witcher netflix #julian alfred pankratz #fanfaction #fluff #second hand embarrassment #request #requests are open #the witcher x reader #self insert

[wiseabsol]

3. What is your favorite/least favorite part about writing? 6. Favorite character you’ve written? 14. What does it take for you to be ready to write a book? (i.e. do you research? outline? make a playlist or pinterest board? wing it?) 15. How do you deal with self-doubt when writing? 19. How do you cope with writer’s block? 24. Do you remember the moment you decided to become a writer/author? 33. What’s your revision/rewriting process like? 34. Unpopular writing thoughts/opinions?

3. What is your favorite/least favorite part about writing? 

My favorite part is when you make discoveries about your world and your characters as you write the story down, and when you write something and go, “Oh, there we go, there’s the solution to this problem that was going to come up later.” For example, I recently had an evil mentor toying with a magical item while giving a lecture to his pupils. The magical item was mundane--essentially, just putty that you could mold into whatever shape you wanted, then solidify, then switch back to putty to reshape. And as I was writing that down, I went, “Oh, THAT’S what my protagonist is going to knock him out with down the line. That’s way better than her using a lamp. Excellent.” 

My least favorite part about writing is getting started. Once I’ve cleared the hurtle of the blank page, writing becomes much easier and more exciting. But getting myself to start has become much harder since I developed my editor/critic’s brain.  

6. Favorite character you’ve written? 

In one of the text-based rps I’m writing with my best friend, I’m playing a shapeshifter named Sparrow, who is charming, funny, flirty, politically-savvy, and super vain about his appearance (think a courtesan-type character). He also has one of the most gut-wrenching backstories of any character I’ve ever written, and is struggling with triggers from that backstory. His romance with my best friend’s character is also my favorite romance that I’ve written with her, and it came as a surprise to both of us, since we were just testing out the characters at the time.   

14. What does it take for you to be ready to write a book? (i.e. do you research? outline? make a playlist or pinterest board? wing it?) 

I do a lot of brainstorming and outlining, though my outlines aren’t plot-related ones so much as very detailed character summaries. I’ve honestly been struggling with plot lately, but I’ve been doing better character work, so I’m winging it more now. While I usually have a general idea of how the story goes, the actual writing of it clarifies the details and makes changes to my plans. On the bright side, the results are less stilted than my old work, since they’re not chained to plot outlines, but stem from the characters more organically.  

15. How do you deal with self-doubt when writing?

I’ve started telling myself, “Fuck it, let it be messy, I’ll fix it later.” Letting go of perfectionism is hard for me, but doing so has been helping.   

19. How do you cope with writer’s block? 

Honestly, the best way to cope with writer’s block is to just try something and see if it sticks, or leave yourself a note and skip ahead in the story to something you want to write. However, as I mentioned in an earlier ask, I haven’t been able to do much writing lately. And that’s hard, because I feel guilty for not writing, and I know if I just do it, I’ll feel better. Which is a bad mindframe to be in, especially because this year has been awful. I’ve been telling other writers to be gentle on themselves, because it’s hard to be creative when you’re stressed, but I struggle to take my own advice. So right now, I’m trying to give myself permission not to write, and to instead focus on other things. Editing. Reading. Playing videogames. Baking. Doing house/yardwork. Something to still ticks things off of my to do list, but also things that I can look at and see, “Yes, you did get something done.” It’s not a perfect system, and it does fall into the productivity trap, but it’s what I’m trying. When the stress passes, maybe then I can dive back into writing.  

24. Do you remember the moment you decided to become a writer/author? 

I think it was when I was applying for undergraduate college. I wrote in my application essay that I wanted to write stories that would show my readers that things can get better for them. I was writing as a hobby before then, but I think that’s when I decided that yeah, I wanted making stories to be a part of my future, and I wanted to write stories that I could publish someday. 

33. What’s your revision/rewriting process like? 

Mostly I end up rewriting the chapter or story in question. Draft one is for realizing and getting down the idea of the thing. Draft two is refining it to that thing and losing all of the flab that the story doesn’t need. Often I have another file on the side where I paste in what I’ve cut out, in case I change my mind and want to add it back in later, or in case I can use it in another project. I also save the original messy draft and do the cutting in a copied file. That way, I can reassure myself that the original still exists for me, and I can reread it when I’m feeling self-indulgent, but I’m also only giving the best version to my readers.  

34. Unpopular writing thoughts/opinions?

-- Writing every day is a good idea, and does work well for the writing process, but it’s an unrealistic standard to hold yourself to, especially if you have a day job, kids, and other adult responsibilities. Don’t feel guilty if you can’t write every day. The guilt is just going to make you freeze up instead of returning to the work. Be gentle with your expectations for yourself.  

-- If you’re including triggering or sensitive subjects in your work, and are planning to share that work with others (and ESPECIALLY if you’re planning to profit from that work), you should be doing your research about those subjects, portraying them as accurately as possible, and asking yourself if your story really needs that content to work. It is also a good idea to employ sensitivity screeners for that content, especially if you’re writing from a place of privilege and/or don’t have personal experience with the issues that you’re depicting.

-- Once the work is out there, no one has the right to ban it. They can be critical of it, yes. But not ban it.  

-- Writers of privilege must include diversity within their work, even if they’re scared of getting their depictions of people from other genders, races, classes, religions, and so on wrong. And they will get it wrong. When that happens, just apologize and try to do better in the future. But staying in your lane is a bad idea, for three reasons: 1.) You should be striving to have empathy for others, and you can’t do that if you’re only writing about people who are similar to you. 2.) Writers of privilege have an easier time getting their work published, and so should be trying to push the market/publishing industry into a more diverse direction. And 3.) You should be showing readers of privilege that the world is a diverse one, rather than catering to their narrow worldview.

-- Getting defensive when someone is critical of your work is perfectly natural, but it’s also dumb. It’s so, so dumb. You have made a product, and no product made by human hands is perfect, and every writer has blind spots. So when someone is critical of your work, try to keep this in mind: this is not an attack on you. Let yourself feel the hurt in private, and eat lots of ice cream, and when you’re feeling better, look at the criticism and ask yourself: What led the reader to this conclusion? How can I fix it? What can I learn from this? This is assuming that the critic is working with you in good faith, by the way; sometimes they’re completely off of the mark, or are upset because you didn’t give them the story that they wanted. But if someone is going, “Hey, this is a little racist/sexist/homophobic/ableist/etc.,” sit up and listen. And for the love of god, don’t fight them over it. You’ll make yourself look like an ass. 

-- Don’t workshop your story too early. Try to get a full draft down before you submit something for consideration. For one thing, you’re still figuring out what your story actually is. For another, writing workshops, while useful, have a tendency to pull your work to the middle / make it more acceptable to a general audience. Sometimes this will soften and even kill your bravest writing. Instead, use writing workshops as an opportunity to find writers who understand the themes you’re aiming for and the subjects that you’re discussing. Their input will be what you need.  

-- With the current laws about copyright infringement, getting paid for your fanfic is a bad idea. If you want that to change, then fight to make the laws more lenient. As if it, you’re risking screwing over other fanfic writers by doing that. Does that suck? Yeah. But that’s also the reality we live in right now, and you’re not going to have a good time if a corporation like Disney slams you with lawsuits.

-- Genres like fantasy, science fiction, horror, romance/erotica, and murder mysteries are real literature. Saying they’re not has its roots in classism. 

-- There is no such thing as apolitical writing. 

-- Poets are underrated. Support them. Most of the time, they’re doing braver and more socially-important work than you are, and they’re doing it concisely, too.     

-- Your first draft is going to suck. This is a good thing. You learn a lot more from bad prose than from good prose, more often than not. 

-- Having your work rejected by publishers really is nothing personal. Sometimes it just wasn’t a good fit for them at that moment in time. If they’re interested in seeing more from you in the future, though, keep them on your list and send them something else during their next screening period. They don’t say that unless they mean it.         

#technopanzer #Writing #I'm not sure all of these are unpopular opinions but some of them definitely are

[sunstone-nerding]

“TDP Book One: Moon” Book Adaption Review

My feelings on the "Book One: Moon" novelization can be summed up in one word: disappointed. In a few more words: disappointed, often ticked off, and a few times, outright angry. I know that sounds dramatic. But I care about The Dragon Prince universe, possibly more than I should. I was looking forward to this book for more details about the world and insight into characters' thoughts.

Nerd rage to follow. You have been warned.

To put in plainly, the book does not read like a finished product. It needed editing…very badly. The word choice is often overdramatic, and sometimes outright wrong. The first instance that jumped out at me was in the preview of Chapter One that the staff posted on the official website:

“The rain stung [Rayla’s] cheeks [as she chased after the guard]. The putrid smell of the storm overwhelmed her senses.  She’d never felt more alive.”

Here are my earlier comments on the preview. As a reader, this was not a good start, but it turned out to be indicative of the rest of my experience. Since this book is supposed to be for kids, I expected shorter sentences and simpler words; however, I also expected accurate word choice. I actually took a pencil to the page and trimmed or altered the writing as I went. Here’s another example of incorrect language, from when the assassins extinguish the lights before charging up the staircase:

“Just then, a howling wind blew through the staircase, deep and strange and oddly warm. One by one, the sconces and torches fizzled out, leaving the entire tower in sudden darkness.”

Ignoring the redundant phrasing: a sconce is the bracket on a wall that holds a torch. It is never on fire and therefore cannot be snuffed out. These are simple mistakes an editor should have corrected. Though, considering Aaron Ehasz' history with one editor at Riot Games, the Scholastic editor(s) probably did point out these mistakes. I assume he ignored them. That’s tragic, considering the people they brought in from the publishing house were either TDP fans, or had loved ones who were.

Because of these mistakes, I cannot recommend the book to anyone who is learning English, unless you keep a dictionary close by.

Another huge problem was how the book relayed information to the audience. Often the perspective just doesn't make sense. One glaring example: While in Rayla's POV, the book describes the shadowhawk arrow as though she has never seen one before, even though we know she lives with the guy who makes them. Also, she is somehow skeptical that the bindings will tighten on their own, even though she has trained with assassins for years?? What happened to “magic is all around, like sayin’ you’re in nature” (paraphrased)?! I get that Aaron and/or Melanie were trying to explain things to an audience who perhaps hadn’t watched the show, but...it would not have been difficult to phrase it differently. (It took me ten minutes tops to revise the part about the arrow.)

My final gripe is about some of the characterization. First, Viren’s perspective reads as 100% Evil Advisor Trope. I was ridiculous and it pained me. I could pull examples, but honestly I’m embarrassed just thinking about the scenes. If this is how part of writing team views Viren, the other writers and Jason Simpson made invaluable contributions to his character.

Regarding Rayla: her viewpoint seems childish. She admires Runaan, but is also intimidated by him to a degree that is unhealthy for someone of her age. She is 15. Any normal teenager is gonna start resenting their parental figures well before then – and we know how sassy Rayla can be. This may have happened in the book adaption because the target audience is younger than two out of three of the protagonists, but that can’t be all. You can pare down vocabulary and still convey nuance. 

And the Moonshadow assassins…Let’s just say there were some unnecessary changes. Changes that removed Runaan’s attempt to maneuver Rayla out of trouble (thus showing how he cared about her, under the stern front), cut out some of Rayla’s agency, and made the other assassins act like bloodthirsty hecklers instead of, you know, professionals.

To be clear: I don't mind some scene and dialogue rearrangement. Prose is a different medium, and a writer needs to adjust accordingly. But this book reads less like that, overall, and more like someone decided to write their own version of The Dragon Prince’s story without anyone else’s input. Were any of the other Wonderstorm writers allowed to read the manuscript? Did anyone perform a lore check? The inconsistencies are irritating.

Visually, the book is beautiful. It has very nice illustrations and an elegant layout. We got a more detailed map, too. But all the graphic design work couldn’t make up for the disappointing and often frustrating content. The writing seemed to improve after the kids left the Banther Lodge, but not enough to overcome my accumulated grumpiness. I stopped reading weeks ago, and couldn’t bring myself to continue.

An animated TV show is a collaborative effort. The writers, director(s), visual designers, actors, and animators all contribute to the final product. Writing a book should be a collaborative effort, too, on a smaller scale. It’s not only the author(s), though they do a lot of the work. With this prose version of The Dragon Prince Book 1, it is obvious to me that Aaron Ehasz and/or Melanie McGanney Ehasz either did not seek or did not heed constructive criticism. They’ll need to start listening to their editors before I, at least, consider buying the second book adaption.

#nerd rage #tdp novel #tdp novelization #tdp novel spoilers #tdp book adaption #tdp book adaption spoilers #tdp #the dragon prince #aaron ehasz #melanie mcganney ehasz #rant #*ducks*

[hxh-secretsanta-2017]

yo this is for @sanktpetyrthethird who asked for drug dealer au killugon

honestly thank you cause?? this is not at all a story i would have ever brainstormed let alone written if not for that prompt and ive fallen in love with it and it really really improved my writing workflow to. yknow. plot instead of writing <3000 word fluff pieces (raincheck for acts 2 and 3 my dude. this. kinda got away from me)

(also i started following u cause of this and ur sweetheart!! i was really happy to be writing this for such a cool and awesome person)

I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!!!!!! :D

also thank you to @driftingglass for beta reading a whack of this and helping me to realize i had to cut some prose described by a friend as “violet”

Prologue.

Golden eyes. An earnest smile. Freckles that mark a childhood spent in sunlight.

Killua shakes out his hands, hoping to flick away heart fluttering memories and dread that sinks through his gut like ink in water.

��I need you tomorrow,” says Illumi. His hands drag across the spines of the books, fingers knobby and nails sharp. He eyes the titles with the same vacant, disinterested scowl he has for everything.

Iron supports hold aloft the domed glass ceiling and cast sweeping shadows like eagle’s wings. Fading dusk sky snatches away scarce warmth from the city below.

Killua shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of one of the few couches clustered by the unlit fireplace. He walks past the table stacked high with stolen documents awaiting review by himself, his parents, or senior staff.

As Illumi browses through the children’s books—Killua suppresses a disgusted sneer—he slides a brass ladder along the wall of the circular library. Its wobbly wheels scream in the otherwise silent air. He swallows hard and hopes that he hasn’t awoken Kikyo.

Body sluggish and aching for sleep, he climbs up and finds what he’s looking for by the marks he left in the dust a few days prior. It’s an old farmer’s almanac with folklore stories scattered throughout, factual and fantastical in equal measure.

Killua hops to the floor and runs his thumb along the scarlet cover.

It’s an illustration of a humanoid goat standing over a river of blood. Her apron flies in a vicious wind, and the scissors she holds over her head are open around a crescent moon. She stares straight out at the viewer, defiant and oozing with fury.

Killua passes the book to Illumi and Illumi looks up at him, unblinking. For a moment, Killua thinks he’s going to make him pick out something else, but then he adds it to the small stack balanced in the crook of his elbow.

Illumi fades towards one of the arched entrances, which gapes wide like a jaw.

Killua bites his lip.

“Can I give them to her?”

Illumi pauses, a hand gracefully posed on the archway. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Was there any trouble tonight?”

“Will I see you again?”

Killua can hardly keep himself standing. He rubs the side of his temple with the heel of his palm, before forcing himself to open his eyes as wide as he can manage.

“I’m fine.”

Illumi tut-tuts, sickeningly similar to their mother. “Oh Kil, you must be falling ill. Go rest. I don’t want to lose my best spotter.”

Killua is going to vomit.

He hisses in a breath to argue, but something about the way Illumi raises an eyebrow stops him. For a moment he’s pulled into his brother’s dense orbit. A cold sweat runs down his neck.

Killua’s legs itch, screaming both to run and freeze like ice.

Illumi breaks the stare, and Killua gasps, his breathing heavy.

“Goodnight, Kil,” he says, before vanishing with steps so smooth he may as well have been a ghost.

Killua raises a hand to the base of his neck and rubs his skin in a fruitless attempt to self-soothe.

Illumi is far from good company, but he leaves a vacuum in his wake.

Killua does not enjoy solitude. Loneliness, he has learned to live with; solitude, he abhors.

The library is gray and old. It’s a room that hasn’t seen proper use in years, a forgotten corner of the Zoldyck estate with mildew air that itches Killua’s nose and tastes like dust on his tongue. The books are no more than lifeless stacks of paper, ripped apart from the one who loved—loves—them most. The reading chair in the corner, undisturbed even by the housekeepers, calls out for company.

“Will I see you again?”

Killua grabs the hair at his temples and tries not to scream. For a moment, grief compresses him so hard he’s knocked to his knees.

There are translucent hands wrapped around his arms, grabbing at his neck, twisting the flesh of his thighs. His chest bubbles with panic that wants to spill over into sobs. A reckless desire he’s kept in check for years torrents through his heart, and he wants nothing more than to give in and let it ruin him.

Killua has survived through routine and a lace veil of iron between himself and the world beyond his fingertips, but now the walls are crashing down around him.

A thousand deaths on his hands, and he is going to crack for just one person.

There’s a chance, a risk, so stupidly foolish he hates himself for even considering the possibility.

Killua is a professional murderer. He has the heart of a killer, and the drying blood under his fingertips to prove it. He has never shown mercy, and tonight has yet to become an exception. His record is flawless, and his legacy, should he choose to embrace it, will be unparalleled.

Life stretches out before him, every cranny of it predetermined, and he has learned to accept that, to swallow it, for the sake of his sister.

It’s been months since he was allowed to see her, to rest her head in his lap and answer her questions about the outside. Even the polish on his toes has chipped away.

What do they have left to lose? Pain does not scare him, and they dare not touch her.

***

There are pinup posters on the walls of Milluki’s room, and a strip of lights wrapped around the ceiling that flash green and purple. Monitors are mounted to the walls, and boxes of cables in tangled knots are stored under the desk.

Milluki doesn’t even look up when Killua closes the door.

“What do you want?” he asks, tapping his finger on the mouse. A loading bar ticks slowly on one screen, and a jumble of code Killua has never cared to understand lights up another. Milluki continues working, used to more hysterical interrupters than Killua.

What does he want? Killua pauses for a moment, and then he almost laughs, because any answer even close to honest is surreal.

“Can you do me a favour?”

Milluki chokes at that, before spinning his chair around. There’s a glowing smile on his face, though he’s trying to hide it and failing poorly. A flash of irritation burns on Killua’s cheeks.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?”

Killua grinds his teeth and swallows his pride. “I need a favour.”

Milluki claps his hands together and rocks back in his chair. His eyes sparkle with delight. “Anything for my most darling little brother.”

“Shut up,” says Killua, his nose wrinkling.

Milluki’s enthusiasm is undeterred. “What do you need?”

Killua plunges over the point of no return before he can convince himself of reason. Hesitation, his grandfather always said, is the antidote to good fortune. “I need you to leak the outgoing messages from Zenji’s phone over the past two weeks. It can’t be tied back to us, and no one can find out about it.”

Milluki nods happily, and he’s already closed out one screen for another when he stills. “Wait—does anyone know about this?”

Killua shakes his head, frustrated and impatient. Kikyo could wake at any moment, Silva should be home soon, and Illumi has a knack for appearing when he is least wanted. Which is always.

Milluki sobers and worries his lip with his teeth. “I mean, yeah, I can do it, but…” His eyes slide up to the monitors and then down to Killua’s feet. “It isn’t a good idea.”

“I’ll owe you. Seriously.” Killua watches the door, his palms sweaty and his mouth dry.

Milluki sneers at that. “Obviously, idiot. But if they find out—”

“They won’t. You’re good at what you do.”

Milluki rubs the back of his neck, unconvinced. Killua can’t blame him, but he needs Milluki to help him.

Anxiety rises in his chest and he has to slide his hands into his pockets to keep from running them through his hair.

“Milluki, please.”

Milluki’s eyes shoot up to his. Killua doesn’t know what does it, but something about his voice, or maybe his expression, makes Milluki bite his cheek and shake his head.

He licks his lips, and then huffs a laugh. “Tell you what, Kil,” he says, turning back to his keyboard. “It’ll be one hell of a favour.”

Chapter 1.

Meteor City is a jagged mountain of metal and glass. It imposes over the landscape, cast in silhouette by the setting sun. A hazy cloud of pollution hangs over it like flies on an open wound.

Gon walks towards it along the edge of a dusty road, alone among a thousand others making the journey. Trucks pass by, forming an unbroken caravan from the blurry tree line behind him to a field of canvas tents and sheet metal buildings. People hang from the sides and produce jostles under tarps. A great big billowing cloud of dust forces Gon to wrap his bandana around his mouth and nose.

He stops when he reaches the edge of the shadow cast over the desert scrub. A woman with a weathered face and bandaged hands slows beside him, and the two of them look up, silently.

Somewhere in the staggeringly enormous mass, he’s going to find Ging.

The woman moves on first. It takes Gon a few more minutes, and by the time he starts on again, the shadow had crept to his shins.

The eastern market is the major entry point for the city, but Gon isn’t interested in squeezing his way through the crowd. He cuts off onto a thin path, with dry grass growing high down the center.

The buildings, jutting like crowded teeth, are packed together so tightly that not even a starving alley cat could squeeze its way through. More are under construction. Workers buzz about the scaffolding, and huge machines Gon has only ever seen in an encyclopedia gifted by Abe dig up the ground.

There are open balconies on every story. People lounge in them, wearing fancy clothes and airs.

“Welcome home, sunshine!” shouts a woman, hanging off the arm of a clearly intoxicated man with a hideous mustache.

Gon waves. “I’m just passing through.”

She snorts, covering her mouth with a ring-bejeweled hand. “Sure, of course. Just passing through.”

Gon’s breath hitches and he wants to ask what she means by that, but the two of them giggle off into the room beyond.

He waits to see if they’ll return, and when they don’t, he draws closer.

Gon approaches the building like it’s a frightening animal tensing to bolt.

He reaches out and touches the wall. The cold concrete is unyielding against the warmth of his palm.

Gon walks along the edge of the city as dusk falls around him.

The workers continue clanging, sparks bright and flying in the fading light. Gon is careful not to step underneath the swaying cranes, or cut across through dug out pits.

Eventually, he finds a door propped open with a rock. Workers stroll in and out, chatting to each other in a language Gon doesn’t understand. None of them pay him any mind as he slips inside.

The air is rot and neglect and grease. He slams a hand over his mouth and doubles over in the hallway, gagging. His eyes water, and his lungs burn as he forces himself to breathe.

A man walking out snickers down at him, and Gon’s nose wrinkles. He straightens himself intentionally, pulling the bandana back up over his nose.

Gon swipes a tear out of his eyes. The corridor stretches on, long and punctuated with bursts of light where caged fluorescents flicker. All he can see between the pockets is darkness shifting like falling sand.

A fly buzzes in the nearest light, banging itself against the walls of its confinement.

Gon swallows hard.

Just passing through.

***

Gon sits on scaffolding made of plywood and cheap metal, his feet dangling over oblivion. The bridge connects two different buildings. The bustling neon party scene on one side fades into the almost idyllic business row on the other, where plants hang on the walls and shoes squeak across vinyl flooring.

Gon takes another bite of his sandwich and clicks his heels together, watching people stream across the dizzying sprawl of other connectors below.

When he was young, Mito got him an ant farm. Sometimes it spilled sand all over his windowsill, but he still loved it. Gon could watch the workers dig for hours. The city is the same; something about it is mesmerizing.

He’s been meandering for a day and a half. Whale Island, for all its beauty, was plagued by familiarity. Gon grew up around the same four hundred faces and a bitterly frigid line to his exploration quite literally in the sand. Meteor City is incomparably dense with wonders.

He found a shop that sold glass butterfly charms in every colour of the rainbow and watched the artist make one.

It dangles around his neck, now. A luxury he can’t afford, but one he couldn’t say no to, either.

He passed by a funeral procession marching slowly through the street, percussion instruments made of wood and beads clacking. The woman leading them wore a bone white tunic and red shoes.

He looked at park from an observation window, unable to afford the fee to enter. It had a high ceiling and ivy climbing the walls. Gigantic lights fed the lawn, and a handful of couples were clustered on benches under carefully pruned apple trees.

Gon finishes his lunch and shrugs on his backpack, careful not to let it fall.

The next market he passes through has a ceiling painted to look like a midday sky. Dragons swirl through thick cumulus clouds and swoop down the walls. The stalls are open and cascade throughout the entire floor. Support columns are painted green and plastered with posters. Most of them are written in a language he doesn’t recognize.

He skirts around an open vat of oil, manned by an old woman with bags under her eyes and whiskers at the corners of her mouth. She dips meat down in strips, and they sizzle on the surface. A mother with a toddler in tow buys a bag, and pays by tapping the back of her phone to a metal plate drilled into the table.

Gon is pushed onwards by the swelling crowd.

The Hunter Association, when he finally finds it, is marked by the logo on a handleless door.

Gon hops onto the bridge to it. Both above and below, he can only spot three other entrances to the building.

A voice crackles from a speaker.

“Name?”

Gon tugs the collar of his shirt. “Gon. Kite sent me. He said to tell you ‘strawberry blackwater’ and to apologize for using an old pass code.”

“I can’t let you in with an old pass code.”

“He said I should mention I’m Ging’s son.”

There’s a long silence.

The speaker crackles, and Gon can make out indistinct words spoken too far away to be picked up clearly.

“Fine.”

The door slides open with a chime.

There’s no one on the other side. Gon pokes down the hallway, expecting to be interrupted once again by whoever was watching the door, but he’s only met by dead air.

All the hallways are painted the same grating shade of gray, and every door he tries to open is locked and beeps at him angrily. He’s steered like cattle through the building by short stairwells and dead ends until he stumbles upon a lobby.

The room is large, white, and brightly lit. There are a few people talking in clusters of two or three. Gon doesn’t recognize any of them. None of them smile when they look his way.

He fists the hem of his sleeves, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and his knuckles. There isn’t a line at the front desk.

“I’m looking for Ging Freecss.”

The woman behind the high counter snorts. “I’m sorry,” she deadpans, flipping the page of her magazine.

Gon pouts. “I want to see him. Do you know where he is?”

“Does anyone?”

Gon hums, considering the question. “He probably does.”

A ghost of a smile graces her face. She looks up and gives a snide scowl. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Gon isn’t sure what to say, so he says nothing. She goes back to reading, though he can tell by the way her eyes aren’t moving that she’s watching him peripherally. Gon bites his lip and glances over his shoulder.

Apparently accepting that he isn’t going to leave, she sighs and drops the magazine down. This time, her smile is tight and annoyed. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Ging.”

***

There was a long retired sailor on Whale Island, so old that even Abe could only shrug when asked his name. He lived alone in the hills, where yellow wildflowers spilled across the forest floor like honey, and came into town when he needed to replace a failing tool or stock up on food. He had eyebrows like scraggly wire and shuffled, though he didn’t use a cane.

One lazy summer afternoon, gnats buzzing in the air, Gon stumbled upon him plucking weeds in his back garden. Compelled by nothing but curiosity, Gon pushed up his sleeves and helped. They spent a few hours in silent companionship, and at the end of it Gon was invited into the well-maintained kitchen to share a blackberry pie. Gon breathed on a spoon and managed to stick it to his cheek; the old sailor guffawed, his nose wrinkled.

A couple of years after that, Gon found his body in the woods.

At first, it looked as though he was sleeping against one of the apple trees, but the smell, the flies, and the stillness of his chest told Gon otherwise.

Bisky reminds Gon of him.

It’s her eyes that do it; soulful and heavy, despite a body that doesn’t look a day over sixteen. Even slouched, with elbows on her knees, her presence fills the air.

The lounge is chaotic. Flashing lights cut through smoke. Music blasts, and partygoers holler. Gon slips through the crowd, offering muttered apologies as he squeezes between dancers.

Wide support columns curate his view. They cut up the lounge like a warren, giving him only snippets of her form as he makes his way over. Gon ducks under an arch and jogs down the half-flight of stairs.

He slides into the seat across from her. She jolts from whatever she was thinking about.

“Bisky?”

“Gon?”

For a moment, they float in their own bubble, separate from the rest of the world.

She leans towards him, eyes wide.

They’re interrupted by a young man tripping on his own shoes. He catches himself on Gon’s shoulder and nearly tumbles into his lap. Gon helps him back to his feet, insisting that it’s not a bother as the man blushes fiercely. He scampers off.

The conflicted swirl in Bisky’s expression is gone when he sits back down.

“You’re so much like him,” she says.

Gon’s chest swells with shy pride.

***

His throat is warm and fuzzy, and his senses are enjoyably dulled. His inhibition, thin at the best of times, has been shredded like wet paper.

Bisky is either a fantastic influence or a terrible one.

She hollers and Gon grunts, his elbow straining, sweat burning down his forehead. The woman across from him narrows her eyes and pushes harder against his palm. Gon’s muscles are clenched so tightly he can hardly breathe.

The back of his hand slams into the table. There’s a roar, and people in the crowd push him by his shoulders as he catches his breath. The woman offers him a handshake and a roguish smile as a conciliatory participation prize.

“My turn, my turn,” insists Bisky, sliding into the seat after him.

The woman, graying at her temples, quirks her lips into a smirk. She stands to whispers something in Bisky’s ear, and Bisky laughs.

Gon is knocked back by the swell of the excited onlookers; he lets himself drift, and while he doesn’t see it, he sure as hell hears it when Bisky pulls off a victory.

They sit beside each other on a quiet step. Bisky scribbles out something on the back of a napkin and shoves it into his hand.

“He’s a lightweight too,” she says.

Gon groans. “‘M fine,” he lies.

Bisky can’t hide the chuckle that bounces her shoulders. “Of course you are.” She claps her hands together. “Right. Let’s go get you settled, young man.”

The true face of the headquarters is nothing like the monotony from earlier.

Every hallway is decorated in a different style. One is lined from floor to ceiling with wooden masks, whose eyes seem to follow them. Another is snow white, with the silhouettes of deer somehow moving across the wall.

Bisky has to drag him along by the wrist; Gon keeps wandering off to gander.

Her apartment is luxurious. The ceilings are high, and from them hang ornate chandeliers. The carpet is thick between his toes, and the paint on the walls looks new. He can only stay for the night, she says, because she’s leaving in the morning and the place will be turned over to someone else.

Gon curls up on the couch and she brings him a glass of water, a pillow, and a fond ruffle of his hair.

The night wasn’t what he was hoping for. He’s disappointed he didn’t get to meet Ging, even if he had a fun time. All Bisky knows is that he’s off on some special assignment and planning to come back soon. It’s enough for Gon, though.

He’s waited his whole life. He can wait a little longer.

Chapter 2.

Gon stops outside the restaurant and triple checks the napkin. He’s supposed to meet with the friend of a friend of a friend.

Bisky’s words swam over his pounding head during breakfast. He isn’t sure whether he’s meeting with a thirty-something martial arts instructor or a guy his age with a buzz cut. Either way, he isn’t looking forward to it.

The other key detail that he missed was what job he was applying for, exactly.

He pokes his head inside. The restaurant is empty; not one of the three round chairs has a guest, and there’s no one behind the counter.

The walls are yellow stucco and the splashboard behind the workspace is functional black diamond plate. There’s a chandelier with tacky plastic jewels that reflect spots of light onto the walls and ceiling. The melamine tables are worn and chipped, and the chairs have awkwardly low backs.

It is, Gon thinks, the least welcoming restaurant he has ever had the misfortune of visiting.

There’s a bang in the back room and Gon jumps. The door swings open. A man with a willowy build and unruly blonde hair stalks up to the counter, tying his striped apron behind his back.

“Can I help you,” he sighs venomously, as though he would rather swallow spiders than even consider doing so.

“Bisky sent me,” says Gon.

The man’s nose wrinkles with disgust and he rolls his eyes. “Great.”

Gon rubs his hand along the back of his head and passes over her note. The man holds the napkin out at arms length before pulling glasses from his pocket. He mouths the words as he reads them, and Gon taps his fingers on the empty glass display case as he waits for him to finish.

“Bisky didn’t tell me what KP stood for but—”

“Kurapika. Me. My name.”

“Oh.”

Kurapika sets the paper down and pulls his glasses back like a headband. His hair is tucked, revealing dazzling ruby red earrings.

“Who are you.”

“Gon Freecss. I came here looking for my dad, but—”

“Gon, I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that I do not care. What do you know about running?”

“Um, I’m fast, I think? I’ve never really raced anyone though, so—”

“Okay.” Kurapika chuckles a little, his eyes sliding closed and his smile genuine for the first time. Gon squirms, certain that he’s stepped over one of those invisible lines that everyone else can see. “Go tell Bisky not to waste my time.”

Gon’s heart plummets. “I’m a fast learner.”

Kurapika stares at him unflinchingly.

“Also Bisky just left this morning, so I can’t do that.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence. Kurapika stares through him, his eyes glassy and his mouth pressed flat, before untying his apron and hanging it up on a hook beside the fridge.

“You’re from outside the city.”

Gon tilts his head, wondering how Kurapika could tell.

“You’re never going to know it as well as someone who’s grown up here.”

“I’m good at—”

Kurapika holds up a finger, turning on his heels. His smile curls sharper. Kurapika shapes his words carefully, like Gon is a rabbit he’s leading into a snare. “How long did it take you to get to the Hunter’s Association headquarters?”

Gon winces. “A couple days.”

Kurapika holds out his relaxed hands, palms flat. “That’s only a seventeen minute trip from here if you know the way, Gon.”

Gon gasps. The pieces click into place, and he relishes in the rush of having figured out the test.

“No it isn’t.”

Kurapika bites his tongue. “Yes, it is.”

“It only took me twelve.”

Kurapika freezes. His eyes open wide, but he recovers quickly into a slightly less confident scowl. “You said it took you days, Gon.”

Gon nods avidly. “Yeah, the first time. Then when I came back it was only twenty minutes because I knew to use the tunnels way below everything. And then I was bored because the restaurant was closed for the night, so I went back and forth a few times.”

“And you shaved it down to twelve minutes?”

Gon beams. “Yup! It only really works one way, though. There’s this place where the boards are really close between the buildings and you can hop down and it saves you from having to do”—Gon demonstrates with his hands—“the hook thing.”

“Show me.”

***

Kurapika stands with him on the top board and shakes his head slowly. Gon can’t wipe the smile off his face. He points at the grated metal, only seven feet below.

“It’s—”

“Twelve minutes. It’s actually twelve minutes.” Kurapika licks his lips and puts his hands on his hips. He stares at the path below like he doesn’t believe it.

Maybe it wasn’t a test. Either way, Gon’s pretty sure he passed.

With practiced grace, Kurapika holds out a hand. Gon shakes it firmly. Kurapika’s teeth grind and he pulls away, clenching and unclenching his fingers.

Gon rocks back and forth from his toes to his heels. “I said I was a fast learner, didn’t I?”

“You did, you did, you absolutely did,” says Kurapika, his voice dazed. “I take it back. No guarantees, but I can try to find you something.”

Gon hollers at the victory. Someone far above shouts down at him to be quiet. Gon apologizes.

“So what now?” he asks.

For the first time, Kurapika’s smile is softened by fondness. “Try to learn the area around the restaurant as best you can. Do you have a phone?”

Gon passes it over and Kurapika presses a few buttons before tapping their backs together.

“I’ll call when I know one way or another.” He stills and rubs his thumb over his lips. “Do you have a place to stay?”

***

“It’s temporary.”

Gon leans against the wall and bites his lip. It’s the first true residential area he’s visited. Kurapika had to tap his phone on a screen to slide open the front gate.

The hallway has tiled vinyl flooring, and the mounted lights are soft. The main corridor branches off like a fractal, what must have once been a wide open space subdivided into a maze of small apartments. It’s nicer than most of the places Gon has been so far, which is to say that there are no suspiciously dark stains on bare concrete.

Across the narrow hallway the door to apartment forty-five opens. A boy with short black hair, not much younger than Gon himself, steps out, carrying a handful of empty bags.

“Like hell it’ll be temporary, Kurapika.”

The boy’s eyes widen and Gon mirrors the look.

“Just a few days. He doesn’t have anywhere—”

“Why can’t you take him in?”

With a polite wave the boy runs off down the hallway, favoring his right leg.

“Because my place is—”

There’s a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Fine.”

Kurapika leans out, a smug smile lighting up his face. “Come on in.”

The apartment is a long, narrow room. There’s a kitchen at the very back with mismatched stools. Closer, the walls are lined with cubbies full of plastic totes. There’s a low circular table between them, and one of the boxes is open on the ground beside it, folders spread out chaotically.

Next there’s an unmade bed that juts out from the wall, right beside the door to what Gon presumes is the washroom. Across from the bed is a couch, sandwiched on either side by a bookshelf and a dresser.

The man beside Kurapika is, somehow, exactly what Gon would have expected if he had only seen the room.

He’s tall but slouches, his glasses seem comically useless, and the twist of his lips is crass. His hair is dented on the side from bed head, and his button-up shirt is half untucked.

“I’m Gon, nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand with a beaming smile.

The man looks up at the ceiling in a silent prayer for patience before accepting the handshake. “Leorio.”

Gon sets his backpack down and clasps his hands behind his back. Kurapika wrings his wrists. Leorio rubs his eyes. The silence is awkward, and Gon jumps to break it.

“What are those papers?” he asks.

Leorio glances over at the table. “Records.”

“Oh. For what?”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Why?”

Leorio inhales through his nose then exhales through his mouth. His stare turns to Kurapika, who has conveniently fled to the kitchen.

Dinner is made in near silence. Gon chops the vegetables put in front of him while Kurapika and Leorio bicker in low tones over the pot on the stove. He wonders why they’re friends if they spend so much time arguing, but maybe that’s what friends are supposed to be like. Gon isn’t exactly an expert; there was only one other kid on Whale Island, and she moved away years ago for high school.

They’re eating soup, lined up on the counter stools, when Gon tries again.

“So why did you want to be a doctor?”

Leorio drops his spoon and scowls at Kurapika. “Was he being an ass earlier, or…?”

“I don’t know,” says Kurapika, covering his full mouth with a hand.

“What are you talking about?” asks Gon.

The two of them look up at him, and then to each other. Kurapika shrugs. Leorio sighs, and rubs a fleck of broth off his cheek.

“A long time ago a friend of mine got sick, but healthcare in Meteor City is expensive and shoddy, so, y’know.” Leorio twirls his hand, watch clinking. “I wanted to help.”

“Did he die?” asks Gon.

Kurapika sucks in a breath. “G—”

“Yeah,” says Leorio.

Gon bites his cheek.

He swirls his spoon in his soup, and a carrot bubbles up from the bottom. He tries to imagine what that would feel like—losing Abe was hard enough, and he’d been able to find comfort in her long life well lived. Gon’s chest unravels at the thought of losing a friend.

“I’m sorry.”

Leorio looks down. Kurapika rests a hand on his arm.

“Thank you, Gon,” says Kurapika. “Now finish your soup.”

Gon cleans the plates while Leorio digs out extra bedding from the dresser. Kurapika has left, something about needing to sleep before his next shift started.

“You’re getting the couch ‘cause I’m too tall for it,” says Leorio, trying in vain to get fitted sheets to work on couch cushions.

“Okay.”

Gon lies with his back to the room. Leorio snores, like Mito does.

Gon sleeps easy.

***

Gon flips over the work phone. It’s sturdier than his own, and designed to snap closed. He clicks it open and shut as Kurapika explains the process to him.

Again.

“Deliver the package, tap the back of your phone to theirs, if they’re the right person it’ll tell you, and if they aren’t, I’ll get an alert. Do you have any questions?”

“Nope.” Gon reaches for the cardboard box, not much larger than a slice of bread, and Kurapika slides it down the counter, out of his reach.

“I can be there in five, six if you need me armed.”

“It’ll be fine,” says Gon, stretching on his tiptoes to grab the package. He flies out before Kurapika can launch into another lecture. Lectures, Gon has discovered in the two weeks since meeting him, are something Kurapika is fond of.

He weaves through the buildings, secure in his bearings, slowly ascending staircase by staircase. Waiting for Dalzollene’s approval was boring, but it did give him time to familiarize himself with his surroundings.

The meeting itself is mundane. There’s a woman waiting right where expected, and when they click their phones together, they both receive a cheery green check mark.

He passes the box, she slips off into the crowd, and he returns back to Kurapika, where the next delivery is waiting.

Running, Gon discovers, is something he enjoys a lot.

It takes him a few days to conclude what, exactly, he’s carrying, but once he does it hardly bothers him. Who cares what other people want to do if it means Gon is getting paid to fly through the city?

There are three of them working out of the restaurant. He’s a runner, as is Zushi, a barrel-chested boy with stony expressions but a kind heart. Kurapika is their manager, and he reports to “the brass”, as Leorio calls them. Gon isn’t sure what “the brass” has to do with him, so he keeps to running.

There are a few regulars. The woman he met his first trip was one, as are twin boys down in the factories with equally devious grins and clothes that seem intentionally picked to set them apart. There’s a gangly teenager who always meets him behind a heart-pounding night club, and a woman who insists on double checking their tap every time.

Gon hears a new language every day, sees a new pastry behind shop windows. He meets people he never could have imagined, and every night his dreams are fed by pushed horizons. It’s like he’s twelve again; his heart soars with anticipation of adventures to come.

***

“Whale Island?”

Gon nods, slurping from his bowl of noodles. The woman across from him with a sleeve of tattoos and an impractically big septum piercing smiles warmly. She leans back in her creaky chair.

“I passed through there a summer, way back when.”

Gon bites back a pang of homesickness. “Yeah?”

She clasps her hands behind her head and smiles. “Just for a night. Beautiful place. Miss the sky.”

Gon does, too. He’ll return someday, though.

He calls Mito in the evening, and they talk for hours.

The mail system is unreliable, Kurapika says, but Gon still sends her the glass butterfly. It made him happy. He hopes it makes her happy, too.

***

Leorio, despite his big talk, lets Gon stay.

After a few months, Gon is grunting along with him and Kurapika as they maneuver a second bed into the apartment. There’s barely room to squeeze it in against the wall, and only about a foot is left between it and Leorio’s, but it’ll do.

***

When Gon runs into trouble, he’s unprepared. He breathes through his mouth and grips the edge of the cushioned table as Leorio’s fingers brush over his nose. He swallows blood, and the slick, thick feeling of it travelling down his throat almost makes him gag. Leorio sets it, and Gon can’t help but cry out. Kurapika winces, hovering over Leorio’s shoulder.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes stormy.

“I got into a fight,” says Gon. Leorio’s mouth quivers as he fights back a snicker.

Kurapika sighs and rubs his forehead with his index finger and thumb. “Yes, but what happened.”

Gon shrugs. “I was just walking.”

Call it a fight is honestly an overstatement; more accurately, Gon got his lights punched out and woke up with his face against the ground.

Kurapika insists he learn to defend himself, after that.

***

Firearms are rare in the city. The Ten Dons ban them outside of their own use; with the thin walls and shabby floors, it’s too dangerous to risk lackadaisical use, so confrontations come down to martial ability.

Gon coughs and lets his head loll back onto the springy wooden floor. His instructor—an old student of Bisky’s—pads closer.

“You’re completely uncoordinated,” says Wing.

“I’ve never done this before,” says Gon, rolling onto his hands and knees before bouncing to his feet.

“That much I could tell.”

Gon sputters a laugh and rubs the back of his head. Wing crosses his arms.

His teacher is coiled muscle, veiled by unassuming, baggy clothes. The studio is an extension of himself, with its wonky fans and chipped mirrors. Overhead, the neighbors shout each other down.

Gon takes a deep breath, wincing when his ribs ache, and resets into the stance Wing showed him. They move slowly; Wing explains every step as he’s doing it, and Gon occasionally interrupts to ask for clarification.

Two hours pass in the blink of an eye.

Gon ties his laces as Wing talks him through the studio’s schedule.

He learns, slowly, about the people he’s working for. Some of it is from Kurapika, but Kurapika is stingy, dispensing information in palatable drips. Most of it, he gathers from the people he meets.

The Nostrades are just one of the many families tied to Ritz Clan, which is just one of ten clans that operate quasi-governments throughout the city. They control a pocket on the border of the Ritz’s territory, and are infamous for the daughter’s hobby of collecting human body parts. A grim fascination, Gon thinks.

They are also, he learns, infuriatingly difficult to get the drop on. They smell weakness like bloodhounds, and many suspect Light Nostrade is trying to worm his way into the Ritz’s inner circle. How, exactly, no one can tell him. Smoke chokes out the sun, but no one can find the fire.

When Gon isn’t working, he’s exploring.

He charts his way through the ground level, where he finds the crematoriums, water treatment plants, and livestock pens. It’s dingy. The walls are caked in grime, and he finds more than a handful of bodies rotting in the stagnant water between the buildings. But it does provide the most direct routes he can find. Usually, it isn’t worth it to climb down and back up the stairs, but he notes the potential.

It’s normal for him, now, to go weeks without seeing the sun. His eyes burn when he does climb up to the roofs. He can’t tell if it’s because of the light or the pollution. Probably both.

His martial ability improves through hours of practice with Wing and hours more alone with Zushi. Zushi is an enthusiastic teacher, thrilled whenever Gon asks him to stay a little longer.

Sometimes his lessons are less like lessons, though, and more like excuses to show how good he is at trapping Gon in a headlock.

Kurapika begins splitting the risky jobs between them more evenly. Gon learns how to slide unnoticed through crowds, treating the markets and echoing apartment complexes like the forest.

Bisky does not return. Ging does not return. Kite does not return.

Gon keeps waiting.

Baise, one of the Neon Nostrade’s bodyguards, takes two weeks off to visit family. Kurapika suggests Gon fill in, and in a burst of generous optimism, Dalzollene lets him.

Standing outside a locked door for hours or shuffling awkwardly through crowds isn’t as much fun as running. It’s exhausting to have to assume the worst of everyone. Neon likes him, though, so Gon ends up spending more and more time in her entourage.

One afternoon, he has two hours to kill before the next run. He sits in the restaurant, flipping through a newspaper in a language he can’t read, frowning at the pictures. Zushi walks in and greets Kurapika formally. Kurapika grunts from his stool behind the counter, but his eyes stay glued to his phone.

“Hey, Gon.”

Zushi stands with his back straight and his mouth schooled into a professional scowl.

“Howdy,” says Gon, smiling up at him.

“Don’t even fucking start,” says Kurapika.

“Hello,” says Gon. He folds away the newspaper and drops it on the table. Zushi is robotic as he pulls out a chair and sits down.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go out. With me.”

“Sure.” Gon reaches for his jacket. “Hey Kurapika, we’re—”

Zushi waves his hands in the air, cutting Gon off. “No, like, out.”

“Yeah,” says Gon. “Sure.”

“Like a date. Together.”

Gon brows pull together. “Was I supposed to say no?”

Kurapika blurts a laugh, which is quickly cut off by his hand slapping over his mouth. Gon fidgets with the hair at the base of his skull.

Zushi’s cheeks are bright red. The colour spills up his ears and over his forehead. “You like me?” asks Zushi, voice cracking.

Gon shrugs. “The point of a date is to find out, right?”

Zushi is a wreck as they make their way to the karaoke bar.

Gon tries to get him laughing, but it’s in vain.

Zushi is cute, Gon thinks. He’s fun, and Gon likes spending time with him. Gon isn’t sure if that’s a crush, though.

The karaoke bar is loud and bright and Gon hates it upon arrival, but Zushi is a balloon ready to burst at the next morsel of air, so Gon goes along with it. There are, unsurprisingly, no versions of the songs he knows in the Whale Island dialect. Gon flounders, trying to keep up with lyrics that are close but ever so slightly off.

When it’s Zushi’s turn, he stands with white knuckles around the microphone. The words start to scroll and his cheeks puff out. There’s a tremor to his bottom lip.

“Why don’t we leave,” says Gon.

Zushi breathes a sigh of relief and agrees eagerly.

They end up tucked in the back of a donut shop, sitting across from each other.

“Sorry, that was bad,” apologizes Zushi. Again.

“It’s fine,” says Gon, flashing a smile.

“I’m not sure this was a good idea,” says Zushi, his hands rubbing each other on the table.

Gon nods his earnest agreement. “I don’t think we’d make a good couple.”

Zushi’s face falls at the confirmation, and his gaze drifts over to the wall, plastered with amateur paintings on sale. Gon’s gut twists.

“But I like spending time with you. And someday, it’ll be really funny that we went on a terrible date.”

Zushi laughs nervously. “Really bad.”

Gon beams. “The worst.”

Zushi smiles shyly and takes a sip of his coffee. He taps his fingers on the sides of his mug for a moment, looking down at the floor. “It won’t be weird?”

Gon shakes his head. “Nope, promise. Here.”

He holds out a pinky and Zushi reluctantly takes it. Gon chants as Zushi watches him with befuddled interest.

“—sealed with a kiss!”

Zushi’s face turns beet red. “No thanks,” he says, voice tight.

Gon pushes their thumbs together. “Mwah.”

“Oh.”

Zushi sighs, his shoulders sinking down in relief. Gon can’t help but snicker. Zushi reaches over and slaps his arm.

A half-hour later Zushi has recovered to his regular self.

“So, how did you end up a runner?” asks Gon, stealing crumbs off his plate.

Zushi lifts a hand to swat him away, but Gon, ever a careful thief, escapes unscathed. Gon sticks out his tongue. Zushi gives him a stink eye before letting it go.

“I need a job while I’m training to take the Hunter exam,” he says, twisting his mug back and forth by its handle.

“Oh,” says Gon.

A plate crashes across the room. Gon springs to his feet. There’s a woman with her hands over her mouth and an embarrassed wobble in her voice as she bends down to pick up the pieces. The boy behind the counter tugs her back up by her arm, insisting she not worry about it. Reassured that no one is hurt, Gon leaves them be.

Zushi shuffles in his chair as Gon sits back down. “Your dad’s one, right? Don’t you wanna be too?”

Gon hums, a thumb on his lip. “Not really. I don’t think I have to be, so I don’t see the point of it.”

“You don’t see the point of it?”

“It’s a lot of work for perks I don’t care about.” The boozy lounge, free alcohol, and splendid apartment are not things he desires.

Zushi balks. “It’s not about the perks. It’s about being a protector of the city.”

Gon raises an eyebrow. His expression of disbelief morphs into a wince. “My dad is hardly a protector of the city.”

Zushi’s eye bulge wide. “Dude. Your dad is like, on some quest to find out what killed the last chairman. If that’s not protecting the city, I don’t know what is.”

Gon bobs his head back and forth. “Fixing the bridges? Upgrading the water mains?” He gestures vaguely towards Leorio’s practice, fourteen stories and three buildings away. “Making healthcare accessible?”

Zushi opens and closes his mouth like a fish, before snapping it shut and glowering down at his mug. His eyebrows are scrunched together like he’s trying to solve a difficult puzzle.

Gon shrugs a shoulder. “You don’t need to be a Hunter to do any of that.”

“Maybe,” says Zushi. “But I still wanna do it.” His mouth is set with determination.

Gon’s eye crinkle fondly. “For what it’s worth, if anyone should be a Hunter, it’s you.”

Zushi’s eyes flutter in shock. He sniffs and looks up at the ceiling. “Thanks, Gon.”

Chapter 3.

They issue him a firearm.

It’s coded to respond to his fingerprints and will only be activated when he’s on duty. Further precautions include a weekend of training at a facility on the other side of the city, jointly run and funded by the Ten Dons.

Gon enjoys the walk, and he enjoys the breaks from the classroom when he has nothing to do but wander around. Training is miserable, though. No one will crack a smile, and distrust leaves the air hot and sticky. By the time it’s over, he’s relieved to return home to Leorio’s cooking and loud complaining about work.

Kurapika tells him he suits it and the holster.

Gon’s face puckers at the compliment. He doesn’t like suiting something crafted to kill.

The gun has no functional affect on guard duty because nothing ever happens. Gon watches doors that stay closed and scouts streets free of danger.

In the copious, wretchedly still free time the job gives him, he begins to draw out a map of the city. He doesn’t need the guidebook, but maybe it can be a birthday present for Zushi.

At the very least, it makes his time feel less squandered.

***

Kurapika is late. Gon stands outside the locked up restaurant, rocking from the balls of his feet to his heels, humming a song Leorio’s been blasting for weeks.

Kurapika is never late.

It’s a guard night, so maybe he just forgot to meet with Gon before heading to the estate.

Gon texts, and then he calls. Nothing.

He bites his lip and scratches the back of his head. They’re going to be late at this rate.

Kurapika’s apartment is a shabby place. Gon’s shoes crunch on broken glass as he steps around buckets overflowing with water leaking from the ceiling. Kurapika can afford better, but says he doesn’t see what the point would be if he’s almost never there. (Most nights, he sleeps on the couch in Leorio’s apartment, anyway.)

Gon grabs the key tapped to the back of the mailbox and knocks as a formality before walking in. For a professional bodyguard, Kurapika is comically lax with his own security.

The room isn’t much more than a box. There’s a mattress on the floor, and a milk crate flipped over to support a microwave. Clothes, which theoretically belong in the shallow dresser, are scattered over the desk, chair, and bed.

Gon hears a scratchy moan in the bathroom.

Kurapika is doubled over the toilet. Sweat soaks through his white tank top, but he’s shivering. Hair is plastered to his forehead.

He looks up at Gon, his eyes dark and narrowed.

“Let me die,” he hisses as Gon hoists him up, slinging one of Kurapika’s arms over his shoulders. Kurapika leans heavily into Gon’s side, his free hand clasping at the fabric of Gon’s shirt.

“Leorio would cry,” says Gon, walking them towards the main room. “And he cries enough already.”

Kurapika fixes him with a sour pucker.

“Like when you sent the cat.”

Kurapika frowns and stumbles as Gon transfers him to the door frame to dig up a jacket.

“The cat picture?”

“Yeah.”

“It made him cry?”

Gon presses his lips flat.

Kurapika’s brows furrow, then his face falls into weary but fond amusement.

“I can see it.”

***

Leorio, freshly awoken from his night shift recovery, stares down a greasy Kurapika.

Kurapika pinches his lips tight, his hand still on the doorknob.

“Sit down,” Leorio sighs, grabbing Kurapika by the scruff of his tank top and pulling him back until his knees fold against Gon’s bed.

Gon drops their pill bottle haul from the bathroom cabinet beside him.

“I have to go now,” he says, shooting a worried look to Kurapika.

“Then go,” says Leorio. “I’ve got him.”

***

The Nostrade estate sits on top of the territory they control like skin on the surface of lukewarm soup. There are big glass ceilings over the ballrooms and jars of preserved body parts decorating alcoves.

Gon changes in the armory and barely swings into the front lobby before Neon and Eliza walk down the spiral staircase from the bedrooms.

“Where’s Kurapika?” asks Baise, her teeth gritted and her smile forced.

Gon twists his heel in the carpet. “Sick. We’ll be okay without him.”

Baise’s smile tightens and her eyes bulge. “You can’t make decisions like that on your own.”

“We’ll be fine,” says Gon.

Her glare is disgusted, but she drops the subject.

“Good evening,” says Gon, cheery, as Neon slides off her slippers, using Eliza’s offered arm for balance.

“Good evening Mr. Freecss,” she says, voice light and airy.

For all the time she spends out of the house, it’s rarely for her own pleasure. On nights when she’s alone, or alone as she can be, Neon is always bubbly.

They take an elevator to the theater.

It’s one of the services the Nostrade family operates. Not only do they control the drug market, but they monopolize most amenities, too, from water to light.

The elevators, old and prone to failure, are especially expensive.

Eliza and Neon chat in the balcony lobby, Baise and Gon close at their sides. There are two other high-ranking mafia members present, but Gon can’t name them or the older guards that circle them.

A young man Neon smiles brightly at is telling her disconnected facts about the theater’s architecture when Gon spots trouble.

Kurapika rubs his eyes as he makes his way over. Gon slips away to intercept him.

“What are you thinking?” he hisses, grabbing Kurapika by the elbow. Kurapika shrugs him off.

“I’m good to work. Leorio gave me medicine. I’m feeling better.”

Gon scowls his disapproval.

Kurapika’s nose is red and his eyes are puffy. His hair is damp, and Gon suspects he washed it in the sink.

“We can handle it without you.”

Kurapika doesn’t bother replying. He steps around Gon to catch up with the rest of the group.

Lights flash, and the shuffle for seats begins.

The theatre is paneled with dark wood, and the house lights are so dim that it takes minutes to adjust. There are private balconies, rows of seats, and a pit down the center of the room. The stage itself is shallow and cramped.

Beads, in long, dazzling strings, are hung along the spines of the faux dome. Every lighting effect and curtain lifts sends sparkling ripples out like waves.

Gon stands at the back of the balcony, beside the door, and Kurapika slumps beside him. From here the ballet is hidden by curtains red as dried blood, but Gon doesn’t care for it much anyway.

Eliza, Neon, and Baise sit in the front of two rows. Eliza and Neon chat idly, even as the music begins. Neon’s elaborate hairstyle bobs with every laugh. Baise taps her fingers on the armrest impatiently.

The audience settles. Before the performance, after it, and during intermission are the high risk times. Between those, it’s smooth sailing.

Gon zones out and watches the beads.

It’s twenty minutes into the performance when Neon abruptly stands, turns to face him directly, and says: “whatever you do, don’t touch your weapon.”

Gunfire.

Kurapika pushes off from the wall and nearly stumbles to the ground, but he manages to grab Eliza and yank her down as Baise does the same for Neon.

The music abruptly halts. There are screams, and the floor shakes as people run to get away.

Someone has to sweep the emergency route before they can move on. Usually, it would be Kurapika’s job.

“Wait with them,” says Gon, slipping out before he can be stopped.

Kurapika shouts, but his voice is cut off by the door closing. There’s a click as Baise locks it.

A curved hallway with creamy walls services all of the balcony seats. It’s an unbroken oval, with part of it used to access the catwalks over the stage. Gon jogs around it as it fills with a panicked crowd.

People shout and push past each other in a dash for the exits. A man stumbles to his knees, and Gon swerves to help him back to his feet.

Gon finds himself bumping into shoulders and getting in the way. It’s useless to try and fight the flow. He steps aside to the wall and lets people pass.

The shots came from inside the theatre, but Gon didn’t have a view of the seats. They could have been fired by a licensed guard, or someone might be running around with a cracked weapon. Neither possibility is good news.

He doesn’t know the target, and he doesn’t know if bystanders are injured.

Kurapika will have almost certainly reported the incident by now, so backup will be on its way. With so many unknown variables, staying put until then might be the smart decision—or, they might be in harm’s way.

Gon rubs his temples. There isn’t an obvious answer. Combined with Neon’s ominous warning—if anything working for the Nostrades has taught him, it’s to listen to her warnings—he doesn’t know what to do.

The crowd is thinning and being still increases his visibility, so Gon moves on. When he reaches the heavy curtain separating backstage from the audience, he draws it back without hesitation.

No one.

There are big stage lights, carts full of props, and painted set pieces.

Gon passes by the door out to the catwalks. A bucket of fake snow is tipped over beside it.

His phone rings. Kurapika. Gon snaps it closed.

On the other side of the next curtain, the hallway is empty. The silence is eerie, dropping over him like a shroud.

Gon has never seen it still like this before. The unfamiliarity, the warping of space he knows into something he does not, sets his teeth on edge.

Usually, he appreciates the gentle curve. In hand-to-hand combat, seeing your opponent when they’re still far away can minimize conflict. But once firearms are introduced, it just means that every step could be the one that put Gon in the line of a bullet.

His hands shake from the adrenaline pumping through his system, and he walks on the balls of his feet, as though he’s barefoot in the forest.

There’s a thump ahead.

A chill runs down Gon’s spine. His nostrils flare. He inches his hand closer to his lapel.

Someone is around the bend.

A man appears. He takes a step forward, graceful as a sylph, and not a sound is made when his foot falls. The tilt of his sharp shoulders is predatory, like a cat coiling to spring. Dangerous and…

Beautiful.

His eyes are sapphires, and the curve of his lips is soft. His suit is tailored perfectly to his form. The braid over his shoulder is white as crisp ocean foam.

Gon can hardly breathe.

“Who are you,” asks the man. He pops the knuckles of one hand with his thumb.

A fleck of blood drops.

Gon grinds his teeth together, mind racing.

“Are you choosing to get involved or not?” he asks, bored and impatient.

“Your buttons are done up wrong,” says Gon, pointing to the man’s jacket.

The man’s eyes widen in what is either shock or disbelief. And then he glances down.

Gon closes the distance with a leap and slams his knuckles into the man’s solar plexus.

His feet are swept out from under him and he’s slammed against the wall, toes dangling. The detached coldness in the man’s eyes is gone, replaced by hot fury.

“What the he—“

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

The intensity in the air evaporates away.

The man’s mouth is slack. His eyes narrow into a squint, searching Gon’s with naked bewilderment.

Gon holds his breath.

The man lowers him so that his toes can touch the ground.

“You could have,” says Gon.

“Because—you—who does that?”

Gon hums thoughtfully, and loses his fight against the smile trying to curl his lips.

“So you were curious, too.”

The man blinks, then closes his eyes and gives a long, shaky sigh. With a gentle shove, he lets go of Gon entirely and backs up, like an archer relaxing his bow string.

“Just tell me who you are,” says the man, leaning against the wall on the other side of the hallway.

“Gon.”

The man stares at him with a mix of horror and confusion.

A moment of silence passes. Gon pats his hips, unsure of where to put his hands.

“Do you have a death wish, Gon?”

“That’s not fair.”

The man’s eyes flutter and he gasps a shocked laugh.

“What?”

“I told you my name, you tell me yours.”

The man purses his lips. He leans his head against the wall and looks up, as if the light moldings will give him answers.

For a few seconds, Gon doesn’t think he’s going to answer.

“Killua.”

Killua.

“Nice to meet you, Killua.”

Casually leaned back, he doesn’t seem nearly as dangerous. Still beautiful, though.

“You’re weird, you know that?” says Killua, his voice raspy.

“I’m not sure you’re one to talk.”

Killua sniffs a laugh. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”

Gon laughs.

Killua’s eyes shoot wide as saucers.

“What?” he asks, tilting his head.

Gon shakes his head and waves his hands placatingly. “Nothing, just funny.”

Killua scowls. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” says Gon.

Killua raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”

There’s the click of a door opening further down the hallway. Gon’s head swivels.

Backup, probably. That, or a peeved Kurapika on his way to shout Gon down the second they’re out of Neon’s earshot.

Killua stands with his hand on the frame of an open door.

Gon stumbles back a step, taken aback by the dramatic movement.

For a moment their eyes meet, and something in the air shifts. It’s a comfort and a bone deep knowing so strong that Gon’s heart aches.

“Will I see you again?” he asks, hands floating uselessly.

Killua runs a hand through his hair. His eyebrows furrow, and he sucks in a breath as though to speak.

And then like a switch flicking, his eyes glaze over with the same detachment from earlier. “No, and it would be better if you forgot you ever did.”

And then he’s gone.

#hunter x hunter #hxh #killua zoldyck #gon freccs #killugon #fanfic #submission

[onlyjihoons]

collegebf!jihoon

a/n; congrats to jihoon for being accepted into uni;-;-; and btw pls pardon the mb that was the closest thing i could find to college jihoon in my laptop

masterlist// requests are open

major: theatre/acting

wanted to take up aerospace technology, but decided to go for his real passion instead

got in through rolling admission, didnt have to face the stress of college entrance examinations

however a very talented actor, able to shed tears in 30 seconds

havent had his first kiss despite acting since five,, and people are shook lol

has looks crafted by the acting gods, visuals made for acting

able to pull off both bad roles and good roles

honestly very friendly and humble young actor, seniors are certain he will make it big in the industry one day

will greet classmates and lecturers good morning and bid them goodbye

lowkey enjoys classics like romeo and juliet, lord of the flies, julius caesar, animal farm 

does well in the prose section in tests because he reads widely 

actually a well all-rounded student, perfect 4.0 gpa in every semester

took up ballet in high school oops and hence knows every scene in ballet classics like sleeping beauty

sings and raps decently, a good dancer too,, a literal golden child lol

but below the perfect boy surface,, jihoon is an avid gamer who always occasionally stays up till the wee wee hours of the night to play games

like overwatch sorry guys that’s the only game i know

sometimes will arrive to class late, hair in a mess and last night’s pyjamas 

but at the end of the day he does well in everything without even trying so the lecturers just let him be

you didn’t even know why you took up theatre,, maybe its because you scored an A in literature during your college entrance exams

communications was too controversial for you anyway

you had zero to little acting experience, the only experience you had was pretending to be sick in school

like jihoon, for the prose section of tests you would score full marks most of the time

but drama section was your pitfall

not that you couldn’t act, but you had a fear of being on camera

selfies with friends are fine, but you just don’t like your pictures being taken in general

one day, your lecturer gave out an assignment, apparently it’s paired work and your partner has already been chosen beforehand

you liked pair work, and honestly one of the only ways you can pull up your grades for the drama section

once you received your assignment, you read the name below yours in bolded itallic,

park jihoon

you sighed, you were afraid of being a burden to the golden student, since he already has secured his own distinction anyway

you were acquaintances with jihoon, but not that close to be friends either

“y/n!” jihoon settled into his seat beside you, “i’m glad we are partners, at least you won’t be like some of the girls in this class…”

you smiled weakly, thankful that he didn’t have a bad impression of you already, “what about them?”

“they always wanted to add a kiss scene in the plot, just to kiss me, its just, ugh.” this was the first time you’ve seen jihoon getting annoyed, and you found it cute honestly

“that’s gross, but don’t worry, i wont make you kiss me, i don’t think you’d want to either.” you patted his back, and you swore that you saw a tinge of hurt in jihoon’s eyes momentarily 

“thanks y/n.”

for the first 2 days, you and jihoon practically breezed through the prose section, sharing your favourite scenes of the classics

“romeo and juliet was a good ending”

“no, they should’ve ran away with each other”

despite conflicting ideas the both of you worked well together and became much closer than before

at first you thought jihoon was a little bit of a tsundere, but the more you knew him, the more goofy he seemed

like how he liked penguins, and has a few penguin stuffed toys on his bed

and you also learnt that jihoon used to do classical ballet in high school, which was lowkey a surprise for you

then came the drama section, the both of you decided on romeo and juliet

wow im so basic sorry guys

you didn’t force jihoon to kiss you too, so the both of you just settled with jihoon putting his thumb in between the both of your lips

or almost kissing

bahbam y’all “kissed”

jihoon told you it was a method actors use so that they don’t really kiss the actress,, and he pulled out that card for all of the girls who wanted to kiss him lol

he even was super sweet about the whole thing, asking if you were uncomfortable and stuff

you always said you wouldn’t but your heart would race whenever he did a tiny bit of skinship like hugging or holding your hand

ultimately, it was just for the grades, right?

wrong.

jihoon had the biggest crush on you ever since the both of you were in the same class

he was just scared of approaching you, scared that you would think he’s trying to get into your good books

so he was really excited when the lecturer announced that you were his partner

and when you said “i don’t think you’d want to either” to the kiss he was lowkey slumped bc it meant to him that you thought of jihoon as a normal friend and not something more

so on the day of the drama showcase, jihoon could sense your nervousness

usually you were ok but today you werent

“what’s up y/n? are you not feeling well?”

“i have a phobia of being on camera,” you wrung your hands together, “sorry jihoon, i’m bringing down our grades–”

“no, y/n, look at me.” jihoon made you face him, his features gleaming under the light, “we’ll overcome this together. i promise.”

“how?”

jihoon then swooped down and kissed your lips, which definitely took you aback

“w-what”

“just imagine the camera isn’t there, and there is no one in the classroom except us.” jihoon smiled, as if the kiss didnt happen

you were definitely calmer than before, weirdly, and nodded.

when it was you and jihoon’s turn, he gave your hand a small squeeze 

it went pretty smoothly, with no camera-fright for the first time

until the kiss scene, jihoon actually kissed you for real

and the whole class was shooketh bc park jihoon,, kissing a girl for the first time?? wowzers

in the end, both of you got your As and you got yourself a boyfriend out of it too

honestly jihoon is more of a homebody than you think

he would want to stay at home rather than go out on dates

so he would invite you over to his dorm, to watch movies or just cook for him lol

sometimes he would ask you to play games with him too, but you’d fail

he would be somewhat addicted to his games too, so you have to get through all means and ways to get his attention back on his work

dont be surprised if he calls you at like 3am telling you hes hungry

and you only read it the next morning

“did you see the message i sent you?”

“no…?”

“i sent it at 3am and it said 2 ticks…”

“you’re gaming again?? YAH PARK JIHOON”

“hahaHAHAHHAHAHAHAH yes im sorry babe please forgive me:

has his designated seat beside you in every class

sometimes the lecturer has to call him out for being too clingy to you and its embarrassing when everyone just has their attention on the both of you

save this clingy baby please

will help you hold your notes,, and sometimes clean up with you at your dorm or home

your mother loves him already even tho she only met him through facetime

likes to go to find all the ramen stores in the vicinity and try all of them out

also likes taking pictures of you when you dont notice

and sets it as his kkt bg

your contact in his phone is saved as baby girl💓💕💖💗💘💞

and his contact saved on your phone is baby boy❤💙💚💛💜

you know those boyfriends who treat their girlfriend like theyre their entire universe? yup thats jihoon

and like his eyes light up whenever he talks about you its just so endearing

likes to be the big spoon when cuddling just so he can engulf you in his arms

hardly gets mad but even if he does its not that serious and over something stupid like him losing his notes or something

jihoon knows where to draw the line, when you need to study he tries not to disrupt you

keyword: tries

overall, a clingy but sweet koala as your bf, you could never ask for more

#wanna one scenarios #park jihoon #wanna one #park jihoon scenarios #Fluffy writes

[francel]

rambling;

i have nothing good to post, so i thought it might be fun to compile some answers to various ffxiv- and rp-related memes and questionnaires i’ve done on my private accounts! please enjoy my screaming.

8. Is there a character that embodies your good traits, or traits you wish you had? Several characters? Which ones and what traits?

i wish i was handsome and suave like all my characters thanks

13. What’s something you’ve never thought about your character?

a certain someone recently decided to remind me that francel's house has no bathroom... and i had honestly never considered, in two whole years of playing him, where he goes to pee?

"do you mean poop" francel is a delicate maiden i will not consider this

(we figure there’s probably an outhouse... somewhere...)

3. What’s something that surprises you about your canon?

Wiltswys: You think me cold? Well, fie on what you think! I wanted something better than tilling salty fields and spilling small fry out the nets, and occasionally taking a passing sailor into my bed for more o' the same!

LISTEN THIS IS THE MOST VULGAR LINE IN THE GAME I SWEAR TO GOD

i have done this quest at least... 4 or 5 times now and it never fails to make me scream. and every time i do it i have to zoom in on her and look at her face because she is a really cute roe girl, so i wonder what her taste in sailors is...

19. Give me an appearance-related headcanon of your choice.

LAUGHS OK hmm what have i never said before...

i have definitely mentioned that i don’t think francel likes his appearance very much — he especially wishes he had lighter-colored eyes like stephanivien and aurvael...

i personally want to think that chlodebaimt looked very different from francel BUT, although i have never datamined the necrose knight (i really should), a friend of mine took screenshots and his eyes at least look like francel's eyes

...but they might very well have just used a generic house haillenarte knight model for that, so who knows what chlodebaimt looked like?

i also like to think that baurendouin (francel's father) persists in the belief that his youngest son will do great things because he at least superficially resembles driancoin de haillenarte (the haillenarte founder you see in the haldrath flashback scene). i mean, i doubt portraits of driancoin survived or anything, given the nondescript statues of thordan's knights, but i’m sure comments about him did?

"he was fair of face and fair of hair" idfk some shit like that

5. What do you hate about your canon?

i am always, ALWAYS so tired of hearing people complain about how “no one ever” treats the wol like they’re “a normal person” ah, yes no one no one ever has treated you nicely never mind the fact that people regularly apologize for turning to you in their hours of need, and for asking you to kill things, and you usually just dismiss their applogy no one!!! has ever!! been nice!! to the wol!! i know the entire arc of my francel writing career has been bitching about similar things but at least i find new ways to do it

ok wait i have to vent more about how people still persist in the NO ONE WAS NICE TO THE WOL BUT HAURCHEFAAANT!!!!! delusion like tataru fucking made you clothes recently IS THAT NOT THE ULTIMATE EXPRESSION OF LOVE? YOU'VE FINALLY BEEN REWARDED WITH SOMETHING PHYSICAL AND TANGIBLE!! STOP COMPLAINING ABOUT HOW YOU DON’T HAVE FRIENDS!!

24. What’s a song that reminds you of your character?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1B7VKiJhU_s “Dear Jack,” by Jack’s Mannequin.

lately, i’ve been listening to this... i don't like every part of this song, but lyrically, it is such a perfect francel song

dear jack, i write you as a friend dear jack, i write for fear the end is coming soon to you it's not so clear it's clear to me it's clear as glass

dear jack, wherever you are, hold tight wherever he is, shine light right there be strong i dare

i had songs for you i had all your music written out the words came when i heard you screaming i had plans for you until the plans fell through now there is no turning back, my dear jack

11. Something you like to look at.

i have complicated feelings about haurchefant these days, but sometimes i go and look at this mug and cry about his handwriting

like from a lore perspective i know he can't be writing in english because they write in eorzean but until then, my friend...

14. When writing for specific characters, is there anything you have to do to get in the specific mindset?

yes! but it depends on the character. for ramza... i either read shakespeare (for real — i have lifted quotes wholesale from hamlet and the tempest) and/or listen to "rather be" by clean bandit? seriously, that is my most strong ramza association... which is weird because the song and the game are like 20 years apart? or i listen to the FFT ost...

for francel i have a whole playlist, but most importantly i either go on twitter and look at wolchefant fanart or read bad wolchefant fanfic on ao3... (don’t judge me; it keeps the bitterness alive)

18. Is there anything you really wish you could do that you feel is outside your current ability? A concept that you wish you could pull off but are uncertain about?

UMMM... hmmmmmmm...

i dont know... i don’t really think any plots are outside of my current ability, but i admire my friends for being so consistent and on the ball with their dignified prose? i can be dignified too, but at some point i'll crash and start writing intensely silly tags

i would like to do more plots where francel is a badass for whatever reason, but that’s just wish fulfillment

17. Which character is the easiest to write? Why do you think that is?

francel is the easiest to write because he has the ugliest emotions

ramza is the hardest because he is always so virtuous

everyone else has varying levels of self control, but with francel i can usually succumb to base impulse reactions. i like his unguarded nature...

6. When writing a character, do you find it easier to work on their external or internal ticks first? oh, internal, definitely. i think my tags suffer from the fact that i often don’t describe what my characters are doing or what is around them? just... just assume on my behalf lmao.... so IF FRANCEL IS CAUGHT UP IN INTERNAL TL;DR there's a 90% chance he's doing that kicked-puppy stare at the floor

5. Has fandom ever ruined a pairing for you? XIV, hard mode: no Haurchefant/WoL.

LMAO THAT HARD MODE...

xiv's fandom has rarely "ruined" pairings for me, as in "i liked them before but i hate them now solely because of fandom"... that said, i think i kind of liked the idea of zephirin and aymeric as a rivalry ship, but i hate when fandom takes the "oMG ZEPH RAPED AYMERIC WHEN HE WAS HELD CAPTIVE" route...

i think this perception of zephirin as this horrible awful evil man comes from the fact that the information on the ward happened after the game was released, so... in the span of time between "zephirin killed haurchefant" and "wait actually zephirin is a virtuous man," people formed their opinions, you know?

but it's still really annoying, and to some degree the misconception persists...

i was also okay with guydelot and sanson at first, but i’m a little annoyed by them now, too... it’s not for any particular reason — i just think the fandom is annoying in the "THEY'RE SOOO MARRIED!! EVEN THE OTHER QUEST NPCS SAY THEY'RE LIKE A MARRIED COUPLE!! THEY’RE SO CANON!!!" way and i’m like Please Shut Up. that said, i guess it’s mostly jealousy because none of my pairings are ever canon, but whatever...

so i guess i'm going with zephirin/aymeric, guydelot/sanson... and oh btw like. urianger/moenbryda to a degree? i remember when the wind-up moenbryda item came out and the english item description was like "you don't want to know what urianger did to this" or something like that, like, i just took it as — like urianger probably dressed it up in a little maid outfit and had it serve him tea or something equally otaku-like?

but the entire fandom was like OMG HE JERKED OFF TO IT OR USED IT AS A SEX DOLL OR SOMETHING and i was like ... okay. like if that's how you're determined to see it, fine, but fandom always takes the worst possible interpretation of something i swear to god

13. Unpopular opinion about XXX character?

LAUGHS WELL I GUESS MY USUAL TIRADE: i don't think of haurchefant as the perfect cinnamon roll angel and actually he annoys me a little...

my friend just finished running coerthas quests on her balmung alt and like... even she commented on how brusque and condescending he seems to francel? and she has no reason to be tainted by my perception of him, it's just... it’s just that he is brusque and condescending.

back when i liked haurchefant/francel, i told myself that it was just how he acted in the heat of the moment and i was sure he was gentler later... but now we’ve seen so much of haurchefant that from the way he treats francel it really feels more to me like francel was just a friend of convenience. i don’t know. i’m bitter. maybe i’m just bitter because it’s easier to cope that way.

14. Unpopular opinion about your fandom?

um... well, i think everyone in the ffxiv fandom also agrees that the fandom is annoying...

something i sometimes worry about, but which is not exclusive to ffxiv, is like... people who rp wind up with such a different impression of things than people who just play the game? 

i'm not judging either side on this but... i have rp friends, and i observe the rp community on tumblr/balmung, and i also have friends that are just gamers? and you know, like. sometimes rpers get carried away and invent all these narratives, like i know some tumblr rpers had a bunch of "plots" where a murder mystery happened in ishgard and it was all full of like noble OCs and intrigue or something?

but my gamer friends will sometimes be like, “ishgard is so boring.” so they... see it differently? you wind up viewing the game differently based on what you do in it.

there's also the divide between the english version of the game and the rest of the world, which i bitch about a lot but

just as an example, in english the nobles of ishgard are kind of broadly characterized as being unintelligent and shallow and foppish, whereas the other versions of the game really take a much more neutral approach?

or well i can really only speak for the japanese, but in general the german and french versions of the game are loyal to the japanese, however, 2.0 content was often based on the english...

so, for example, 2.0 content was EN->FR, but ever since 3.0 most of the patches have been JP->EN/DE/FR

however, the EN version continues to make changes, whereas DE and FR don't really change many things!

so i worry a lot about the different perceptions people have of the game, and what that means, like, when i write fanfic...

does my interpretation of coerthas align with other peoples' interpretations of coerthas? probably not. that’s something that’s deeply distressing, as a writer and as someone who prefers to have control, but i don’t know...

17. Instead of XYZ happening, I would have made ABC happen...

STARES INTO THE VOID it's it's too late for any of this

2 years ago i would have told you without hesitation that i wanted haurchefant to be alive and for him and francel to have eloped together, but now i just...

i've learned to play with the cards i've been dealt