#A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. which I have not read

[keeps-ache]

s. sob

[hyuneskkami]

hi hi hi can i please get a percy jackson x daughter of aphrodite reader?? basically she’s all about the love part of Aphrodite and she’s talking about it constantly and he’s her friend and kinda realises like oh wait i’m in love w her

does that make sense?? also can i get a moodboard w it?? <33

thank you and ily!

masterlist

💌┊₊˚⊹꒷ BROOKLYN BABY .ᐟ

⤷ percy jackson x daughter of aphrodite!reader ‧₊˚ ⋅

ᝰ. 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 . . . percy jackson and the heroes of olympus

ᝰ. 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬 . . . y/n constantly yaps about the idea of love to her best friend, percy, and he realises he has feelings for her. (annie’s y/n’s close friend too! i’m too nice to make her an angry b </3) also!! y/n has brown eyes solely bc brown eyes are pretty asf and not talked about enough <3 + ft. best friends to lovers, minor gods dissing (like one time), y/n reading the cruel prince (not directly mentioned), percy having an ‘uh oh, i’m in love’ moment, and a book bouquet. p.s. moodboard at the end!

ᝰ. 𝐤𝐞𝐲 . . . y/n: your name | y/l/n: your last name | n/n: nickname

ᝰ. 𝐰𝐜 . . . 1.4k

ᝰ. 𝐚/𝐧 . . . hdkwjdkw 1/8 asks complete lmao. this req was so cute!! I love reading the ‘moment of realisation’ dialogues in books, but it was especially fun to write it for the first time. it was a little weird to write only bc i’m a cabin 3 kid irl but it’s okay 😭 for the sake of a fluffy fic, I powered through, guys <3

2 years ago . . .

✮⋆˙ y/n’s pov

“some kid killed a minotaur!” a hermes cabin demigod yelled from near the dining pavilion. glancing up from our glasses of soda, annabeth and I turned towards the voice. “he’s a new one!”

we looked at each other, wondering which god couldn’t keep it in their pants again.

suddenly, a few apollo kids ran out from the infirmary towards the arch near thalia’s tree.

“the new kid’s probably clumsy,” annabeth said.

“he killed a minotaur,” I shot back.

“hey, you can be dumb and strong at the same time.”

“uh huh. whose child do you think he is? I bet it’s one of the big three.” I said.

“no way, they have a pact, remember-”

“do you really think they actually follow that, annie?” I snickered at her.

in a while, an unconscious boy about their age was carried into the infirmary. I only caught sight of his black hair, and dishevelled and bloody look. I decided to visit him the next day to check up on his condition.

the rest of the day was spent reading in my cabin, while my sisters tried new makeup products on our brother, which was quite funny, really.

throughout the next week, I left the warmth of my bed to visit the new kid—percy jackson—in the infirmary. he had begun to regain consciousness.

“who are you?” he asked, sharply inhaling a breath.

“oh, hey,” I smiled at him. “i’m y/n y/l/n. daughter of aphrodite.”

“right. daughter of aphrodite. a goddess,” he repeated slowly.

I realised that no one had explained about camp half-blood to him yet, and took that job upon myself after calling out for will and letting him know that his patient was awake.

“so, there’s gods and goddesses. and monsters. and everything in the greek myths you were taught? they’re all real. at camp half-blood, we’re all demigods—the children of a god or goddess and a mortal.” I continued to explain to him how the demigod world worked, remembering to talk about the mist, the gods, the cabins, and everything else.

I expected him to not believe me, and call me names (like the other new campers) for lying, but he took it like a champ. he nodded at me, sitting up properly, and asked for something so his arm would stop paining. I immediately got will to help him.

the next week, when I was out by the beach, reading my romance novel about a mortal girl and a faerie prince falling in love after being enemies, I heard sand shifting around behind me.

“who-” I turned around.

“hey, y/n, right?” percy asked, walking closer.

“ah, you remember,” I said, a smile growing on my face.

“well, yeah. you’re really just the only person who has spoken to me normally… and not like I was some intimidating and scary… thing,” he said, running his hands through his already dishevelled hair.

“come, sit down.” I patted the sand beside me. he took his place there, sitting down with his legs criss-crossed.

“what are you reading?” he asked.

I explained to him the plot, setting, characters, and everything about the book I was reading for the next few hours.

we sat there till dusk, watching the sun set into pretty hues of pink, purple, and orange.

“it’s so pretty, isn’t it?” I asked.

✮⋆˙ percy’s pov

“yeah, it is.” I replied to her, eyes fixed on her side profile.

wow. she’s so beautiful.

timeskip: present

“perce!” y/n called loudly, running towards me.

“heyyyy! n/n, you’re back! how was the quest? did you get hurt or anything?” I asked, hugging her, and then moving back to scan her for injuries.

“i’m fine, perce, all good. I got will to check me out and he cleared me,” she said, grinning. her face was swiped with dirt and grime, but she still looked like she was an ethereal princess who walked out of one of her books. “what? have I got a lot of dirt on my face?”

“nah, you’re cool. ‘s pretty.” I said, and she laughed—my favourite sound in the entire world. “and anyway, you need to change out of these clothes and meet me outside your cabin. I have something for you.”

“what is it?”

“that’s a surprise-”

“I hate surprises.”

“you’ll like this one,” I winked at her, as she laughed again.

timeskip

✮⋆˙ y/n’s pov

I changed into casual loose sweatpants and a shirt since it was summer.

ah, summer. one of most romantic seasons ever. the breeze whipping around a girl’s hair, as a boy runs towards her with flowers. the sunlight falling onto their faces as they share a kiss. watching the sun set in pretty shades everyday with each other. that was summer.

everything about it reminded me of percy. watching sunsets, seeing the sunlight fall on his face after he gets out of the water. the flowers, now dry, that he gifted me for every special occasion.

it was hard to admit that I liked him more than I would like any friend. i’d never picked up any hints from him, that might’ve signalled that he liked me, no matter how many of my siblings told me he did.

all friends hold hands, right? and all good friends wish each other a good morning and good night everyday. what was so special? the flowers?

“hey, n/n!” percy’s voice dragged me out of my thoughts. he was dressed in loose shorts and a hawaii button up, and my gods, he looked so gorgeous.

“perce! at least tell me where we’re going now,” I groaned.

“nuh-uh. a surprise is a surprise.” he brought out a blindfold and handed it to me. I raised my eyebrow at him. “put it on. i’ll take you there.”

“I swear to gods, if this turns out to be a prank-”

“shh, it won’t. now put it on,” he promised.

I walked closer to him and put on the blindfold, and he turned me around a few times to make sure I wouldn’t figure out where we’re going. I scoffed at his childish actions.

as he was standing behind me, I felt his warmth on my back. he took my arms at my side and urged me to walk ahead.

he manoeuvred me in different directions and finally stopped after a while.

“you ready, princess?” he asked. the nickname did something to cause butterflies in my stomach.

“yeah,” I whispered.

he took off the blindfold, and it was too bright for a second. I shielded my eyes and groaned, before letting them adjust to the harsh sunlight.

I looked around and saw a huge, fluffy blanket laid down on the grass of the fields. a basket with food was set in one corner and a bouquet in the centre.

specifically, a book bouquet.

“PERCY, HOW DID YO-”

“surprise,” he grinned, as I turned around and hugged him. he’d always given me gifts when I returned from quests, but this was, by far, the best.

“how’d you know all my favourites?” I asked, looking at the 10 romance novels on the blanket.

“oh, annie helped,” he said enthusiastically. “should we sit down and start eating? you can tell me all about the people in your books, and why you like romance books especially, yeah?”

smiling, we sat down on the blankets, and ate away with no care in the world.

✮⋆˙ percy’s pov

as she talked about her books for the next few hours, I could only think about how beautiful her brown eyes were, especially when the sunlight hit them at the correct angle. how soft her lips looked as her mouth moved at a faster pace than her thoughts. how perfect her cheeks were, smiling wide. how amazing she was. how smart and beautiful she was.

when did my feelings of friendship turn into love, for her?

as she continued to speak of the love between her favourite characters, I noticed her longing for a similar love. I could give that to her, couldn’t I?

wait. what? what am I even thinking? y/n’s my best friend.

“love is everywhere, in every gesture, every glance. it’s the thread that binds us together, connecting hearts across time and space,” she said.

and at that moment, I knew I was done for.

I was hopelessly in love with my best friend.

percy jackson x daughter of aphrodite — the love like in her books <3

taglist — @nuncscioquidsitamor-14 @mqstermindswift @puffoz @skeelly @urmomabby @sunnitheapollokid @jgracie @canonfeminine @cinemaconrad @totokyo @urbanflorals @aezuria @thetunnelunderoceanboulevard @cherigall @percabethluvr @pjoverseluvr @maybxlle @mershellscape @riordanness @starlitszn @metyouattherighttime @a-beautiful-fool @sequinsnstars @ssparksflyy @fayvpor @iheartgirlzn

kozumesphone © 2024 | don’t repost my works onto other platforms, or edit and post them even on tumblr, without asking me first • don’t steal my works, steal my heart instead • reblogs and comments are more than appreciated !

[buckysdollbarnes]

you are in love series - part one

one look, dark room

PAIRING: tfawts!bucky x grad student!reader

Summary: Moving to NYC to go to grad school, your friend's dad has a connection with the owner of a rental building in Brooklyn where you can live on your own, for cheaper than you could get anywhere else. On a student's budget, you strive to still make your place your own by thrifting as much decor as possible. Meeting your quiet and somewhat secretive neighbor, James, you gain some free labor to help you move the random stuff you buy, and with that he may be growing to love parts of the modern world he has been missing. With you in a big, new city feeling alone for the first time and Bucky wanting to make a connection with someone other than Sam and his therapist, maybe online marketplaces and a turntable will bring you both what you need most.

warnings: mild language

word count: 4.7k

a/n: this is my first time EVER writing fiction, usually I only ever write academic papers so this is fun. :) I read over and revised this chapter so many times, so I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcomed and I'm excited to start on the next chapter.

a/n: also!! sorry for it being so long genuinely just so much had to happen in this chapter for it to be set up the way I wanted, which I think I did well enough. lmk what you think <3

Why did I think carrying this by myself was a good idea? It might be cute and a great deal, but I don’t think I'll be able to feel my arms tomorrow. I might need to hit the gym again before I find more bargains like this. Hell, maybe I'll even invest in a neck towel, because this heat is unbearable. I’ve been searching for some larger pieces to fill my apartment, and this vintage bar cart should fit perfectly. Just five more blocks to go.

Moving here alone has certainly come with its challenges: being on my own in such a big city, dealing with a lot of stress, and managing on a tight budget. But I’m determined to make it work though and prove everyone wrong. Growing up, you see so many romcoms where the heroine leaves everything behind to chase her dreams in NYC, landing a job at a magazine or fashion house, living in a gorgeous high-rise, and meeting the perfect guy. It’s a beautiful fantasy really, but the reality is much tougher. New York isn’t a movie set; it’s a real city with real people, and you have to work just as hard, if not harder, to be here. I know that, but it feels like a majority of my people back home DON’T know that I know that.

I came here for school. In about two months, I’ll be starting my Master’s program at NYU. I don’t think I’ve ever been as proud as when I received my acceptance email. I worked my ass off in undergrad to earn strong recommendations and good academic standing, and seeing it all come together was a huge relief—until the reality of the cost hit me.

Luckily, a friend's dad has a connection with a landlord in Brooklyn and got me a good deal on a place of my own. It’s incredible not to have a roommate in this market, especially in a place where your bed doesn’t touch your stove, though it can be a bit lonely.

Finally, reaching the stoop, out of breath, you set the cart down on the pavement. Wiping your brow, you notice the street is unusually quiet for this time of day. The city never truly sleeps, but the residential streets seem to take occasional naps. A little breath of air somewhere where it feels like oxygen is running out sometimes. Light filters through the trees, momentarily blinding you, and you turn back toward the building.

“How on earth am I going to get this up to my floor?”

Carrying it down the street was one thing, but hauling it up the stairs is a whole different challenge. Plus, who knows when the building's maintenance has last been here, the steps might not hold up under the cart’s weight. They usually feel like they could give away holding one person.

Deciding that falling to your death and being crushed isn’t really how you want to go, you open the double doors and drag the cart into the lobby, using the wheels on one side. Passing the main desk where the worker, who looks completely uninterested, engrossed in a crossword puzzle, you make your way to the end of the hall and start pulling the cart backwards up the incline of the stairwell.

“Nah, I can’t,” you say aloud, after struggling up two floors, letting the cart rest on the landing. There’s still three more floors to go, but your body is clearly telling you the cart belongs right here. Maybe the universe wants it to stay here—who knows, maybe the entire second floor needs a communal bar more than you do.

“Excuse me,” a quiet but rough male voice comes from behind me. You turn around to see him—a guy you’ve seen around your floor a few times, though you’ve never talked. One of the neighbors. You quickly realize you’re blocking the entire staircase.

“Sorry! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I’ll move this um — just give me a second.”

You shove the cart closer to the wall to make some space for him to pass, but he stays put, his gloved hands in his pockets. He’s definitely handsome—tall and solid, but not intimidating. His furrowed brow and tight-lipped expression don’t exactly scream “welcome,” but he’s still got a certain charm.

He shifts a bit, clearly wanting to say something but hesitating. Feeling a bit awkward under his gaze, you decide to try talking to him again.

“You can just squeeze by if you want. It’s just really heavy, so I’m taking a quick break before I try lifting it up again.”

After a moment, he seems to make up his mind and asks, “Do you need help?”

Looking back at him, you consider saying no. You pride yourself on being independent and capable, and part of you wants to insist you can handle it. But then you think about the struggle of getting the cart up the last two flights of stairs—only this time, it's three—and decide against it.

“You wouldn’t mind? You’re headed down, I’m sure you’ve got somewhere else to be.”

He gives a little smirk that makes you feel a bit dizzy.

“Well, I’m already here so.”

You nod slowly, a small smile appearing on your face.

“Sure, you can take this end, and I’ll get this o—” you start to say, but before you can finish, he’s already in front of you, lifting the cart with ease and starting up the stairs without breaking a sweat.

“Hey! Be careful, uh—,” you pause, realizing you don’t know his name.

He picks up on your hesitation and hesitates himself, considering whether to give his name. He’s wary of how others might perceive him, potentially recognizing his name from past news broadcasts or papers, still dealing with the shadows of his past despite his efforts to make amends. Not wanting to be dishonest, he chooses the safe option.

“James.”

“Be careful, James. I don’t want you tripping and falling on my account.”

“Won’t happen, doll.”

“What-,” you start, caught off guard by the pet name, “what if it does?”

“It won’t, see?” With the last few steps, you and James arrive at your floor. “Already here.”

He must have seen you around before too, to know where you live.

He gives you a quick look and then carries the cart to your door.

“This is yours, right?” He turns and looks at you expectantly. You rush over, fumbling for your keys to unlock the door. If he’s willing to move it all the way, who are you to turn him down?

You lead James into your apartment, wondering if it looks anything like his. The layout can’t be that different; it’s not exactly a luxury building.

He strolls further into the room.

“You can set it right here,” you say quickly. “Thank you for bringing it up for me. I was honestly thinking about giving up when you showed up.”

Setting the cart where you indicated, he straightens up, rolls his shoulders back, and gives you a look that feels intense.

“It’s no problem.”

His gaze wanders around your apartment, taking in the mix of vintage furniture and eclectic decor. On a student’s budget, you’ve filled your space with secondhand finds. It’s more affordable and personal that way. The place might not be filled with new things, but it’s entirely curated by you. Finding beauty in the mix of old and new is something you do well, and now, thanks to James, you have one more piece to add.

James’s eyes land on your turntable setup. He seems intrigued by your collection of records but doesn’t say anything, turning his attention back to you.

“I have to go.”

Your eyebrows lift at his abruptness. Sensing your surprise, he quickly adds, “I’ve got an appointment.”

You nod vigorously, urging him to go and thanking him again for his kindness. Feeling a bit sad that this chance encounter with your new neighbor is ending so quickly, you call out as he heads for the door.

“I’ll see you around then? Since you live here too.”

He turns on his heel, giving you one last smirk.

“Yeah, you’ll see me.”

As he heads down the stairs, you shut your door and lock it behind you. Wandering over to where James’s gaze lingered, you pull an album from the shelf, lift the acrylic cover on your turntable, and set the record down. You close the cover, push play, and let the needle softly drop onto the vinyl. As the music starts, your mind drifts back to James.

Embarrassingly, you find yourself hoping this isn’t a one-time encounter. You don’t know much about him beyond his name, but there’s something about him that makes you want to see him again.

“Two hundred bucks for this is crazy,” you mutter to yourself, staring in disbelief at the sofa you’re eyeing on Facebook Marketplace.

“People are practically giving this stuff away.”

Not wanting to miss out on such a good deal, you message the seller to check if it’s still available.

Since you got the bar cart about a week and a half ago, you haven’t picked up anything else. With the July heat blasting, just thinking about moving a sofa in this weather makes you want to rip off your skin to cool down.

You can’t help but think of James, who you’ve seen briefly in the hallway since your last encounter. He just nodded as he passed by, and that was it.

Your phone dings, snapping you out of your thoughts. The seller confirms the sofa is still available and offers to deliver it since they have a truck.

Excited, you reply with a yes, and they let you know they’ll head your way soon.

You get up to rearrange your furniture, making space for the new sofa. You don’t have much to move since you’ve been slowly collecting things. As you shift the pieces around, your turntable stops, signaling it’s time to flip the record. After you do, you take a moment to picture how the sofa will fit in the space.

Then it hits you—moving a sofa is way heavier than the bar cart. If you struggled with that, how on earth will you manage this?

“Independent woman, my ass.”

With the delivery imminent, you decide on the only solution you can think of. Without hesitation, you head to the apartment across the hall and knock softly on the door. You wait, hoping James will answer. After a moment of shuffling and then silence, you start to wonder if you should just try something else.

Just then, the door cracks open, revealing half of James’s face. He looks curious but not annoyed—no one usually visits him.

“Hey! James! Great to see you again! I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I was wondering if you could help me out a bit? I just bought a sofa from this marketplace deal, and the seller’s coming to drop it off right now. He said he’d deliver it, but didn’t offer to help get it up to my apartment. I realized a sofa is way heavier than a bar cart, and you saw me struggle with that, so I was kinda sorta hoping you could help me bring it up here?”

After your rambling, you offer him a hopeful smile, waiting for his response.

A few moments of silence later, that smirk you’ve been missing appears on his face. Opening the door wider, he comments with a grin.

“You bought another thing you knew you couldn’t get up the stairs?”

“I honestly didn’t think it through. The deal was too good to pass up. I’m really sorry for bothering you. I can try to find someone else if you’re busy.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, doll.”

The smile that blooms on your face is unavoidable.

As the delivery guy drives away, James shows you where to grab the sofa and effortlessly lifts the other end. He encourages you to take the lead, making sure the weight is on him as you both navigate the stairs. With minimal effort, you get the sofa up to your place.

After some awkward maneuvering, you finally get the sofa into your apartment through the thin door and set it down. You put your hands on your hips and exhale deeply, only to find James already looking at you with that same intense gaze from before. It makes you a little nervous.

You can’t help but feel grateful—there’s no way you would have managed this on your own.

“I could have handled the bar cart,” you say, nodding toward the cart now adorned with bottles in the corner, “but this? No chance. Thanks so much for your help.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies. “I wasn’t busy.”

As you look at him, you start to feel like you know him from somewhere beyond being just a neighbor. Maybe you’ve seen him around the city before you moved?

Brushing off the thought, you offer, “You’ve helped me out twice now, and it doesn’t feel right not to return the favor. If your whole evening consists of not being busy, why not stay for dinner? I promise I’ll cook something totally good and not poisonous.”

James looks surprised by your offer but quickly hides it.

“You don’t need to do that. You don’t owe me anything,” he says, not wanting you to feel obligated or uncomfortable. He worries that his presence might not be enjoyable.

He wishes he could be as charming as he was back in the 40s. Being friendly used to come easily, and if he were still the same person he was at 26, he wouldn’t have left so quickly after helping you on the stairs the first time. He wouldn’t have had a therapists appointment to go to and he wouldn’t have a hidden arm made of metal. He’d have asked you to dinner or for you to let him take you dancing instead in return for his brawn. Now, he struggles to make new connections beyond a few familiar faces, like Sam, and asking someone for a dance feels out of reach.

“No, no! Stay, I insist! It gets kind of lonely around here, doesn’t it? Why not have a friend dinner?” you press, hoping he’ll take you up on the offer.

Seeing your sincerity, though still feeling a bit miffed, he finally agrees.

“Yeah, sure. I can stay.”

James settles onto the sofa while you work in the kitchen. You’ve decided on making some stuffed ravioli and garlic bread—easy, delicious, hard to mess up.

Before getting into cooking, you switch out the record, letting new music drift softly through the space. Unbeknownst to you, James watches closely, paying attention to how you handle the records and the turntable. The care you take when putting a record back in its slip, taking a new one out of its dust cover, and gently putting it on.

Seeing you focused on cooking, James gets up and strolls over to your setup. He runs his fingers lightly across the spines of the record sleeves, feeling a surprising sense of comfort. He hadn’t realized people still used record players so often.

The setup looks quite familiar to him, with many aspects reminiscent of the record players he used back in his earlier days. In his life before this one.

As you finish preparing the pasta and pull the bread from the oven, you call out, “Hey, food’s ready!”

You glance back to see James hovering by the turntable. He quickly moves to the table and sits down.

Over dinner, the conversation flows comfortably. James seems to be relaxing a bit, his initial reserve fading. He’s still somewhat guarded, but what he does share is genuinely interesting. You sense that opening up is challenging for him, so you respect his pace and take whatever he is willing to give. Laughing with each other a few times and getting through some odd topics, he mentions that he hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in quite a while and thanks you with a smile.

After a pleasant dinner, you decide to bring up something you’d been curious about.

“You like records?”

Caught off guard by the question, James tries to answer without revealing too much about himself. It feels strange to be here, knowing you don’t really know who he is, but he worries that being too open might scare you away. He decides to keep his secrets for now, selfishly hoping to get to know you better before revealing more.

“Yeah, I used to have quite a few records as a kid. My ma would play them too, especially when she was cooking, just like you. I didn’t realize they were still so popular.”

Excited by this glimpse into his past, you push further.

“Oh, there’s definitely a huge market for vinyl. Lots of people who think it makes them superior, but also a lot who just love the physical aspect of it.”

“So which one are you?” he asks.

You laugh and reply, “Maybe a bit of both.”

You glance up at him from beneath your lashes, catching his rare smile.

“But really, I just like having it. There’s something different about the listening experience. It requires more effort than just hitting play on a playlist. It’s about choosing a full album and actually sitting down to listen. That feels more intentional to me, and that’s why I do it.”

James seems to ponder your answer, his expression softer than before. He then turns his gaze back to the turntable.

“So, since you mentioned you had records as a kid, do you not have any now?” you ask.

He shakes his head.

“Haven’t had any for a long time. Talking about it makes me miss them. Everything these days feels so complicated. I like simple things like that.”

Watching him as he looks away, you hesitate but notice the nostalgic shine in his eyes. You sense he might appreciate physical music even more than you do.

“If you ever get any and don’t have a place to play them, you’re welcome to use mine.”

He turns to face you, his expression unreadable.

“I mean, I know it’s not the most convenient offer, but it’s there. One record lover to another,” you add with a smile.

He returns your smile, saying, “Okay… thank you. I’ll keep that in mind, Doll.”

That night, Bucky lies on his makeshift bed on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and replaying the events of the day. You knocking on his door for help with the couch, inviting him over for dinner, and all the easygoing conversation you shared. It was such a stark contrast to his usual rigidity. He'd let his guard down just a little—letting himself smile or flirt ever so slightly.

He wishes he were better at this. It used to come so naturally. Hell, before he left for war, he’d gone dancing with both his own date and Steve’s at the same time. Now, he finds himself listening to you talk while struggling to share anything of his own.

He doesn’t want to pass up your invitation, especially since you’re inviting him into your space again. Clearly, his reserve hasn’t put you off too much.

“What would I even bring?” he wonders aloud.

All he’s ever listened to is 40’s music and big band. He doubts that’s readily available these days.

Rolling onto his side, he grabs the cell phone Steve had insisted he get before he went back in time to live his real life, without Bucky.

“You can do anything on here, Buck!”

Scrolling through the three contacts he has, he taps on the name of the guy who’s been trying to reach him for weeks.

“So, is there a valid reason why you haven’t picked up my damn calls?” Sam’s voice comes through.

“Sam, hi.”

“Did you finally learn how to click the screen? Is that why I’m hearing from you now, old man?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t like the thing. Too confusing,” Bucky says, grimacing as he fiddles with the phone.

“Okay, okay, what’s going on, man? You doing alright?”

“I’m fine. I just have a question and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t harass me about it.”

“Is it about wizards?”

“What?”

“Wizards. Is the question about wizards?”

“No, what the hell. Look, I had dinner with one of my neighbors tonight—”

“Was it a girl?”

“Does it matter?”

“Hell yes, it matters. And from that response, I KNOW it was a girl, so—”

“It doesn’t matter. She has a record player, which I didn’t know people still used, and she offered to let me use it, but I don’t have anything to play on it.”

“I’m not getting the problem.”

“I only like the stuff from the 40’s and—”

“Did you listen to that Marvin Gaye playlist I sent you?”

“Not interested.”

“C’mon, man, it’s good stuff. Give it a listen.”

“Not feeling it.”

“Alright, your loss, I guess. Still not seeing the problem though.”

“What do I bring? I can’t just bring around the stuff I know because where would I even get it?”

“Whoa, man, what do you mean, where would you get it? Just go to a record store and hit up the vintage section or something.”

Bucky pauses, mulling over Sam’s words.

“They have that?”

“Duh. You know, you could answer these questions a lot easier if you just looked them up on your phone—”

“Thanks, Sam. Talk to you later.”

Lying back down, Bucky decides that the next time he’s out to see his therapist, he’ll first stop by a record store to find something to bring over to your place.

Your easygoing presence was so comforting, and he found himself longing for it as he drifted off to sleep. He’d see you again soon enough.

Later in the week, as you wind down from a busy day, you focus on making your space as calming as possible.

You light some candles and turn on an orange floor lamp, the soft glow wrapping around you and setting the perfect mood to sink into your sofa with the book you’ve been neglecting.

You’ve just started settling into your reading when you’re jolted out of your half-nap by the sound of someone knocking on your door.

You get up and peer through the peephole, and there’s your dinner guest from earlier in the week.

Opening the door with a smile, you greet him.

“Hey James, unexpected visit! What’s up?”

His eyes linger on you for a moment before he speaks. You glance down and realize your outfit—shorts that really lived up to their name and a tank top—might not be the most guest-appropriate.

Brushing off your embarrassment, you look back up at him.

“I’ve got something I’d like to play, if that’s alright?”

Bucky’s mind races. Standing at your door, he worries maybe you only offered your place to be nice, and now he’s making a fool of himself. Of course, you didn’t want him there—he could barely talk.

Just as he’s about to get lost in his own head, your bright smile pulls him out of it.

“Oh my gosh, please, come in. What do you have?”

His doubt fades away as he sees your genuine excitement.

“Brought some Sinatra. Not sure if you’re into that, but I used to like his stuff when I was younger.”

You spin around abruptly, staring at him in disbelief.

“There’s no way you think I don’t know who Frank Sinatra is…”

Bucky stumbles over his words.

“Well, I mean, it’s not exactly new stuff so—”

“You think I wouldn’t know ‘Fly Me to the Moon’? ‘Singin’ in the Rain’? ‘New York, New York’? I mean, I even moved to New York—I had to get the romanticism from somewhere.”

“What are those?”

You pause, confused.

“Like, the most iconic Frank Sinatra songs. You are talking about Frank Sinatra, right? Not some other Sinatra I’ve never heard of?”

“No, you’re right, it’s Frank.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I guess I don’t know those ones.” He admits.

“So, what era are we talking about?” You ask, reaching for the record.

As you grasp the sleeve, you notice a glint of light catching James’s bare hand. Realizing he’s not wearing gloves, confusion sets in before it clicks. You HAD seen James before.

Looking up at him, he seems frozen, obviously panicking. He planned to tell you eventually, but not like this. Not when you weren’t close enough yet.

He thought there is no way you are going to want anything to do with him now.

You thought there is no way was there's an actual Avenger in your apartment right now.

You’re frozen, just like him, but more in shock rather than fear.

“Do you… usually go by James?” you ask cautiously.

Hesitating, he shakes his head.

“What do you usually go by then?”

Bucky feels anxiety creeping up his back. You’re both still holding the record, and he can’t tell if you’re scared or just surprised.

“Bucky.”

You stay silent for a moment while Bucky’s nerves are on edge.

“So… metal hand…”

Clenching his jaw, he replies, “Arm.”

“You’re that Bucky.”

“Yes.”

After a long pause, you start again.

“You’re an Avenger and you didn’t tell me?”

Bucky hesitates, his discomfort visible. “I’m— I’m not an Avenger.”

“What do you mean? You’re totally an Avenger! Why wouldn’t you tell me? How did I not recognize you before?” you ask, laughing in disbelief.

Bucky’s taken aback. You really thought he was an Avenger? You’re not scared of him at all, which surprises him. You must not know much about his past if you’re still standing this close.

“No wonder you don’t know ‘New York, New York,’” you say, almost to yourself. “It’s from after your time! This is crazy, I—”

You’re interrupted by his response.

“Are you not scared?”

“Of course not.”

Bucky closes in on himself, panic evident. “If you really knew me, you’d want nothing to do with me. I’ve—”

“I might not know the version of you you’re talking about, but I’ve met James, who helped me not once, but twice  carry stuff he definitely didn’t have to up the stairs, stayed for dinner, has been very polite to me, and has given me zero reasons to be scared of him.”

He looks at you, his piercing blue eyes revealing an internal struggle. That one look holds more weight than his words. You can see the battle within him, torn between his past and the present moment.

“Listen,” you say, finally letting go of the record, “if you don’t want to stay, you don’t have to. But I’m not scared of you, and I actually like your company. So, regardless of whether you’re James, Bucky, or whoever, you’re still welcome here.”

You pause, adding, “And we can still play this if you’d like.”

Bucky struggles with his inner turmoil. The idea that you know who he is but still want him around is foreign to him. He doesn’t feel worthy of the kindness you’re offering, but it’s been so long since he’s received such warmth that it’s almost impossible to turn it down.

He’s not comfortable with his identity or his past, but in this moment, he wants to push it aside. If you don’t care, maybe he can allow himself not to care, even if just for a bit. Maybe he can prove something to himself, or even his therapist.

Handing you the record, he relaxes his face slightly. You’ve always thought him handsome, but in the dim light of the dark room, he looks almost ethereal.

You’re hoping he believes you because your excitement for his company tonight feels more significant than it probably should, but you’re okay with that.

“I’m Bucky.”

You smile warmly at this change. “Alright, Bucky. What do you want to do?”

He gazes at you deeply, his look sending a shiver down your spine and warming your chest. “Play it.”

a/n: well, hope this was alright. as I mentioned before, ive never wrote fiction before, but ive definitely read enough to get the gist.

[snugglylime]

JWCT Countdown Day #1: Favorite Character - Yaz

This is a snippet from my Isla Sorna AU (read more here) about Yaz having a nightmare like she had in season 4. Sorry girly <3

One moment she’s staring at the corrugated ceiling of the ACU van, and the next she’s looking up through a web of sunlight piercing the overhead foliage. She instinctively raises her hand to block the light, but the movement is sluggish, weighed down by the kind of exhaustion she only feels after a particularly grueling track meet.

Or, she realizes with a sinking feeling in her gut, after she’s been running for her life. 

A surge of panic spurs her to her feet but she only manages to stumble a few inches forward. The impossibly thick carpet of intertwined roots and thickets clutch at her feet, shackling her in place. And oh God this is not the place she wants to be. 

The jungle looms and sways all around her, rippling thickly in the wind. As she struggles to move, the sound of it folding in on itself gets louder and more violent, eventually turning to a deafening crash of leaves on leaves and whatever else has the misfortune of getting trapped in the maelstrom. 

Despite the warm rush of wind against her cheeks, she shivers.

She falls back with a gasp and frantically glances around, narrowing her focus to the dark tunnels formed by the gaps between tree trunks and the flat arms of ferns, the ends of which could conceal any number of dangers. 

A small voice in the back of her head reminds her that this isn’t Isla Nublar and that she’s survived much worse than whatever a remote island in the Pacific boonies can throw her way. But that voice only grows smaller as she hears the distinctive crunching of leaves followed by rhythmic tremors beneath her fingertips in the dirt. 

She shuts her eyes and immediately curls in on herself, trembling with the knowledge that she’s trapped, frozen in place as the roar of the wind gives way to the shuffle of heavy limbs and the strained breathing of an animal unaccustomed to the sun-soaked air.

She keeps her eyes screwed shut as she’s enveloped in a wash of hot air that smells like the dead meat she’s surely about to become. The light drains from her eyelids and teeth as big as her hands burst through the supple flesh of her arms. 

She wakes up with a scream, but still, she wakes up.

The sensation of teeth puncturing her skin fades as the carcass of the ACU van materializes around her, a dark cylinder lit only by the thin threads of moonlight filtering through old, boltless holes in the roof. 

“Yaz?” 

She nearly jumps out of her skin before realizing that she’s not alone. In fact, she’s about as not alone as possible, being one of six kids stuffed into the back of a van already crowded with the alien tentacles of vines and the spindly tips of weeds growing up through the wheel wells. 

Kenji, apparently having fallen from his perch on the wheel hood, lays sprawled across her legs, looking up at her in bewilderment. Sammy is at her back, rubbing soothing circles against her shoulders, and Brooklyn is in front of her, looking at her with the half-confident eyes of someone accustomed to failing to make others feel better. 

Yaz resists the urge to extract herself from the mess of bodies, including her own. She wants to crawl out of her skin and into the grass, away from the friction of the group’s proximity in the van, and away away away from this nightmare she can’t seem to wake from. 

But even if it is a nightmare, her friends are here, trying to calm her down to the best of their abilities. She focuses on the weight of Sammy’s arms around her waist, the feel of Kenji’s chest pressed to her thighs, and the assuring lilt of Brooklyn’s voice that she just now begins to hear. 

“It’s okay Yaz,” Brooklyn says. “Just breathe.”

She does breathe, and she keeps breathing, one breath after another, until her heart stops wrestling with her ribs, and the tears she’s fought so hard to suppress spring to her eyes. 

“I want to go home,” she whimpers. 

She doesn’t need to look up to know that the others feel the same. 

[haravath0t]

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐄

𝐖𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐑 ⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

𝐓𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞,

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 ��𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞,

𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐧𝐮𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐬,

𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬.

|| 𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐄 𝟐 : 𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐀'𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 ||

𝑾𝒆𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅!

🦌☕📖❄ the lovely rika (@fushic0re) & i have decided to come together to create a little advent calendar! here, you will find fics posted from thanksgiving all the way up to december 26 from a mixed bag of your faves ! cozy up with some hot cocoa, sit by the fire, and enjoy ♡

☃ = beware! this forbidden snowman will lead you to works with smut

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏 || The Christmas Chronicles: the grinch’s heart grows three sizes - alhaitham x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢��: the local intelligent but stoic scribe alhaitham is minding his own business in the house of daena, reading books and declining applications. it is only when you partake in some random antics in light of the holiday season that his eyes leave the work on his hands.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐 || pov: shopping for christmas trees with him - 40s!steve rogers x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: “City sidewalks, busy sidewalks, dressed in holiday style. In the air there’s a feeling of Christmas.”

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟑 ||  “A Husband’s Guide to Meeting the In-Laws” - neuvillette, zhongli, ayato, tartaglia x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: meeting the in-laws…how does that work?

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟒 ||  pov: he’s taking you ice skating - 40s!bucky x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: the most handsome man in brooklyn is here to take you to the rink.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟓 || “A Husband’s Guide to a Noche Buena” - the forgers x filipina!reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬:  the night of christmas eve has come! are the dishes a pass or fail? ask anya.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟔 || pov: the winter masquerade - royalau!loki x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: the prince has his eyes on you in this winter ball, but does he know you're a mere peasant?

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟕 || The Christmas Chronicles: Rex Incognito - zhongli x reincarnated!reader, previously goddess!reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬:  a spin off of the tale of the lone glaze lily…zhongli is taking another walk around liyue, recalling the voice of his goddess. it is only when you come with him to dinner that he cannot shake off the sight of his late songbird. 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟖 || ☃ The Christmas Chronicles: “is santa here yet?” - neuvillette x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: in which you and neuvillette can finally have some alone time…except melusines are really eager about these concepts of “presents”.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟗 || ☃ The Christmas Chronicles: Holiday Stress - nanami x baker!reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: nanami comes from work frustrated, too annoyed by the recent increase of missions. somehow, he knows what to do once your pretty face greets him as he walks through the door.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟎 || ☃ “a man’s guide to drunken confessions” - kaveh, alhaitham, ayato, wriothesley

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you were going out christmas shopping, passing the time while he was out with friends, but you weren’t expecting such an important phone call.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟏 || ☃ pov: mr. and mrs. forger - loid forger x spy!reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: for the sake of operation strix, as loid’s fake wife, you had to attend the hospital’s christmas party. how inconvenient that loid found you so attractive in that dress you wore.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟐 || ☃ The Christmas Chronicles: “I saw mommy kissing santa claus” - dilf!neuvillette x nanny!reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬:  you had been sure you had tucked in neuvillette’s daughters to bed as he was celebrating a corporate party on christmas eve. however, curiosity killed the cat, and satisfaction surely did not bring it back.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟑 || ☃ "a lover's guide to presents" - alhaitham, zhongli, neuvillette and wriothesley x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you were convinced to play a prank by your best friend to text your significant other that you are their present. how do they react? 

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟒 || ☃ The Christmas Chronicles: heated sparring - loid forger x spy!reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you have the rare honor of being close enough to twilight to be your sparring partner.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟓 || pov: a christmas festival with papamin and yuuji - nanami x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: nanami had to diverge from your christmas festival ooting with yuuji to attend to a last minute mission. what a pain to be a skilled man.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟔 || “a husband’s guide to mall santa claus” - loid forger x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: anya decides to utilize santa to hint at you both what she wants for christmas.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟕 || pov: coffee is the way to your heart - barista!remus lupin x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a cute little romance between you and lupin has began to “brew” this winter.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟖 ||  “a husband’s guide to winter recitals” - loid forger x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬:  just how will you two sit through a whole hour of…subpar performances…

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟗 || The Christmas Chronicles: “a fish out of water” - neuvillette x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: the iudex has been around teyvat for quite some time, unable to properly understand humans, but he sees you every night, looking out at the skyline of fontaine with longing in your eyes.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟎 || “a man’s guide to mistletoe” - blade, dan heng, jing yuan

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: how would they react if they found mistletoe hanging above you both?

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟏 || ☃ The Christmas Chronicles: “All I Ask of You” - jing yuan x reincarnated!reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: he remembers you, his lover reincarnated into a new life. he cannot keep himself at a distance anymore, but oh was he happy to know that you still remember it all.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟐 || The Christmas Chronicles: “beautiful boy” - nanami x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: it’s christmas eve, and your son is asleep, and the time to play the part of santa arrives. your husband smiles, feeling rather fond of the times that have led up to his point, with his beautiful boy.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟑 || pov: he's a florist - florist!kaveh x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬:  roses are red, violets are blue, how does kaveh show…that he loves you?

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟒 || ☃ "a sugar daddy's guide to phone calls" - sugar daddy!ayato x reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: he misses you. it’s only right that he picks up the phone to indulge in your wish to see santa.

𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟓 || ☃ “Make It With You” - nanami x sorcerer!reader

⤷ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: the shibuya incident has finally passed, and you two finally go on a deserved vacation to malaysia. for once, he wants to be selfish.

[aldieb]

Book asks!

17. Did any books surprise you with how good they were?

24. Did you DNF anything? Why?

and making up one, which is "are there any phrases/sentences that stuck in your brain from this year's reading? Why?"

17. Did any books surprise you with how good they were?

i read entangled life for my work book club, and after overdosing on pop sci nonfiction in the past couple of years, i wasn't expecting much (especially given how heralded it's been, lol). but the writing quality was genuinely standout for the genre, and i learned a lot of interesting stuff! it still suffered from the thing where commercial nonfiction has to make its subject The Most Important Thing Ever (subtitle is literally "how fungi make our worlds, change our minds & shape our futures"), but that part was mostly quarantined to one chapter.

i also became enamored with a tree grows in brooklyn, which is less surprising objectively—i just didn't really know anything about it before starting (since it's part of the thing a and i do where we trade off reading books we love aloud to each other) and then immediately fell for the prose and characters.

24. Did you DNF anything? Why?

i basically don't ever DNF books because there's something wrong with me lol

Are there any phrases/sentences that stuck in your brain from this year's reading? Why?

i love this question :o i read east of eden at the start of this year and yet am still crazy over the dedication, which was addressed to steinbeck's editor, pascal covici. author + editor relationships and the art that gets built out of that are an endless source of fascination for me because 50% of what i find interesting about a book is what went on behind the scenes. (and it's aspirational, i guess. when will i make some guy write the next great american novel?)

Dear Pat, You came upon me carving some kind of little figure out of wood and you said, “Why don’t you make something for me?” I asked you what you wanted, and you said, “A box.” “What for?” “To put things in.” “What kind of things?” “Whatever you have,” you said. Well, here’s your box. Nearly everything I have is in it, and it is not full. Pain and excitement are in it, and feeling good or bad and evil thoughts and good thoughts—the pleasure of design and some despair and the indescribable joy of creation. And on top of these are all the gratitude and love I have for you. And still the box is not full. JOHN

[burningchandelier]

For the ask game: 13, 14, 19, 21, 22!

13. How was your birthday this year?

I had a fantastic birthday! I celebrated by having you visit me here in Philly and by going to New York with you! We saw Thursday on a boat, which was one of my favorite things ever.

14. Favorite book this year?

I’m currently re-reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and teaching it as part of a pre-college curriculum for a kiddo in my life. I’m having a great time visiting one of my best literary loves.

19. What are you excited about next year?

In March you’re coming to visit again, which is so exciting! Also, we are going to see each other in August and see MCR and Thursday! That has me just about bouncing off the walls with joy.

I’m also looking forward to all the things I don’t know about yet. I love the mystery of a new year. There is so much I don’t even know to look forward to yet.

22. Favorite place I visited this year?

Funny enough, Doylestown, PA. Sure, I go there a lot, but it makes me happy every time I’m there. It’s a small place and it’s basically the suburbs of Philly, but I just really love it. I love the community and the people. It is so picturesque and sweet. It is nice to get out of the city.

It feels like every time I go, something special happens.

[booksandabeer]

Hi,

First of all thank you for all the recs you do, it couldn’t be easy doing all that. I just wanted to ask you about your favourite fics where Steve and Bucky were already together during first avenger and get back together in the future? Once again, thank you so much. Even if you don’t answer this I would still be grateful because I got so many of my favorite fics from your blog. You’re amazing and take care.

Hi!

Thank you very much for your kind words. It's lovely to hear that I could help you find some of your favorite fics. 🥰

I've sat on this ask for a few days now because it's actually a really difficult one for me to answer/find recs for without getting into things that can be quite, uh, awkward to discuss "on main." But I will try. As always, I'm going to ramble, so I'll put this under a cut.

(There will be fic recs in here, I promise. Just scroll down if you want to skip the waffling.)

So. When it comes to fics set in canonverse, I mostly stick to either stories that end before the war or stories where Steve and Bucky only get together once they meet again in the future. I hardly read fics with the premise you've described in your ask because—and this is where it gets dicey—they are rarely ever done in a way that I personally find satisfying.

Here’s the thing: If you read a story set in canonverse, inevitably, at some point the war will arrive and with it: Peggy. Now there’s a much larger, much more complex discussion to be had here about Steve’s perceived sexuality, societal expectations of what constitutes "successful masculinity" in the 1930s/40s, and self-repeating and -reinforcing cycles of fanonization that I don’t want to get into right now, so I’ll just say this: Unless the author goes the polyamory route (which I personally don’t care for and therefore don’t read; at least not in that particular combination), usually none of the characters involved come out of such a scenario looking their best or like they haven’t received a personality transplant from one chapter to the next. I know that some people love that kind of conflict and are really into the angsty drama that comes with it—and they may find my stance on this boring and square—but to be honest with you, there’s already plenty of angsty drama in any story involving Steve and Bucky to begin with; I don’t need this on top of it.

And also—look, to be very blunt about it: If I click on a Steve/Bucky story I want to read a Steve/Bucky story, and decidedly not a story about Steve falling in love with Peggy halfway through—especially not when he’s already been practically married to Bucky for years. I'm okay with scenarios where Steve falls in love with her (or the idea of her, really) because he cannot or thinks he cannot be with Bucky for reasons ranging from very reasonable to entirely idiotic, but in a world where they are already together? Honestly, no thanks. I don't want it.

(Also, let's not even pretend that I don't have a huge Bucky-bias.)

But! you asked for recs and not 500 words of waffling, so I went through my lists and bookmarks to find stories that either try to grapple with this *problem* in a sensitive and thoughtful manner, find elegant ways around it, or simply skip over it entirely.

Here we go:

(Note: The exact meaning of 'Being Together' can vary greatly from story to story)

A Tree Grows In Brooklyn by newsbypostcard | 6 parts, 146K, T-E

Author's summary: "You keep asking me what I want," Bucky manages, eventually. "But on any given day, my number one priority is to get through the day alive and myself, and to do it without killing anyone. Everything else is extra." Each work is a standalone.

-> A Post-CW AU that also tells Steve and Bucky's history with each other through flashbacks. Apart from this series, you can really read any story by this author because they do this neat thing where they use roughly the same pre-war/wartime backstory and then depending on when they wrote it and where MCU canon was at the time, the fics branch off from there. Plus, all of their stories are simply wonderful and I will alway recommend them any chance I get.

The Good Morrow by Hark_bananas | 75K, E

Author's summary: Every night, Steve falls asleep and finds himself dreaming about a diner, and every night he finds Bucky waiting for him there. But in the waking world, Bucky has disappeared, gone on the run after the fall of the Triskelion and Project Insight, and the strange dream that they share may be the only way that Steve has to bring him home.

après nous le déluge by tomorrowsrain | 9K, T

Author's summary: After us, the deluge. Steve and Bucky break, mend, and try to find their place in the world without the mantles of Captain America or the Winter Soldier. AU, post Civil War.

-> Part 1 of gale song series, the second part of which which I recced in my Road Trip Rec List. In fact, there are quite a few fics on that list that fit the premise of 'together before/during the war and getting back together in the 21st Century,' so if you haven't already, you might want to take a look at it!

Roll On by jaxington | 3 parts, 306K, T-M

Author's summary: In 1938, there's a bar in Brooklyn called Sully’s where people are safe to be themselves. Behind the bar, a girl pours drinks. She's always got a big smile for Steve and she says queer like it's a good thing. On a regular basis, she takes his shoulders in her hands and tries to shake sense into him, saying, "When will you do something about that best friend of yours?" In 2012, Bucky’s gone, but Steve’s not, and the girl’s hands are too old to shake him. She does her best to make him see sense anyway. Steve had people who loved him before the war, and it turns out a few of them are still around when he finally comes home.

Practice Makes Perfect by nekare | 10K, M

Author's summary: And it’s just. It’s too much. Weeks of pain and months of missing Steve and his mouth and the stupid shit that comes out of it; years of molding himself to his back at night and pretending there’s nothing else to it apart from sharing warmth; a decade of his stomach twisting with the foolish desire to make Steve laugh.   It's August and sweltering when Steve asks, out of nowhere, if Bucky wants to try kissing. Just to see what it's like. Bucky then spends far, far too many years pretending it didn't mean anything at all.

a hat, a horse (a Hyundai), and the will to ride by synonym4life | 67K, E

Author's summary: After Steve and Bucky rescue their pals from the Raft prison, they decide to dig deeper into Zemo’s involvement in the UN headquarters’ bombing which sends them on a backpacking trip across select European countries. Steve and Bucky believe this is a story about their mission. Scott Lang and Sam Wilson, who join them halfway through, believe it’s a story about their Eurotrip (and they’re probably right). This writer, however, has been waiting to tell you that the fic’s true mission is Steve and Bucky missioning towards missionary. Follow them on their journey across Europe in tiny cars, packed subway trains and even on skis as they tumble down the Swiss Alps (in a fun way this time!), all the while reigniting untold feelings of the past through inappropriate sexual encounters and terrible communication skills.

Five times Steve kissed Bucky by paragon | 16K, T

Author's Summary: (+ once, finally, it was the other way around)

-> I'm very amused by how short this summary is, but the fic really is exactly what it says on the tin: Steve and Bucky kissing, pre-war to post-CA:TWS.

I Wanna Live in the Hidden Parts of Your Skin by Voylitscope_speed | 10K, E

Author's Summary: Sometimes, Steve looks at Bucky across the floor of their apartment or in the middle of the sidewalk, and it's not goddamn fair how good Bucky looks. It's not fair how Steve, who's spent his whole life fighting with his lungs for air and his heart for a steady beat, sometimes looks at Bucky and his breath and pulse are wrong for reasons that aren't his lousy health at all. And ever since the day with the purple ink, Steve can't stop thinking about people being canvases, like the models at that exhibit. Steve keeps thinking that Bucky'd be the most stunning canvas a guy could ever ask for. (Or: Steve and Bucky discover a kink in 1940. They find a reason to come back to it 80 years later. )

All The Angels and The Saints by Speranza | 48K, E

Author's summary: In which Steve Rogers loses God and finds God and loses God, and also: Bucky.

-> Look, this fic does some of the exact things I said above I usually try to avoid, but (1) it doesn't really do it (kind of, it's hard to explain), and (2) it would be *absolutely ridiculous* to not include it when putting together a list of fics with a pre-war to post-WS arc. This fic is legendary for a reason. It rewired my brain. It was one of the first Stucky fics I read that made me realize and appreciate the full potential and beauty of this ship, and to this day, it remains one of my absolute favorites.

▶ I'm really sorry that I didn't write something for every individual fic like I usually do, but I'm moving back to my home country in less than three weeks, so time is very limited right now. I hope this is still ok, and that you'll find something on this list that you like!

▶ There is a series that would've been perfect for this list but unfortunately it was deleted without warning a few months ago. If anybody has a saved copy of apricotcake's long is the road that leads me home that they'd be willing to share with me, I would be forever grateful! I'm still so sad that it's gone and angry with myself that I didn't download it when I had the chance. :(

[forasecondtherewedwon]

seven degrees east - chapter five

Fandom: Masters of the Air Pairings: multiple Rating: T (may change) Chapter: 5 / ? Word Count: 4257

read on tumblr: one | two | three | four

It was just over half an hour from Thorpe Abbotts to Cringleford, and Rosie drove the first car, following the directions Liss had given him. Because the route was a simple one, he could enjoy the passing scenery. This was comprised of fields of tan and green—agricultural land that stretched towards the mature trees acting as windbreaks between plots. He liked the countryside. He found, actually, that it was hard to think of going home again, back to Brooklyn and tall buildings and bridges and noise, when he was out here, driving for miles on quiet backroads. But then, when Rosie went home (as he had, during the last winter break, catching the tail end of Chanukkah and flying out again on New Year’s Day), he felt he was happiest there, a New Yorker for life.

Everything, Rosie felt, was beginnings and endings. That was just where he was at the moment. Would he go, would he stay? Would tonight be another happy yet indistinct memory later on, when the time came to look back at his PhD years, or would it be a turning point? A moment in time he could pin to the map of his life. I remember where I was when it happened. It was what people said about things like the attack on Pearl Harbor, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the marriage of Charles and Diana. Rosie had never fought in a war, or toppled a symbol of oppression, or sat inside St Paul’s Cathedral, but he was young, and his life felt full of promise and meaning, ripe as whatever green things were growing in the fields he raced by. He would see Liss tonight. He felt like Nash as he stole a glance down at his shirt, tugging to straighten the placket around the pinch of his seatbelt.

For better or worse, Rosie didn’t have Nash sitting in his passenger seat, ready to tell him how he looked. There was a tension within the group that night which only two understood and the rest guessed at. John and Gale, who always rode together, almost always in John’s Wrangler, had emerged from the dorms one after the other but split apart immediately. Gale had made for Rosie’s car, surprising Rosie and prompting him to ask, “You wanna drive?” But Gale had shaken his head and gotten in on the passenger side as if that were what he had always done. Rosie and Nash had exchanged a look. With a shrug, Nash had climbed into the back seat with Curt—another unusual addition to Rosie’s carpool. Rosie had said nothing.

The second vehicle in their procession, the Wrangler, was driven not by its owner but by Crosby. John had abdicated the driver’s seat right before they’d left, tossing the keys high and forcing Crosby to make a scrambling catch. “Wha— Why?” he’d asked, but John had just winked and said, “I trust ya.” He was currently sprawled in the back. Crosby wasn’t sure John had his seatbelt on, but he was wary of insisting because, first, it was John’s jeep, and second, keeping eyes on Rosie up ahead was consuming all of his attention. He had placed total trust in Bubbles, sitting in the passenger seat. Bubbles said he didn’t need it, that the girls’ house wasn’t that far, that it would be difficult to get lost when traffic was negligible and they were following Rosie. Crosby didn’t have Bubbles’ confidence. He was sweating, so he felt for the handle and cranked his window down to let the air rush in.

Though the air was warm, it was welcome. John sighed into the sudden gust. He’d wanted to remove his jeep’s soft top for this little venture, but he’d forgotten, watching Gale and Curt get into Rosie’s car back in the student parking lot. It was probably for the best that they remained covered; as they drove north, it began to look like rain. John wouldn’t have minded driving sopping wet—it would’ve fueled his sour attitude—but his boys in the front didn’t deserve that. He glanced out the window, then checked his watch. He knew their destination couldn’t be much farther, and then he would have to get out, and he would have to be at least somewhat social, or else it would be very hard to keep pretending that it hadn’t bothered him to come. Water off a duck’s back, John, he told himself, but he heard the words in Gale’s voice, and then he pictured Gale’s mouth saying them, then Gale’s mouth mashed against Curt’s. John’s hand flinched closed into a fist and he smacked it into the seat. He caught Bubbles staring at him in the rearview mirror and allowed his own gaze to slink away.

Little navigation was ultimately required to reach the house. Still, Crosby was grateful to shift into park and turn off the motor. He considered it a bad sign when he tried to pass the keys back to John and John waved him off—he had a pretty good feeling it meant John was going to get shitfaced at this party and expected Crosby to drive them all home. Which, now that Crosby knew the route, shouldn’t have been a problem. He didn’t plan to lose John’s keys. He didn’t need to get wasted; he wasn’t some teenage undergrad salivating for his first taste of independence. He certainly didn’t have any intention of spending the night here at this red-brick house set back from the lane. Below the front windows, flowerbeds overflowed their edging, blooms closing up as clouds obscured the sun. Early evening was coming on now, and Crosby reminded himself that he would not be here to see those same flowers open again in the morning light. He grit his teeth as he, John, and Bubbles strode towards the house.

The other four boys had already arrived and decided that waiting on the front lawn for their friends would make them appear afraid to enter this house of barely-known but much-desired women. They had looked at each other, then Rosie had taken hold of Nash’s shoulders and given him a little push, a little momentum to get him going. Following Nash through the front door, they’d felt a bit like zoo animals, though they were the ones entering this enclosure which contained the faces of many strangers. By the time John, Bubbles, and Crosby piled through the door after them, they hadn’t gotten very far.

Before they had to start convincing the other partygoers that they had been invited—really!—a girl who made Rosie’s face light up like the breaking dawn came galloping down the stairs.

“My guests!” she said, and the boys looked quickly from her to another girl who stepped through from the living room wearing a sarcastic smile.

“You’re claiming all of them?” this one said. Her gaze went unsubtly to Crosby, who reddened but stood up straighter.

Rosie laughed.

“Sandra, right? We met at the video store, but…” But I was ogling your friend at the time, and you were ogling mine. This thought passed unspoken, but he understood from the look in Sandra’s eyes that she’d shared it. She clasped the hand he’d extended towards her.

“Ships in the night,” she said. “Rosie, yes?”

“That’s right.” He glanced around him, urging the other boys forward as he named them. “And this is Gale, Curt, Bubbles—don’t ask—John, Nash, and, well, you know Crosby.”

“Not so well I couldn’t stand to know him a little better,” she quipped.

“Yeah, our Croz is one in a million.”

“Jean certainly thinks so,” Bubbles put in. He felt the weight of the pause that cushioned his words from either side. He didn’t look at Crosby, not wanting to know if he appeared annoyed, just smiled at Sandra (so this was Sandra) and clarified, “Croz’s girlfriend.”

Crosby laughed awkwardly and said, “Yeah, yep,” as he lowered his head and moved forward, away from this conversation. Sandra turned to allow him to pass her, then followed after; he felt her pinch his sleeve as he moved. He hoped he wouldn’t have to explain. He didn’t know where he would start. Mainly, he didn’t want Sandra’s immediate impression of his friends—who he would’ve liked to remind were guests in her home—to be that they believed she was a villain, hellbent on coming disastrously between Crosby and Jean.

He wasn’t interested in Sandra like that, he was just… interested. He was interested in the way he assumed nuclear scientists were interested in dangerous substances, tempted to cup that radioactive glow in their bare palms. Tempted—that was all; the detective never really fell for the femme fatale. And who was to say that Sandra was well-represented by either: the radioactive substance or the hard-boiled seductress? Like a solid object in front of a spotlight, Crosby was projecting a dark shadow of who this woman might be and supposing the boys saw the same. They obviously suspected, when they saw Sandra and Crosby together. They guessed at the enticement. Crosby fitted her with these personas, cloaked her like a spy, until it was he who was a stranger to his own blatant and (if he’d realized quite how blatant) pathetically uncomplicated and unsurprising attraction. He was a young man very far from his girlfriend, blindsided by a chance meeting with a beautiful woman. If everything would just slow down a minute, Crosby thought, if everything would just wait, there might be time in which he could figure out how to be Sandra’s friend. He could be. He was, sort of, and if their friendship had continued, of course he would’ve mentioned Jean. She just hadn’t come up yet.

The others bobbed in the wake of this uncomfortable extraction, tossing glances at one another, until Liss threw out the lifeline of a tour of the house. They relaxed as they moved from room to room. Liss introduced them to everyone they passed—boys in t-shirts worn under baggy button-downs and girls whose pastel butterfly clip-adorned hair caught the yellow light of table lamps, all classmates and friends of the girls who lived there. Walking at Liss’s side, Rosie kept catching his breath when his hand bumped hers. It happened again as Liss led them through the kitchen to show them the door to the backyard. When she raised her hand to gesture towards the lawn, he lifted his own fingers to smooth his mustache so his hand wouldn’t dart after hers and press their palms together.

“Smoke anywhere,” she invited, “but if it’s more than cigarettes, try to stay on that side of the yard. Our neighbour on the other side would freak.”

“And you wouldn’t?” Gale checked slyly. “I hear you’re studying law.”

Liss turned towards him, wearing a small smile.

“Laws only stand as they are until someone sets a new precedent.”

“Spoken like a future lawyer.”

“Or as someone determined to never be called by her birthname. ‘Phillis.’ Seriously, what were my parents thinking?”

There was ice in the freezer, beer in the fridge, bottles of harder stuff on the counter. Tour of the main floor complete (“Upstairs is just our bedrooms,” Liss said, a throwaway explanation, though more than one set of eyes lit up at the words.), the boys added what they’d brought to the collection and got themselves drinks. Gale, standing beside Rosie, said, “I like her,” and jerked his chin towards where Liss was talking to Nash. Rosie grinned and nodded his appreciation; Gale’s opinion meant a lot to him.

Nash had barely had a chance to ask Liss where Helen might be hiding when Helen herself walked into the kitchen and gave him a shy wave. Nash’s face split in a ridiculous grin. Helen looked good against every backdrop, he thought: a crowded bar, rows of VHS sleeves, a kitchen filled with all his closest friends. There were so very many words in Nash’s vocabulary, but “subtle” wasn’t one of them. He didn’t have Rosie’s etiquette—or, at least, no patience for it; rather than offering introductions, he just went right to Helen and forgot about everyone else.

“You don’t want me to meet your friends?” she asked wryly.

“Hmm?”

Helen laughed, but she blushed too. Nash was standing close to her, his whole consciousness seemingly fixated on her presence.

“What do you want?” she asked instead, one corner of her lips curling coyly as she tried the question that seemed more likely to get his attention. And it did—something ignited behind Nash’s eyes, something that burned deeper and stronger than his jubilant reaction to merely seeing Helen again.

The thing about Nash was that he would’ve told Helen what he wanted—would’ve told her exactly, and in detail, with his gaze holding hers to see whether he’d gone too far or whether Helen’s thoughts had floated up, like soft clouds, to one of those upstairs bedrooms Liss had mentioned—had Rosie not interrupted.

Mischievously, Rosie felt no compunction about breaking Nash out of his lustful stupor. Liss had suggested she and Rosie talk out on the front step, where it was quieter, and on his way by Nash, beer in one hand, Rosie tapped his shoulder and made a discrete “ok” hand sign with the other that Nash tore his gaze from Helen’s face just long enough to catch, smiling with immense self-satisfaction. Rosie doubted Nash’s total concentration on Helen would be so easily severed again that night. Oh, to be young and in love, he thought with a distance from youthful infatuation he could not claim and did not feel, gathering his courage and slipping his fingers between Liss’s. Rosie felt as if he were being carried down the hall atop his friends’ shoulders rather than walking on feet situated below knees that went a little weak when Liss’s eyelashes fluttered as she turned to look at him. And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes / Of the beautiful Liss Heller, Rosie thought admiringly, adapting Poe into a considerably happier context.

He hoped to bump into Crosby on his way out as well, maybe use his hands to communicate more of a what-the-fuck-are-you-doing message instead of the encouraging sign he’d sent Nash, but though Rosie poked his head into the living room and craned to look up the stairs, Crosby was nowhere to be seen.

This was because Crosby was in the middle of a more thorough tour of the house. It felt as though it had happened naturally, blamelessly, inevitably. Sandra had talked and Crosby had listened, knowing half of what she said was teasing lies simply because the look on his face promised he’d believe whatever she told him. They were renting the house from her uncle, she’d said. They were occupying the house for free, she’d said, because a family had been brutally murdered here. She herself owned the house, she’d said; she was rather wealthy, her family part of the British peerage. Sandra grinned every time Crosby gathered himself enough to vocally doubt her, but even as each illusion of who she might be shattered like a cascading hall of mirrors, he found himself more transfixed. He felt that, if he could count on anything, it would be that Sandra would not save him from himself if he decided to cross a line.

She wasn’t exactly inviting him to cross it, but at some point, she’d brought him up to the second floor, and the ease with which he might—they leaned against the wall opposite Sandra’s open bedroom door—oppressed him. Crosby both badly wished that Bubbles was there and felt franticly, guiltily relieved that he wasn’t.

Bubbles wasn’t there in person, anyway, but he was part of every story Crosby told—and he found he was telling Sandra much more than he usually told people he’d only met twice. There was a patience to her large blue eyes the Hammett hound in him wanted to call serpentinely hypnotic, but common sense said was just Sandra being a good listener. Like Bubbles. Maybe that was why Crosby kept bringing him up. Sandra and Bubbles really hadn’t gotten off on the right foot, and Crosby knew that was his fault, even if he had no clue how to rectify the situation. (Convince Bubbles that Sandra was no threat to Crosby’s relationship with Jean? Convince Sandra that he wasn’t usually the kind of person Bubbles had to worry about like that, interjecting so Sandra’s knowledge of Crosby’s girlfriend would do what Bubbles suspected Crosby’s willpower could not: prevent him from cheating.)

It felt a little strange to Crosby to exclude Bubbles by sneaking upstairs with Sandra and then speak of nothing but their shared stories. It made a buffer of Bubbles, a ruler between the bodies of a couple at a high school dance. Bubbles was safety. Bubbles was irreproachability. Bubbles was not flirtation or blurred lines or the cheating he had worried about with embarrassing conspicuousness downstairs. Crosby recognized that he was more upset that Bubbles saw him that way—potentially disloyal—than at the thought of actually committing any indiscretion up here with Sandra. The idea of losing Bubbles’ respect was painful, and the self-conscious acknowledgement of how badly he needed it made Crosby briefly, hotly angry in a way that he very rarely was. He didn’t understand it, so he grit his teeth and focused on Sandra with an intensity that appeared to startle her in the midst of the funny story she had started to tell.

Her hand seemed to dart impulsively forward, closing around his wrist. Crosby looked from her hold to her eyes. They stared at each other, outwardly silent. On the inside, Crosby tried to compel Sandra to just grab a little harder, just tug, show him which of these bedrooms was hers and let him react behind a closed door.

“Your friend Bubbles thinks highly of you,” Sandra said, uncurling her fingers and giving his wrist a disconcerting pat.

“Maybe he shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

But Crosby didn’t have a good answer; he was only being dramatic. He started to feel like a totally undesirable idiot until Sandra, surprising him again, reached up to restyle the front of his carefully gelled hair. She looked him in the eyes and gave a reason for the touch, gave it in such a way that Crosby knew she was, once again, lying. He ducked his head and looked up at her. His smile was trying for devastating.

—

Though the sky was darkening with the deepening evening and the gathering promise of rain, party guests were playing beer pong out behind the house. This was where Bubbles had chosen to keep himself occupied. Light-fingered and good with calculations, he was a natural at this game, and concentrating hard enough made it difficult to wonder where Crosby had gone off to, why he hadn’t seen Sandra since they’d arrived.

Sinking another ball, he beamed as the guy at the other end of the patio table drank and Gale—his partner—gave his shoulder a congratulatory squeeze.

Curt wandered over and watched for a while. He stuck his fingers in his mouth, his shrill whistle at his friends’ continued success cutting through the cranked-up pop hits streaming from the boombox tucked against the exterior wall. Somewhere up the street, a dog started barking, and Gale pinged the next ball at Curt, striking him in the chest.

“Quit it,” he instructed. “Gonna get the whole neighbourhood barking.”

“How ’bout losin’ a little then. Beatin’ strangers ain’t a good way to make friends,” Curt counselled. He slung an arm around the neck of one such stranger-turned-friend; they’d come from the side of the house, where they’d been bonding over the impressive longevity of Van Halen (“Man, if they could get fuckin’ Roth back…”) and a shared joint.

“That’s unfortunate,” Gale said with a grin. “’Cause Bubbles and I don’t know how to lose.”

“Damn right, buddy,” Bubbles agreed.

They weren’t bad winners about it though, graciously conceding the table to the next teams instead of staying on as the defending champions anyone else could only dream to beat. Curt drifted here and there, but Gale and Bubbles were content to stay and watch, drinking and observing the game as well as Nash and Helen, who stood by the back door, poised to canoodle.

“They’re gettin’ along,” Bubbles observed loudly as somebody turned up Take That to mixed cheers and boos. Bubbles smiled as he brought a bottle of beer to his lips.

Gale chuckled and said, “Good for Nash.”

“Seriously. Poor guy’s always been so shy around women.”

Gale laughed louder this time. Bubbles was good company, and always made it easy to feel relaxed. He didn’t talk too much, but he didn’t leave silences that felt demanding either, nothing Gale ever felt pressured to fill. He appreciated that. It struck him as they stood there together that he almost never hung out with Bubbles one-on-one. Their group, all seven of them, had formed a fast and strong bond at the beginning of their time at Thorpe Abbotts (though some had known each other before), but Gale recognized that he and Bubbles both existed as halves of a pair. It had never been him and Bubbles because Crosby was always present if Bubbles was there, and John was eternally at Gale’s side. Unless he was doing something stupid like attempting to climb that damn tower on campus, or something shameless like commanding a karaoke bar with his terrible singing voice and boundless confidence. Sometimes, Gale permitted himself to notice that these were acts designed to impress him. It was certainly always difficult to remember what a good time he could have with a different friend, like Bubbles, when John was up to his antics.

Thinking of John soured the moment for Gale. The easy smile fell from his face. He scanned the faces of the group gathered around the beer pong match even though he already knew John wasn’t there, then glanced toward the side yard and over to the back door. Who was with John now? Crosby, the other half of the pair standing next to Gale? After the way Crosby had slunk off with the British girl, Gale doubted it. Nash was accounted for, Gale hadn’t spotted Rosie walking back through the house after disappearing out the front with Liss, and Curt… well. Gale didn’t think for a moment John was hanging out with him.

“Lookin’ for Bucky?” Bubbles asked.

“Pretty obvious, huh?” Gale said in a tone of gentle self-deprecation. His expression grew serious. “You drove up with him. How’d he seem?”

Bubbles didn’t bother exclaiming, You mean you don’t know? though the boys lived together in the same dorm. Practically inside each other’s skin, Bubbles thought, with how they would often demonstrate a wordless understanding of one another in speech and actions. Even he, at a little distance from them—as everyone was; Gale and John were each other’s complete inner circle—knew something wasn’t right, and that it had begun the other night at the Barracks. It had to be serious, since they still didn’t appear to be speaking. They’d come to the party that night in two different vehicles, after all.

“Quiet,” Bubbles answered honestly. “He sat in the back while Croz drove.”

“Croz drove John’s baby? He must’ve been shitting himself.”

“About that level of confidence, yeah. There’s nothin’ wrong with Croz’s driving. He just doubts himself.”

Gale made a thoughtful noise. Bubbles thought he probably wasn’t thinking about how Crosby had fared behind the wheel of John’s Wrangler so much as trying to shift his own mind into a gear that would align with John’s so that they might understand each other. Bubbles watched his friend sympathetically.

“Maybe that’s what John’s problem is,” Gale observed. It was said softly, but harsh. His gaze was unfocused, no longer following the bounce of the ball across the patio table.

“What’s Bucky doubting himself about, do you think?” Bubbles asked.

“No idea.”

“You think he’s got a reason to? A Bucky who doubts himself doesn’t sound like any version of Bucky I’ve seen. If he is,” Bubbles said cautiously, eyeing Gale’s stern profile, “it must be over something that matters a lot to him.”

Gale didn’t have an immediate response to this, but, as usual, Bubbles didn’t push for one. He was grateful. It gave him time to think. What mattered a lot to John? Well, school did. John took his studies at Thorpe Abbotts seriously; if he played hard, it was because he worked hard too. Another thing that mattered to John was his friends. He was gregarious, trusty, and encouraging. He had helped Rosie replace all the furniture in Nash’s bedroom with inflatable facsimiles while Nash was away for three days at a grad student conference in London the preceding October. Hemingway’s old man would’ve loved to have John aboard when he went all that way out into the sea, Gale imagined. Anyone would’ve. In his estimation, John was pretty well always just the right person to have around.

Up until last week, John had felt the same about Gale—Gale, who he had presumably seen kissing Curt. Gale, who also mattered a lot to him.

Just as Gale decided on a response to Bubbles’ speculation and went to speak, two unmistakeable voices rose above the music, and it wasn’t because they were singing along.

[blood-mocha-latte]

secret santa here! hi again. i hope things have been good with you. ❤️

would like a better grasp of things you love! could you share some of the following (and feel free to describe what you love about each to your heart's desire)?

favorite fics of your top ships

favorite authors (literary, fan fic space, etc.)

hi! i've been good, still on hiatus but breaking it for half of a second to answer this. for all my favorite fics i'd suggest looking at my bookmarks on ao3, which has all ships and why i love them <3

favorite luztoye fics

- no good without you by @disastrouscanasta

a pacific rim au, and genuinely lovely. i've actually never watched pacrim, but the love and genuine human understanding and experiences in this (paired with the insanely skilled writing) makes this a top luztoye fic of all time for me <3

- the road is long, we carry on by rebelsquad (wolveheart)

this fic genuinely kills me because both its prose and understanding of luz as a character is absolutely top tier. additionally, the way that the author Gets the ship is just absolutely stunning, and i'm obsessed with the way they have the finger on the pulse of this insanely gorgeous premise.

- knit us together by @almost-a-class-act

just an all-around good fic, required reading tbh. i'm guessing that you've read this, dear exchange partner, because it's truly a bible in terms of luztoye fic.

favorite loosier fics

- where the weather suits my clothes by @disastrouscanasta

yet another arthur fic, but well deserved, as per <3. absolutely gorgeous 70s au that understands both hoosier and leckie like genuinely No One does.

- in the night i am wild-eyed (you got me now) by @riddlersboyfriend

an all-time favorite by a previous and beloved exchange partner <33. truly one of my favorite canon era fics in all of hbo war and it is so, so visceral and lovely to read.

favorite authors

going with novels for this, since fanfic is above and in bookmarks <33

- betty smith

she is genuinely such a fucking icon, a tree grows in brooklyn my beloved. as someone who grew up in poverty with strong ties to a mother country this both read me for filth and made me cry multiple times

- herman wouk

mostly for war and remembrance. the king of character voices, period-era fics, and multiple people pov. also long books. so, so painfully long but in such a good way. he is a Man as well though so beware because sometimes he suffers from Not Understanding Women

- fyodor dostoevsky

the idiot. the brothers karamazov. crime and punishment. i'm insane, i'm insaneeee!!!! not a lot to say on him and i mean what IS there to say he's dostoevsky

thanks for asking!! if i can help with anything else or if you just want to chat, always feel free to hmu <333

[thelonelybrilliance]

7 and 20 for the book asks!

Thank you, Elli!

7. Wasted Potential: Great premise and/or characters but fell down on execution

My hottest take is... Wuthering Heights, although perhaps that's giving it too much credit, as the premise is fine, I guess, but the characters do not impress me even at their best.

Beyond that, I think Precious Bane by Mary Webb qualifies. There was a compelling setting that recalled shades of Adam Bede and (the best of) the Brontës, but with a voice and characterization that was (to me) wholly original. However, the narrative was sunk by an extensive and too apologetic focus on Gideon, an eye-roll of a sociopath if ever there was one. Justice for Prue and the Weaver, AND PRUE'S MOM.

Dishonorable mention to Hope Ablaze by Sarah Mughal. I wanted to love this and instead found the MC insufferable and the denoument anticlimactic.

20. Did you re-read any books? Were they what you expected?

I have an annual tradition of rereading quite a few books, including an assortment of Austen (particularly, Pride and Prejudice and Emma) as well as the Queen's Thief series and Louise Glück's complete works. Added to that really ought to be LOTR, To Kill a Mockingbird, Pierce Brown's Red Rising series, and some other time-honored favorites (I owe Brideshead Revisited a reread or ten).

This year, my favorite rereads were, including most of the forgoing (TKAM missed out--soon to be remedied!), The Witch of Blackbird Pond, Peter Pan, Jane of Lantern Hill, The Wind in the Willows, The Wolves of Willoughby Chase, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Mara, Daughter of the Nile, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and Enemy Brothers.

But really, a special shoutout to The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, all of which I read in the same calendar year in the first time in... ages. I am always meaning to return to them, my most beloved stories, which I first devoured over twenty years ago. To say that they did not disappoint would be a MASSIVE understatement. Richer than ever, truer than ever, comforting and inspiring and capable of accompanying me through this phase of life/adulthood as much as any other. To top it all off I actually picked up the 1960s edition of The Hobbit that my mom first read to us when I was four.

On the flip side of the coin, I found my reread of the two "best" Scarlet Pimpernel novels--the OG and also El Dorado--to be... well, let's just say they're not great literature. And I *think* I knew that when I read them as a besotted teen (no shade to Anthony Andrews' iconic performance opposite the equally iconic Ian McKellen in the 1982 film--you will both literally ALWAYS be famous for that and for much else), but I definitely know it now, lol. I was at least able to confirm that Armand St. Just is perhaps the stupidest character ever set to the page.

[storybook-souls]

3 12 24

hi kes :]

3. Favorite musical artist / group you started listening to this year?

I mean I do think it has to be Chappell Roan who I started listening to in January, basically just in time to define my year. But I also listened to far more Charli xcx than I was before, and that was also pretty fun to get into.

12. Talk about a new friend you made this year

I've made SO MANY new friends this year!!!!!!! :') One of those is my friend Abby who I met at the writing critique group I'm part of, when we took the train home together. It is SO nice to have writing friends where we tend to "get" what each other are trying to do (not that I didn't already, but it's nice to have even more), especially someone who is currently querying a book and so is like two steps ahead of me that way. And it's nice to have a friendship go from "we see each other at our shared activity" to "we're going to the same parties and doing trivia nights together" which is blessedly and wonderfully true of several of my new friendships.

24. Did you keep any New Year’s Resolutions?

Some of them! I'm on track to meet my 72 books goal, although I was supposed to read Wuthering Heights and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and never got around to either of them. I met all my writing goals (published 4 fics, twice as many as my goal, and finished a draft of my novel and sent it to beta readers), and I set a goal of cooking once a week and if you count chopping vegetables while meredith does most of the actual cooking then I average way more than once a week these days. The main category where I totally missed the mark was all my working out/exercise goals, which does make me sad because I really liked/felt good when I was doing it regularly, but something had to give in my new, much busier schedule :( Overall not bad considering the goal list also included "Move?"

end of year asks!

[silverlyrics]

Books about Palestine and Palestinian Heritage

This is by no means an exhaustive list. These are books I was able to source from my local library and thought other people might appreciate them as well. I have not read them all, but the intention of the list is Palestinian perspectives and characters.

List order: Children's books, Young Adult books, Adult books, Graphic novels

Junior

We Are Palestinian A Celebration of Culture and Tradition by Reem Kassis: A stunning non-fiction children's book celebrating everything Palestinian! From culture and food, to music and literature, We Are Palestinian is a celebration of Palestinian heritage. Brought to life by award-winning writer Reem Kassis, every spread is filled with wonderful anecdotes, fascinating facts, and memorable quotes.

Homeland; My Father Dreams of Palestine by Hannah Moushabeck: A Palestinian family celebrates the stories of their homeland in this moving autobiographical picture book debut by Hannah Moushabeck. With heartfelt illustrations by Reem Madooh, Homeland: My Father Dreams of Palestine is a love letter to home, to family, and to the persisting hope of people, which transcends borders.

Three Wishes; Palestinian and Israeli Children Speak by Deborah Ellis: Ellis turns her attention to the young people of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. After visiting the region to conduct interviews, she presents their stories here in their own words. Twelve-year-old Nora, eleven-year-old Mohammad, and many others speak directly about their lives -- which prove to be both ordinary and extraordinary: They argue with their siblings. They hate spinach. They have wishes for the future. Yet they have also seen their homes destroyed and families killed, and live amidst constant upheaval and violence.

Farah Rocks Florida by Susan Muaddi Darraj: Farah's little brother is in the hospital with a heart problem that needs surgery, so her parents send sixth-grader Farah off to stay with her grandmother in a retirement condo in Florida; Sitti Fayrouz does not speak much English, has a lot of rules, and does not understand Farah's interest in geology, so Farah is not happy with the move--but despite being the only child in the community, Farah finds that the people are nice, and despite getting off to a bad start (she accidentally dumped a soda on his lap) she forms a friendship with Dr. Fisher, who shares her interest in science. Palestinian-American Author.

These Olive Trees by Aya Ghanameh: The story of a Palestinian family's ties to the land, and how one young girl finds a way to care for her home, even as she says goodbye. It's 1967 in Nablus, Palestine. Oraib loves the olive trees that grow outside the refugee camp where she lives. Each harvest, she and her mama pick the small fruits and she eagerly stomp stomp stomps on them to release their golden oil. Olives have always tied her family to the land, as Oraib learns from the stories Mama tells of a home before war. But war has come to their door once more, forcing them to flee. Even as her family is uprooted, Oraib makes a solemn promise to her beloved olive trees. She will see to it that their legacy lives on for generations to come.

Ghaddar the Ghoul And Other Palestinian Stories by Sonia Nimr: Retells nine Palestinian folktales featuring women of character, genial tricksters, and mischievous animals.

Balcony on the Moon; Coming of Age in Palestine by Ibtisam Barakat: Balcony on the Moon follows Ibtisam Barakat through her childhood and adolescence in Palestine from 1972-1981 and chronicles her desire to be a writer.

Young Adult

We're in This Together A Young Readers Edition of We Are Not Here to Be by Linda Sarsour: In this middle grade edition of We Are Not Here to be Bystanders , Linda shares the memories that shaped her into the activist she is today, and how these pivotal moments in her life led her to being an organizer in one of the largest single-day protests in US history. From the Brooklyn bodega her father owned to the streets of Washington, DC, Linda's story as a daughter of Palestinian immigrants is a moving portrayal of what it means to find your voice in your youth and use it for the good of others as an adult.

Tasting the Sky A Palestinian Childhood by Ibtisam Barakat: In this groundbreaking memoir set in Ramallah during the aftermath of the 1967 Six-Day War, Ibtisam Barakat captures what it is like to be a child whose world is shattered by war.

Something More by Jackie Khalilieh: A contemporary teen romance novel featuring a Palestinian-Canadian girl trying to hide her autism diagnosis while navigating her first year of high school, for fans of Jenny Han and Samira Ahmed. Palestinian-Canadian Author.

Ida in the Middle by Nora Lester Murad: Every time violence erupts in the Middle East, Ida knows what's coming next. Some of her classmates treat her like it's all her fault--just for being Palestinian!... One day, dreading a final class project, Ida hunts for food. She discovers a jar of olives that came from a beloved aunt in her family's village near Jerusalem. Ida eats one and finds herself there--as if her parents had never left.

Ronit & Jamil by Pamela L. Laskin: Pamela L. Laskin's beautiful and lyrical novel in verse delivers a fresh and captivating retelling of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet that transports the star-crossed lovers to the modern-day Israel-Palestine conflict. Ronit, an Israeli girl, lives on one side of the fence. Jamil, a Palestinian boy, lives on the other side. Only miles apart but separated by generations of conflict--much more than just the concrete blockade between them.

Adult Fiction and Nonfiction

Why Did You Leave the Horse Alone? by Maḥmūd Darwīsh: Palestine's most internationally famed poet of all, Mahmoud Darwish

The Palestinian Table by Reem Kassis: Authentic modern Middle Eastern home cooking - 150 delicious, easy-to-follow recipes inspired by three generations of family tradition.

Her First Palestinian And Other Stories by Saeed Teebi: Saeed Teebi's intense, engrossing stories plunge into the lives of characters grappling with their experiences as Palestinian immigrants to Canada. These taut and compelling stories engage the immigrant experience and reflect the Palestinian diaspora with grace and insight.

Once Upon A Country A Palestinian Life by Sari Nusseibeh: A prominent Palestinian's searching, anguished, deeply affecting autobiography, in which his life story comes to be the story of the recent history of his country.

Zaitoun Recipes From the Palestinian Kitchen by Yasmin Khan: Oil from the olive -- which is known in Arabic as zaitoun -- flows in abundance in the kitchens of Palestine.

Notes on the Occupation Palestinian Lives by Éric Hazan: Almost 40 years after the Israeli military occupation of Palestine, scenes from the West Bank remain rare and fragmented. Despite its prominence in the world news, suprisingly little is known about daily life in this troubled land. Here is a rare portrait of a population living with the reality of war and the dream of peace. (Published 2007).

A White Lie by Madeeha Hafez Albatta: The Women's Voices from Gaza series honours women's unique and underrepresented perspectives on the social, material, and political realities of Palestinian life. In A White Lie, the first volume in this series, Madeeha Hafez Albatta chronicles her life. Among her remarkable achievements was establishing some of the first schools for refugee children in Gaza. Her story will benefit Middle East scholars, social justice and human rights advocates, and all who want to know more about the modern history of Palestine.

Love Is An Ex-country by Randa Jarrar: Queer. Muslim. Arab American. A proudly Fat woman. Randa Jarrar is all of these things. In this provocative memoir of a cross-country road trip, she explores how to claim joy in an unraveling and hostile America.

The Words of My Father Love and Pain in Palestine by Yousef Khalil Bashir: A Palestinian-American activist recalls his adolescence in Gaza during the Second Intifada, and how he made a strong commitment to peace in the face of devastating brutality in this moving, candid, and transformative memoir that reminds us of the importance of looking beyond prejudice, anger, and fear.

Places of Mind; A Life of Edward Said by Timothy Brennan: The first comprehensive biography of the most influential, controversial, and celebrated Palestinian intellectual of the twentieth century.

We Are Not Here to Be Bystanders; A Memoir of Love and Resistance by Linda Sarsour: Women's March co-organizer Linda Sarsour shares how growing up Palestinian Muslim American, feminist, and empowered moved her to become a globally recognized and celebrated activist on behalf of marginalized communities across the country.

Salt Houses by Hala Alyan: From a dazzling new literary voice, a debut novel about a Palestinian family caught between present and past, between displacement and home...On the eve of her daughter Alia's wedding, Salma reads the girl's future in a cup of coffee dregs. She sees an unsettled life for Alia and her children; she also sees travel, and luck. While she chooses to keep her predictions to herself that day, they will all soon come to pass when the family is up rooted in the wake of the Six-Day War of 1967.

Ishmael's Oranges by Claire Hajaj: It's April 1948, and war hangs over Jaffa. One minute seven-year-old Salim is dreaming of taking his first harvest from the family's orange tree; the next he is swept away into a life of exile and rage. Seeking a new beginning in swinging-Sixties London, Salim finds an unexpected love with Jude, a troubled Jewish girl struggling with her own devastating family legacy. The bond between them flourishes in the freedom of the age, bringing the promise of thrilling new worlds. But before long, childhood conflicts and prejudices reawaken to infringe upon their life together, pulling them and their children inexorably back towards the Middle East and its battlegrounds.

I Shall Not Hate; A Gaza Doctor's Journey: by Izzeldin Abuelaish Dr. Izzeldin Abuelaish - now known simply as "the Gaza doctor" captured hearts and headlines around the world in the aftermath of horrific tragedy: on January 16, 2009, Israeli shells hit his home in the Gaza Strip, killing three of his daughters and a niece. By turns inspiring and heartbreaking, hopeful and horrifying, this is Abuelaish's account of a Gazan life in all its struggle and pain. A Palestinian doctor who was born and raised in the Jabalia refugee camp in the Gaza.

Mornings in Jenin by Susan Abulhawa: A heart-wrenching, powerfully written novel that does for Palestine what The Kite Runner did for Afghanistan. Mornings in Jenin is a multi-generational story about a Palestinian family.

Falastin; A Cookbook by Sami Tamimi: Falastin is a soulful tour of Palestinian cookery today from Ottolenghi's Executive Chef Sami Tamimi, with 120 highly cookable recipes contextualized by his personal narrative of the Palestine he grew up in.

The Parisian, Or, Al-Barisi by Isabella Hammad: A masterful debut novel by Plimpton Prize winner Isabella Hammad, The Parisian illuminates a pivotal period of Palestinian history through the journey and romances of one young man, from his studies in France during World War I to his return to Palestine at the dawn of its battle for independence.

Graphic Novels

Power Born of Dreams My Story Is Palestine by Mohammad Sabaaneh: Translating headlines into authentic lived experiences, these stories come to life in the striking linocut artwork of Mohammad Sabaaneh, helping us to see Palestinians not as political symbols, but as people.

A Child in Palestine; The Cartoons of Naji Al-Ali by Naji Al-Ali: For the first time in book form, A Child in Palestine presents the work of Naji al-Ali. Through his most celebrated creation, the witness-child Handala (Hanthala), al-Ali chronicles the Israeli occupation, the corruption of the regimes in the region, and the plight of the Palestinian people.

Baddawi by Leila Abdelrazaq: Ahmed was raised in the refugee camp of Baddawi in northern Lebanon, one of many thousands of children born to Palestinians who fled (or were expelled from) their homeland during the 1948 war that established the state of Israel. Ahmad's dogged pursuit of education and opportunity echoes the journey of the Palestinian people, as they make the best of their existing circumstances while remaining determined to one day return to their homeland.

The Hookah Girl and Other True Stories by Marguerite Dabaie: In this current political climate, being a Palestinian is a hazard. However, there are common grounds where East meets West. The Hookah Girl is a semi-autobiographical graphic novel of a childhood as a Christian Palestinian in America.

~~~

Send letters to your local government for ceasefire (UK, Canada, US, Australia)

Donate to Medical Aid for Palestinians

Donate to Palestine Children's Relief Fund

Donate to The World Food Program

Donate to Doctors Without Borders

Donate to UNRWA

[johaerys-writes]

what were some of your favorite books/movies/tv shows as a young child?

I should preface this by saying that while I was growing up there was very little control/censorship in my home when it came to the media I engaged with, so it often happened that I read books or watched movies that were not really intended for kids haha but I turned out fine so who cares!

Books: I was an avid reader as a kid and still am, it would be impossible to remember all the books that had an impact on me but there are a couple in particular that stand out. The first one was A Tree Grows In Brooklyn which I read when I was like... maybe 10 or so and I remember it ROCKING my entire world, I was absolutely shook and I would just read it over and over again for years, it's been so long yet I still sort of remember the plot and the characters and how many emotions they evoked in me. Idek if it's meant for children that young, probably not 😅 but I really should reread it and see if it holds up lol.

Another one I was obsessed with and would just read again and again is a Greek children's book called The Last Black Cat by Eugene Trivizas. It tells the story of a stray black cat living a cool cat life on an island, when suddenly all his black cat friends start disappearing, until he’s the only one left. It is basically a story about discrimination and illogical superstition through the eyes of a cat and it's just brilliant, I do believe it rewired my brain and I still think about this story to this day.

I also mentioned this in another ask a little while ago, but growing up I used to have a collection of greek mythology adaptations for children accompanied by beautiful artwork by Sofia Zarampouka which I also think are a big part of my brain chemistry lol.

Movies: I remember really loving Matilda as a kid, it was just a fun and sort of silly story and I used to wish SO hard I could make things move with my mind 😂 Another favourite was Dumbo and I think it's where my love of elephants came from, I used to cry every time I watched it 🥹 and then perhaps a weirder one that I really enjoyed watching growing up was Ingrid Bergman's 1982 film Fanny and Alexander. I remember finding it very moving then, and I still think it's a very beautiful film. Again, not sure if it's appropriate for children but oh well.

TV shows: I was not a huge fan of TV series and TV in general as a kid, I just didn't have the patience for it, but I do remember watching reruns of Hercules and Xena from time to time. My grandma also loved telenovelas and I remember them always playing in the background while I sat next to her and did other things lol.

[manuscripts-dontburn]

Mid-Year Book Freakout 2023

Nobody tagged me (I think :D )

1. Best book you’ve read so far this year.

Without a single second thought it has to be The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russel. i desribed it as soul-crushing and it really was. But also brillantly thought through, written and paced. Also very heavy in regards so physical and mental trauma, so I absolutely recommend it but steel yourself.

2.  Best sequel you’ve read so far this year

I have read a bunch of sequels, and while chronologically story-wise The Rules of Magic by Alice Hoffman was a prequel, it was published long after the first book in the series, so I am going to count it.

3. New release you haven’t read yet

Again, I have a bunch, so randomly let´s say The Bleeding Tree by Hollie Starling, Atalanta by Jennifer Saint and Gwen and Art are not in Love by lex Croucher.

4. Most anticipated release for the second half of the year

Most of my anticipated 2023 books are already out and since the bookdepository shut down I have trouble keeping up with new releases that are not on every Youtubers lists, but I am looking forward to The Winter Spirits: Twelve Ghostly Tales for Festive Nights.

5. Biggest disappointment

There were several books which I rated low, but in terms of me having really high hopes for and being let down, the winner is Stone Blind. I love and adore natalie Haynes previous greek myth retellings, but this one was just all over the place and none of those places were good.

6. Biggest surprise

For some reason I thought I would be bored by Malibu Rising by Taylor Jenkins Ried simply because nothing about the setting enticed me. And yet here we are throwing 5 stars at a book.

7. Favorite new author (debut or new to you)

Mary Doria Russel. Yeah. the Sparrow is really..... something. And then I read one more of her books and also thought it really good.

8. Newest fictional crush/newest favorite character

I am going to say Francie Nolan because I really want to show my love for A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

9. Book that made you cry

T-H-E-S-P-A-R-R-O-W . 

Honourable shoutout to The Nickel Boys by Colson Whitehead which made me teary-eyed.

10. Book that made you happy

Looking at my reading I apparently decided to be mostly miserable while reading this year. So let´s, once more, mention the beauty of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I felt happy when I was reading that one.

[stpauligirl]

i haven't been reading because for some reason i just can't read when i'm like in the most intense part of writing a story, and i'm looking forward to gobbling up all the books when i'm done in july, SO this ask game is perfectly timed and i would love to hear 14, 15, 16, and 20 from you.

(and also any other recs you think i would enjoy)

14. a book that made you trip on literary acid

Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov. Read every single printed word starting from the title page. It is a RIDE. Funny. Ironic. Definitely self-aware.

15. a book rec you really enjoyed

The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton. Not only are the plot and characters absolutely riveting, there is a whole other level going on with how the book is structured. How the form and meaning of each chapter relate to each other. It's magnificent, and I'm in awe of how the author did it. As someone who recognizes astrological charts, I think you would especially appreciate it.

16. a book you'd recommend to your younger self

This one is tough. I didn't pick up A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith until I was almost forty, and I think such a coming of age story would have resonated with me more as a younger person. Like, I was the mom's age when I read it. LOL

Also The Curated Closet! <winks>

20. a book that got you out of a reading slump

Truly Devious by Maureen Johnson. It is book 1 of a mystery series, and comes to a satisfying conclusion while setting up the overall story arc for the subsequent books. It’s technically categorized as YA fiction, and I’ve been recommending it to everyone who is looking for a wholly absorbing read that isn’t too heavy.

Wildcard

A book I recommend just for you is The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern. Which, among other things, is a story about storytelling.