Call me badalloc. Ao3 author. My superpower is overestimating how much of my outline I can fit into a single chapter. (she/her but I don’t sweat the details)
Just a place to put my Ao3 fic so I can get it off of my art blog :)
(This post covers rules for my work, since people have asked)
My asks box is open!
Feel free to send me questions about any of my stuff. There’s a lot of it. You can also send me one-shot fiction requests, if you like. No promises, but I'll ramble about basically anything, given half a chance xD
Blog Tags:
#asks and answers - inbox!
#badalloc recs - fiction by other authors. Go check these out!
#badalloc rambles - character analysis, misc thoughts
#blog fic - stuff that is too short for ao3
#writing - tips and other stuff about the writing process itself
#story time - short, non-fandom fic from other authors
Vampires SMP fanfic
The Reversal AU
Reversal - An alternate ending to VSMP, in which I fix Bloodletting
Saint's Guise - Louis origin story/Lovebitten retelling. (Alternate entry point to the Reversal AU, and prequel to Reversal)
[series link on ao3] - there are more one-shots to be found here!
tags:
#vsmp reversal
#reversal fanart <- LOOK AT THESE!!
#vsmp reversal au
#saint's guise
#saint's guise fanart <- OMG
#badalloc booklocke
The False Saint AU
A Choose Your Own Adventure Story. Blog fic that explores Louis' fate after the events of Saint's Guise, with audience participation.
The thing was a mound of flesh and mottled skin, as big as a barn and the shape of a pumpkin. Four tentacles as thick as trees hung limp at its sides; teeth ringed the gaping mouth at the top of its head like a crown.
A huge, sad whale eye the colour of wine stared at the knight. She could see her reflection in the jelly surface.
“We don’t know what it is,” she heard. “Some kind of monster that makes a perfect copy of whatever it eats. They think that was how the Dark Lord made his armies, feeding his minions to it so that it would make hundreds of copies of them. Do you recognize it?”
The knight opened her mouth. She hesitated. “Yeah,” she murmured, drawing out the word. “We found it in the Dark Lord’s tower, right?”
“That’s right. That’s where it ate you.”
The knight turned around and looked at her other reflection. This one appeared to be about ten years older, and had doffed her armor for a loose blue tunic and breeches.
She was holding a cup of tea. She had pressed another cup into the knight’s hand when she woke up here. It had been a shock finding herself suddenly out the obsidian dungeons of the Dark Lord’s tower and into this tall room of stone and straw. The warmth of it in her hands steadied her a bit.
“Everyone else in the party was worried, but then it started making copies of you,” the copy went on, staring up at the tentacled thing. “And all of the copies helped fight against the Dark Lord, and we won, and peace was restored across the land, but then nobody could figure out how to kill the damn thing or just to make it stop. Dozens of copies of us in a day, hundreds in a week, and then someone decided that the only thing we could do is just bring the thing here, seal it off and hope it starved to death.”
She sipped her tea. “Anyways, that was two-hundred years ago and it’s slowed down a bit. It can only make a new copy of us every few weeks now.”
The knight looked down into her tea. The copy had also draped a blanket over her shoulders.
“I have so many questions,” she said.
“I figured.”
“How can it be two-hundred years? I can still remember breaking into the tower. That feels like it was just minutes ago.”
“It was, basically. Your brain is a perfect copy of the original you’s brain at the exact moment she was eaten.”
“But the quest is just — done?”
“Yep. You missed some of the things that needed tying up afterward. There was a war, and a dragon, and some business about a ring.” She waved a hand. “It was before my time. Things are pretty settled now.”
“My parents?”
“Passed away about a hundred-and-fifty years ago. I’ve been told that they were very proud.”
The knight nodded. “Um. I don’t know if you know — we had an elf in our party—”
“I’m aware.”
“I — right. Obviously. Um. It’s just, after everything was done, I was going to ask her—”
“One of us did. She said yes. She outlived her. A couple of us have tried to reach out since then, but she wants to be left alone for a while.”
The knight considered this. “Uh — right,” she said eventually. Her fingers tightened around the tea cup. “Um. What do I do now?”
Her older copy shrugged. She had let her hair grow out again, the knight noticed. There were a few strands of grey against the black. “That’s up to you, I’m afraid,” she said. “A lot of us are finding work as soldiers and sellswords. We’ve done it for so long that most armies know we’re reliable and don’t tend to turn one of us away. Most of us are just sort of spreading out, wandering the world. Some of us keep in touch.”
The knight frowned. “What do you do?”
Her copy paused, tea cup half raised to her lips. “Sorry?”
“You said it only makes a new copy every few weeks now. So you just stay here and wait for a new one to show up?”
She lowered the cup. “Well,” she said. “I guess I just — I know what it can be like, waking up here in the dark, and it — it can be horrible trying to figure all of this out on your own.
“So I thought that what I’d do is just stay here with a pot of tea, and whenever I see myself again, I tell her that — that she’s not alone.”
“We aren’t?”
“Of course not. We’re all in this together, you know.”
Authors don’t have to make their language accessible to you.
They are not obligated to use “easy words” or pander to the lowest common denominator.
They should not feel required to neuter their prose in the name of “accessibility”.
Dictionaries exist. Learning new vocabulary is one of the most wonderful side effects of reading.
(And honestly, language is beautiful. It has evolved through thousands of years of oral and written traditions into something rich and complex. Why would you want to throw out words like susurration or glimmering or viscid? That’s like removing the seasoning from a stew)
I thought I grew up in a good neighborhood, surrounded by good people. Everyone said good morning to each other in the morning, my mom was friends with our neighbors, and we all went to church together. In my young mind, that made us very good people.
Then Daffodil came to town and turned my world upside down.
I first met Daffodil when he knocked on our door. Mom was absorbed in a book she was reading so I went to go answer the door. I thought I was mature enough to do so at six years old, and plus, I had Bear- a dog mixed with a million different breeds but was big and looked pretty intimidating. Dad got him for us before he shipped out overseas, for his own peace of mind. Someone to keep us safe while he was off keeping the country safe.
I didn’t expect to see a skinny rail of a guy standing on the porch, bouncing on his heels as he waited for someone to answer the door. His cheeks were bright red, he had a short beard and curly blond hair, a guitar that had seen better days was slung over his back, but what really got my attention was that he wasn’t wearing any shoes.
“Hello!” He knelt down to my level, grinning broadly. “Is there any chores or work I could do for your family to earn my bread?”
I glanced at Bear to see his reaction to this bizarre fellow. Normally my dog would at least be a little apprehensive around a stranger, but much to my surprise Bear was happily panting away. The man looked at Bear and actually squealed. “Oh, a good boy!” He gave Bear’s ears a scratch and Bear licked his hand.
I craned my neck in and yelled for my mom, “Mom, there’s a man here who wants to do work for bread. Can I have him help clean my room?”
“Sure, sweetie!”
Of course, my mom was distracted. She loved her books. But since she said it was okay, I let the man in. He bowed his head politely. “Thank you, thank you so much. Sun was about to burn me alive. My friends call me Daffodil, what’s yours?”
“I’m Will. Come on, let’s go clean my room.” Mom said I had to, after all, before I went to go play, and if all Daffodil wanted was bread then what was the harm?
Daffodil was a very efficient cleaner, and I learned quickly he was a complete weirdo but he was nice. He asked the names of all my stuffed animals, asked about my favorite games to play, my favorite color. When he wasn’t asking about me, he was humming tunes to songs I didn’t know.
We just got done when Mom popped in to ask who I was talking to and screamed when she saw a strange man in her son’s bedroom. “Who- Will, who is that?!” She grabbed me by the back of the shirt and yanked me away.
“Mom, it’s the man I told you wants to work for bread! You said it was okay!” I complained.
Daffodil politely bowed his head. “Not to be argumentative, ma’am, but he’s right,” He said.
My mom was pretty embarrassed, but in the end Daffodil did end up staying for dinner. She came to the same conclusions I did- weird, but absolutely harmless. He was a traveler, just planning on cooling his heels in town for a while.
How long was a while?
“Maybe a week, maybe a century. I’ll make up my mind later.”
As he left, he gave me a dried out flower. “Thank you for dinner,” He said before tipping his head once more and skipping down the street.
I still have that flower on my desk.
Daffodil did end up staying a while, several years in fact. He’d typically go door to door, asking for work in exchange for something to eat or a place to sleep. If he wasn’t doing that, you’d find him in the park playing guitar for tips or selling pressed wildflowers. His songs told stories of home, of gardens that went for miles and a wife named Rose and another named Dahlia and their dozen children inbetween them. I rather liked his songs, even though apparently he had some raunchier ones that my mom told me about when I was older. He never sung them around the kids though.
My mom gave him a pair of my dad’s old boots during winter, and I swear he did a little dance and promised to dedicate a song to her. When my dad got home, he was also a little hesitant about Daffodil (I’m pretty sure I heard him ask mom if Daffodil was a queer), but I thought it was impossible not to warm up to such a charming fellow.
I learned better when I got older.
See, Daffodil never minced his words. Never pulled any punches. He got into several heated arguments with one of the neighbors, Mr. Robert Miller, about why he wouldn’t go to church. Miller was a quite devout Christian, always trying to convince the ‘lost sheep’ of God to join the flock. Most people knew better than to try to argue with him about it.
Daffodil was not most people.
I was about nine when I overheard one argument between the two.
“Mr. Miller, I am well aware you’ll put a roof over my head and food in my mouth if I go to church, but again I don’t think it’s very Christ like to blackmail me like that.”
“It’s not blackmail. I’m just trying to help you-”
“No, no, you’re helping yourself feel good.”
“How dare you!”
I enjoying a good amount of eavesdropping as a kid, so I kept myself hidden behind the fence dividing our two yards as I continued to listen in on this bickering.
“I’ve been around the block a few times, Mr. Miller, I know how it works. The moment we’re done here, you’re going to run to all your other little church friends and talk about the heathen that won’t hear God, you will pray together and pat yourselves on the back for doing a job well done.”
“What is wrong with you?!”
“Nothing. Or a lot of things, depends who you ask. I found my version of god in song and in nature. I’m at peace with that.”
“You’re one of those, aren’t you? Is that why you won’t go to church?”
There was a pause before I heard Daffodil sigh.
“I am not inclined to share my sexual past with anyone, Mr. Miller. Good day.”
“You are then! You’ll burn in hell, faggot!”
I’d never heard that word before. But the way he spat it out so venomously almost frightened me. I almost asked my mom what it meant, but I lost my nerve, given it sounded like a bad word and I didn’t want to get in trouble.
Didn’t lose my nerve to ask Daffodil though, next day while he raked leaves for old Ms. Reed.
“What’s a faggot, Daffodil?”
He didn’t even miss a beat as he twirled the rake in the air. “A bundle of sticks,” He responded.
“That’s all? Like a bitch is a female dog?” I couldn’t say these words around my mom. But I could ask Daffodil anything and he’d tell me the truth.
“Sorta.”
I remember him laughing and performing another twirl of the rake. “Will boy, just know that Mr. Miller meant it in a way to cut me down. It’s a nasty word, so don’t use it. You can use some of the other bad words when you get old enough, but that’s just one of the words you can’t.”
“Why?” I asked.
Daffodil never got mad when I asked why, but this time he looked a little sad as he reached over and ruffled my hair.
“You’ll understand one day.”
And I did understand one day. I suppose Daffodil wasn’t exactly hypermasculine, he put flowers in his hair, danced down the street to no music, cried when he was emotional and was not afraid to get excited over things like baby bunnies or dogs. To be totally transparent though, I don’t think Daffodil was gay. He was too much of a flirt with any women close to his age.
Didn’t matter though. He was a piece of pyrite surrounded by the asphalt on the cul de sac and people didn’t like that too much.
It really came to a head when I was twelve. Daffodil was one of my friends, my parents loved having him for dinner and it wasn’t often that he wasn’t crashing on our couch, snoring like a freight train and his oversized legs hanging over the couch arm. I felt like he was a cool uncle, the guy I could turn to whenever I had a problem or question.
I was doing dishes while my mom was enjoying a glass of wine with Mrs. Miller in the living room. I still hadn’t learned not to eavesdrop, so I took a break from the suds to listen in.
“-And I just don’t know if it’s a good idea to have him hanging around Will all the time.”
I heard my mom laugh. “Anna, Daffodil’s harmless. Weird, definitely, but harmless.”
“Well, you know he’s… you know… like that. What if Will turns out like that too?”
“Anna, you can’t seriously believe Daffodil is homosexual. Really, I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“I just care about you and your son! And god knows what he might have if he is a homo, what if he gives Will AIDS?”
“Anna!” My mom sounded horrified, and I felt the same. I did not like the implication that Mrs. Miller was throwing out there.
“I’m being serious!”
“And I’m being serious when I say, again, Daffodil isn’t gay and he doesn’t have AIDS. Besides, I think the neighborhood’s done well with him around. You know we haven’t had anything really bad happen since he started staying around here? No one’s lost their job, everyone has a good looking yard, no one’s gotten badly sick or died…”
“What, are you saying he’s had something to do with that?”
“Well, maybe he’s a good luck charm. Let’s change the subject. How’s Levi, has his grades improved?”
I went back to the kitchen after the subject changed. I genuinely hoped it was just the Millers with such nasty thoughts, that their venom was contained in the family.
I was wrong. Mr. Miller was a deacon at the church at this time and had the respect of a lot of parishioners. His nasty thoughts had taken root in many people’s minds.
I don’t know why I was out late that night. It was hot, maybe I couldn’t sleep, but I wasn’t really the kind of kid to wander the streets after dark. This is the only night I remember doing it. I heard a commotion and followed the sound, curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back, Daffodil taught me.
I found a mob of twelve men and all of them had surrounded Daffodil. For the first time in my life I saw Daffodil look afraid.
“You don’t have to do this,” He said, hands raised in the air. He wasn’t armed. He was defenseless.
I saw Mr. Miller lift up a baseball bat. “We told you to leave, Daffodil. You wouldn’t listen. You forced us to do this,” I swear I heard pure evil in his voice that night.
Daffodil looked down and then he looked straight at me. I heard him mutter ‘stay put’ before he looked back at Mr. Miller. “Then I suppose I’ll cease to speak. My words have fallen on deaf ears for long enough. Do what you came to do.”
They descended on him like a pack of wild dogs, and he never fought back, not once.
I watched them beat him into the ground with bats or golf clubs or whatever the hell they brought. They beat him while he howled in pain, they beat him until he only whimpered, and they beat him until he was still and quiet. When they left, all clearly proud of what they’d done, that’s when I crawled out of my hiding spot and hurried to Daffodil’s side.
He didn’t even look like a human anymore, he looked like fresh roadkill. That friendly face that I never saw without a smile before tonight was swollen and broken, the flowers in his hair were squashed on the ground…
“Daffodil?”
Somehow, Daffodil turned his head towards the sound of my voice. “… Will. Good… good boy, for not leaving your hiding spot…”
“Why wouldn’t you let me help you?” My eyes overflowed with tears, they landed on my friend’s face.
“Because… I couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt for me, my little friend.”
A shaky hand, one with fingers bent in horrifying angles, reached up and touched my face, smearing blood across my cheek.
“Thank you for listening to me. Thank you… for being my friend.”
I waited until he seemed to stop breathing before I dragged him off the road and into the nearby woods. He was far too heavy for me to consider doing this in a sane state of mind, but I was on autopilot at this point. All I could think of was how they might further desecrate Daffodil’s body in the morning. How they’ll say he deserved it, and then put him in a grave that didn’t have a proper headstone and not even a name.
I folded his arms over his chest, like he was just sleeping. I covered him in leaves and flowers. I took one and put it in his hair, tucked behind his ear.
This was the grave he deserved. The best a twelve year old boy could do.
I didn’t eat for two days after Daffodil’s death. I didn’t leave my room. My mom was confused as to what was wrong until she realized Daffodil hadn’t shown up. Miller claimed he just left town but mom knew he wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.
She managed to pry the real story from me and then she called the police.
Here’s the kicker though- the body was gone. They found the grave I made for him, the piles of leaves and flowers, but there was no Daffodil. My mom told me that maybe Daffodil was okay, that he got up and just chose to quietly leave, but I knew I saw him stop breathing.
You know how my mom said Daffodil was a good luck charm, right? I think she was right. Well, half right. Daffodil was good luck to the people that did him good, and their neighbors prospered because of that. But Daffodil wasn’t going to give that kindness any longer to the people that beat him and left him for dead.
The week after Daffodil’s death, I saw him.
I couldn’t sleep. I hadn’t been able to sleep well since the incident. I was staring out the window when I saw a familiar head of golden hair walk into the space between ours and the Millers. I couldn’t believe it. I rubbed my eyes a dozen times before I got up and pulled the window up, ready to call out to my friend to see if it was really him or if it was just a dream.
The word froze in my mouth when I realized I wasn’t sure if this was really Daffodil. Sure, he had the golden hair and the beard, but he was… different. Taller, which was quite a feat given he was already a giant. There was this unnatural glow about him, and he wore strange clothes. If this had been a few years later, I’d say he looked dressed to be in a ren fair.
One look confirmed though that he wasn’t wearing shoes. It was still Daffodil.
He turned to look at me and now he smiled, but there was an unfamiliar mischievousness to it. He put a finger to his lips to shush me before he opened the window and reached inside. Out he pulled the Miller’s infant daughter, Rebecca. He cradled her for a brief moment before he turned his head behind him and whistled.
Two women walked out from the bushes. I didn’t recognize them. Both were also quite tall, one with hair almost silver in the moonlight wearing a white gown and the other with midnight black hair cut short to her jaw and a sword hanging from her waist. Daffodil handed Rebecca to the swordswoman who bounced her up and down a few times before walking away. I saw the silver haired woman slip in through the window and a few minutes later left the front door with the Miller’s two sons, four year old Micah and seven year old Asher. Both were still in their pajamas but clung to the woman’s hands and looked at peace with her. She walked down the street and vanished in the dark.
Now it was just Daffodil again. He looked at me, still smirking, before he rubbed his hands together before lifting them up to his mouth and blowing on them. I saw sparks fly out from his palms and dance in the air before going black.
The next thing I remember is waking up the next morning to police all over the street. The three youngest Miller children were gone. And the eldest, seventeen year old Levi, was dead. Autopsy would later reveal he had gone undiagnosed with brain cancer, even though he’d just had a physical a few months prior and he was healthy as a horse.
Sure, I was asked if I’d seen anything, since my window was closest to the Miller’s, but I just remembered Daffodil putting his finger to his lips and told them nothing.
Only one child of the Millers would be found, baby Rebecca, returned to her crib. But a week in and Mrs. Miller looked ready to have a meltdown. A teatime with mom and she confided all about how Rebecca never slept, only cried, and how she swore she heard her daughter giggling whenever she wasn’t in the room.
That child was certainly not Rebecca, but once again I kept my mouth shut.
Things went downhill for the Millers the fastest, but they weren’t alone. Several other households faced their own bizarre and sudden catastrophes. The Petersons were in a terrible car accident that cost Mr. Peterson his legs and Mrs. Peterson her memory. To her death, she believed every morning was July 21, strangely not the day of the accident but the day of Daffodil’s disappearance. The Caldwells had a nasty divorce after Mrs. Caldwell got mysteriously pregnant, even though Mr. Caldwell had a vasectomy. It’d later come out she was approached by a young handsome man and they had a moment of passion in the backseat of Mr. Caldwell’s car.
The Anderson’s house burned down. The Rivers were infertile. The Ward’s prize garden wilted and died while Mr. Ward wasted away with an illness no doctor could diagnose. The Reeves lost their jobs. I could go on. But I’m sure you guessed by now what each of the families had in common.
Each of those families had someone directly involved with Daffodil’s beating.
While everyone else’s family was suffering disaster after disaster, ours only prospered. Bear’s health held strong until he was nearly sixteen, long time for a big dog. My parents thought they were out of luck when it came to having another kid, but mom became pregnant with twins. I insisted one be named Daffodil. They compromised and Marie’s middle name is Daffodil. They were also approved to adopt and that’s when I got a brother just a few months younger than me, Brian. We became thick as thieves the day he came into our lives and we’re still quite close. My dad got an amazing job when he was discharged from the army, mom got some serious promotions so we got to go on amazing vacations and make amazing memories.
I was eighteen when Mr. Miller finally cracked and hung himself. He’d lost everything- his job after he failed a drug test that he should’ve passed with flying colors, his position as a deacon after said failed drug test made common knowledge, his wife after she was just done with his bullshit, he just had to give up the car because of the debt he was in and was about to lose the house. In his suicide note he did confess to Daffodil’s murder and named the other conspirators as well. A few of them were already dead from various means, but the others got in pretty deep shit, even though they couldn’t be officially charged without a body apparently.
Sometimes I wondered if I dreamed that night I saw Daffodil outside. Sometime I even believed it.
But it’s been a long time since then. I have a family of my own now, married the love of my life and we have a six year old daughter, Iris. I actually own the Miller’s house, I got it for a steal because of the suicide. My wife thinks it serves for great inspiration, she’s a horror novelist, so that works out.
Maybe I would’ve forgotten Daffodil one day if my daughter hadn’t run to get the door before I could stop her. Girl has no fear, probably like I did when I was her size.
I almost reached the living room when I heard her yell back, “Daaaaadddyyyy, there’s a man asking if we have bread!”
“Erm, not quite, if you have work so I can have bread. Close enough though.”
I never forgot that voice. I ran for the door, nearly tripping over the dog in the process. I whipped open the door the rest of the way, nearly bowling over Iris in the process.
He looks exactly the same as he did back then. Same beard, same guitar slung over his back, same lack of shoes. He stared at me for a few moments before his eyes widened and he grinned.
“Hello, Will! It’s so good to see you again. Mind if I help around the house? I like to work for my bread.”
Owen literally worshipping the ground Louis walk on because he "saved his miserable human life" and no one should ever question their will, their voice is sweet, he has gentle hands, gentle touch, any conversation is entertaining, he's so great, he's so lovely Owen is so lucky to have such incredible man in his life all from his pov
Vs
Ankward who knows how many centuries old vampire that doesn't know how to deal with this human's overwhelming love, he doesn't want to be worshipped, every move he makes is clumsy, he lost count on how many plates he broke, how many cows and sheep he startled, he almost tripped last time he tried to leave his manor, he doesn't want Owen to chop anymore trees when he's in a cough fit so he pretends to cough to gashlit him into staying home, but it fails miserably because the next day Owen's back at it again
And the turning time was not romantic how Owen made it think, it was ankward and messy and Louis probably sobbed the entire time because he was breaking his oath of never drinking human blood and Owen wrongly assumes it's because he's just as happy as he is so they both cry
every day I learn bot comments on ao3 are stooping lower and lower
anyway if you get a comment like this, chances are that they are bot and their goal is to do whatever it takes to get you to delete your work, most certainly (from what I’ve heard) it’s because they want to “safely” steal your work, use it to train their ai without you being able to rightfully claim ownership of your work since “there’s no proof that the work was stolen/was posted elsewhere first by you” because the original source has already been deleted.
THEY ARE ALL BOTS. at first it was “ao3 is deleting fics and your entire account will be affected unless you delete the fics yourself” then it was “this work contains contents that are illegal and they have already reported you and your fic to the police” (yes, that’s how desperate these bots are), and now it’s this.
report their comments to ao3 for spam—in this case, specifically, I think you may be able to report them for harassment too—and don’t pay attention to them, most importantly don’t delete your works, don’t feel discouraged by their comments. remember that they are bots and they mass comment something like this on people’s works at random to get people to delete their works. (or even if they’re not bot, they are still pathetic bullies who don’t deserve your time or attention.)
MORE ABOUT BOTS AND SCAMS PLAGUING AO3’S COMMENTS SECTION HERE
Okay also: crackfic where apo DOES wrestle down one of the big spiders and tries to eat it. Martyn comes across her and she has to explain what she's doing.
Spiders don't have blood, is the thing. Like all insects, they have hemolymph instead in an open circulatory system (it's not even red, it's a yellowy color!)
Apo does not know that.
No, what happens is, first, she eats a mosquito while flying around. Accident. Pure instinct.
Which moves to doing it on purpose. It's not satisfying at all, like licking up the nectar from honeysuckle. Good. Fun. Not really "eating" or "food" and nowhere near "satisfying."
And then she eats a moth. And it's, somehow, also edible. Which, great! Much easier to have a wider selection of things to chase in the middle of the night when all the distracting bustle stops and her hunger claws at her and she can't even LOOK at the cow pen without feeling--ugh.
So. All bugs. She'll take it. It's at this point she starts experimenting.
Also at this point, there are bats around her tower every night. Vermin issue, is what she says to the militia. But she wasn't slick before about her secret, what with the "I'll stand guard" thing, and she's even less slick about this lie.
So Martyn THINKS he knows what he'll find when he walks into the night with holy word ready and a silver block first at hand. Miss militia, spilling town secrets to the vampires. Their Apo, corrupting the beacons she had guarded that very day. Apo, who is probably slowly loosing herself to the blood that had been corrupting even the kindest of townsfolk into white wraiths of themselves, alien and cold and other.
He rounds a bend and sees Apo, in all her bullheaded glory, on top of one of those fuck-off big spiders trying to pin all eight of it's hairy legs with her numerically inferior four limbs somehow because for some dumb reason these bugs are only edible when still alive. The spider is obviously not very keen about any of this. It's used to being the one sampling new foods and honestly is a little taken aback that some two-legged maniac won't let it up.
Martyn watches her swear and sweat and get bit herself and try to bite the thing ONCE to test because if this works she could be actually full for once and ughhh hairy legs and oh my God next time she's bringing a rope to wrangling this thing--
She's monologues a steady stream of complaints to herself the entire time.
Somewhere around minute three Martyn starts laughing.
For reasons that will become clear very soon, I've decided to post Abolish's POV from To Sever a Bond onto Tumblr. Congrats to anyone who hasn't been able to read my stuff because they don't have an ao3 account - now's your chance!
What happens to a fledgling when their sire dies?
Abolish was well educated on sire and fledgling bonds. He had read most of the organization's available text on the subject and had discussed the topic with numerous colleagues in his time working in the field. He had seen bonds take hold (both consensually and forcefully) and he had seen bonds sever. On one instance in particular, he had lost a partner when their connection to their sire was broken unexpectedly during a dicey encounter with a coven of enemy vampires — their temporary pain paralysis had left an opening for the enemy to rush in and finish them off with a stake before Abolish could interfere.
The point was, Abolish thought he knew the risks associated with agreeing to become Legundo's fledgling.
He was wrong.
Abolish sits at the base of the town's central tower, mere yards away from where the holy beacon pulses — its harsh waves grating against Abolish's senses. He could step away — move himself just outside of its range of influence, closer to where the remaining vampires and Pearl are conversing.
But he doesn't.
If he doesn't have the persistent scratching of the beacon's power to focus on, he will be forced to pay attention to a far more unsettling feeling. Hesitation. Doubt.
Is this right?
Abolish had always prided himself in his ability to make difficult decisions quickly, and accept whatever consequences followed with grace. He knew how to calculate outcomes, prioritize logic, and mitigate risk — he was good at it. He got the impression the doctor was similar (ignoring the obvious blind spots that were his own self preservation and Owen, of course). Even though years working with patients away from a military conflict had certainly softened Legundo, Abolish could still make out the shadow of the soldier he once was.
So when Legundo had turned him and the connection between the two of them fused into place, the emotional flood that poured from the bond had surprised and nearly drowned Abolish.
There was so much fatigue.
There was so much self hatred.
There was so much regret.
It was the regret more than anything else that had truly shaken Abolish. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and it had taken every ounce of self discipline to not react.
Legundo had noticed his distress, of course. Abolish was too inexperienced and too overwhelmed to possibly attempt to hide anything from his new sire. The emotions rushing down the bond had slowed, and the Doc had planted his hands on Abolish's shoulders until the fledgling could stand without swaying.
"You're going to be okay, I've got you," the Doc had said, repeating similar phrases until Abolish's primary emotion had shifted to one of annoyance. The Doc had smiled, sensing the change, and finished bandaging up his arm (Abolish had not reminded him that it wasn't needed — the bite wound would heal into a scar in a few minutes).
Then Martyn and Ren had died, and the wave of painful emotions returned.
It had taken longer for Legundo to recover after that. In his defense he had tried prioritizing keeping as much away from Abolish as possible; however, it wasn't enough to stop Abolish's mind from feeding off the foreign thoughts.
Am I being selfish?
"Abolish, be careful. Be good," the Doc had said, just before he took Cleo's hand and left the town.
Is this good?
Abolish stands abruptly and walks into the tower, closing the door behind him. He doesn't want to be near the others when it happens. This deserves respect. It deserves privacy.
And it wouldn't be necessary if you weren't afraid.
He had been offered vampirism before. Multiple times, in fact (some in more nefarious contexts than others). He always had the same response: too much paperwork. It generally got a laugh, and allowed the conversation to move on. It was a logical answer. One most people expected from Abolish.
It was also a lie.
Yes — there are good vampires, and there are bad vampires. Yes — there are good people, and there are bad people. Yes — being a vampire doesn't inherently make you a bad person. Yes — many of the most important people in Abolish's life are vampires. He knows all of this. He truly believes all of this.
… And yet.
There is a small part of Abolish's psyche buried deep — so incredibly deep — that was locked away years ago when he was taken in by the man (the vampire) who would become the closest thing Abolish has to a family. It contains the memories of a child who learned the fate of his parents — the knowledge that the thing that killed them was a creature of the night. A creature that, up until that point, had only existed in horror stories and fairy tales.
A child that asked, "how can I become the monster that killed my family?"
It is illogical. Abolish knows this. Up until now, he had gone out of his way to make sure he never needed to confront that small part of him still driven by emotion.
But now a man, a good man, is going to die for it.
Abolish sits on the staircase, staring into the pulsing light of the beacon. Perhaps the power making his skin crawl has nothing to do with the vampirism at all. Perhaps it can sense his hesitation. His guilt.
And yet, he can't bring himself to do anything but wait.
When Legundo dies, Abolish does not allow himself to cry out. He does not allow himself to seek comfort. He does not allow himself to flinch. The pain is penance for letting his fear control him.
I’ve seen you mention it a few times but I can’t find the link, what is your art blog’s url? (I’ve loved all the art you post on this blog and want to check out your other art)
Sorry about that! It’s the one that I occasionally reblog from — @cleanbeanart. I don’t want to post the link permanently in my bio for *reasons*, but I don’t mind sharing it when asked :)
In case it is helpful for others, here are the steps shown in order:
1. All signatures printed out and laid on top of each other in an alternating manner to keep them separate
2. Folding each page individually with a bone folded and a straight edge that’s been clamped onto my table (makes for a nice, crisp fold and minimizes mistakes). I do these one at a time instead of folding the whole signature at once, because I’m trying to keep everything as neat as possible. The extra time spent does seem to translate to a nice, solid binding.
3. Assembling the folded pages back into signatures (mini-booklets that get sewn together to make a full book)
4. Cutting some decorative paper to use as end papers. I think I will try sewn endpapers this time instead of tipped-on, but might change my mind.
The book is currently under weight (some board and textbooks) to help the signatures compress in size. Next step will be punching holes and sewing!
The layout for The Incandescence of a Dying Light by the lovely @quaranmine took me about a week (I think), because I added artwork and decided to go with a two/column “Bible” layout to condense the size. This fic is 97K words, and I managed to get it down to 320 pages (ten full signatures of 8 sheets of paper each).
Here are a couple of select shots of the interior:
If anyone is interested in my fanbinding projects, I’m going to be posting them over on my art blog (Reversal/SG was a special case). I am going to be trying to explain each step I’m taking and include a lot of pictures, so hopefully the posts will be helpful to anyone who wants to try this for themselves.
I try not to look at numbers on my fics. (I really do). So I don’t know exactly when Reversal finally hit this milestone, but logged on today to see that it had ticked over.
Thanks for the support, for the comments, and for making writing in this space a genuine delight. You guys are *awesome*
still on my bloodloathing divorce au nonsense, these awful men are consuming me.
have this, a look at the early days of Scott and Legundo's relationship.
****
It had been another long evening of conversation. Legundo worked away in the room that had been converted into an improvised laboratory, while Scott sat on the couch and pretended to help. Mostly he just pestered Legundo, asking countless questions and throwing far too much flirtation his way. But Legundo could not bring himself to begrudge the young man. He knew what a mask over deep loneliness looked like, he saw the way Scott's brow would furrow as they sat at his mother's bedside and watched another attempt fail. Legundo could weather the young man's misguided affections, if it meant he could keep trying to help. The Lady Goldsmith was not his only patient in the Castle, after all.
That night, Legs had been testing a new concoction. He had taken a small sample of Lady Goldsmith's blood — he'd held his breath as he made the delicate incision, he would not let himself be distracted by the intoxicating scent of human blood — and was applying small drops of the mixture to it, watching how it reacted. Scott had joined him after dinner, as he usually did, bringing a plate piled high with decedent foods with him. He had placed the plate at Legundo's side, and reminded him that he was always welcome to join him at the dinner table. Legs lied easily, that he had already eaten, and that he needed to focus on his work. Scott never took the cue to leave. Instead, the noble sat himself down on the couch, lounging comfortably, and easily picked up wherever their last conversation had left off.
The conversation that evening had dragged on long into the night. Despite his frustrations with the young man's eccentricities, Legundo had to admit he found Scott very easy to converse with. He was educated and quick witted, and matched Legundo blow for verbal blow. Scott seemed to take Legs' disinterest as a challenge, and every eye roll and heavy sigh was met with a further cheeky comment and a laugh. It was… frustratingly charming. But as night began to threaten to turn closer to morning, the conversation had been interjected with longs stretches of silence, until finally Legundo looked over his shoulder and saw that Scott's head was tipped back against the couch cushions, and his eyes were blinking so slowly they were more closed than open.
"You should get some sleep," he said softly. Scott lazily lifted a manicured brow at him. Legundo tried not to be endeared by the gesture. He gently set down the vial he was holding, and turned to face Scott fully.
"But, Doctor," Scott muttered, "I find myself simply too tired to walk. However will I make it to my bedchambers in this state?" The slur of his words was clearly performative, but he could not fake the bleariness of his eyes. Legs scoffed softly.
"I'm not carrying you, you fool," he said, and internally cringed at the fondness he heard creeping into his own voice. He shouldn't be letting himself grow attached like that. Even if he ignored everything else, Scott was so young, barely half Legundo's physical age. The flirtatious teasing was just that, teasing. An annoyance that he could endure. He couldn't let it get under his skin, couldn't let affection worm it's way into him. He was a monster, in more ways than one, and he could not inflict that on anyone else.
Scott smirked up at him from the couch, and Legundo clenched his jaw.
"Come now, Master Goldsmith," he said, once the initial swirl of emotion was sufficiently contained. "I will deign to escort you to your chambers, but you must walk on your own two feet."
He extended a gloved hand in offer towards the noble. Scott swung his legs gracefully off the couch, and placed his hand gently on Legundo's outstretched palm. The warmth of fresh blood seeped through the thick leather of Legs' gloves, and he clamped down the instinctual roll of hunger. Scott held heavy eye contact as he rose slowly to his feet, teal eyes sparkling with mischief even through his weariness. There was a different edge to the next wave of hunger that hit Legundo, and he shut that down just as firmly as the last.
Scott did not release his hand once he was on his feet. Legundo could not bring himself to separate them either.
"You are a kind man, Doctor," Scott muttered. There was an interesting inflection in the words, like it was something Scott was only just realising, and he didn't know how to feel about it. His eyes — those unnaturally bright and brilliantly sharp irises — searched Legundo's face, brow pinched with curiosity and confusion.
"I try to be," Legundo replied softly, weariness of his own beginning to seep into his bones.
Neither of them moved for a moment, until Scott slowly titled his chin. He was appraising Legundo, like he was fine portrait he wished to add to his collection. The scrutiny made Legs' skin crawl, but not in the way he expected. He felt Scott's gaze like trailing fingers across his skin, a caress of attention. Legundo did not like to be observed. The more people looked at him, the more likely they were to see the truth. Scott could obviously see the discomfort he was causing Legundo. After one more long look, the noble smiled and slowly, deliberately stepped back.
Legundo was almost drawn with him. He had not realised just how close they had become, until space appeared between them. He resisted the magnetic draw that was Scott Goldsmith. But only just.
Or so he thought.
.
A near millennium later, Legundo would look back on that moment as the point of no return.
Despite it all, despite the lies and the bloodshed and the fury, he would think back to those quite evenings. Before he had revealed the truth of his nature, and Scott had revealed the truth of his intentions. Before the kisses and the bites and the mistakes and the screaming matches. Back when he had been trying so desperately not to fall in love with Scott Goldsmith.
'You are a kind man,' Scott had said.
'You could have been, too,' Legundo still thought.
****
A/N: I'm gonna put the snippets I've written for this AU on AO3 at some point for archival purposes, just trying to figure out if I should post each as a separate fic in a series, or just as chapters of a single fic. They're all pretty short so I dunno if they justify having their own fics, but they're all different enough they could work individually. I dunno. Anyway, hope you enjoyed, I'm sure there'll be more, this au is BURNING in my brain rn
