#also how many times can i reread ten past five

[addicted-to-nothing]

popping in from my existential crisis to say that i really love @the-lonelybarricade and @separatist-apologist and i hope both their days go wonderful

I will now crawl back into my existential crisis and reread Holy Ground while ignoring my work

[alexanderwales]

Book Review: Metropolitan Man

[content warning: sexual violence]

It's been 10 years since I wrote Metropolitan Man, and last night I read it for the first time in almost that long. Since writing it, I've written over 4 million words, and hopefully, grown as a writer. I've also forgotten parts of the story, so was looking at it with as fresh of eyes as possible. These are my overall thoughts.

I should say, before I start, that I've read tons of comments and discussion on this story over the years. I don't know how many of these thoughts are my own, or how much I've internalized things that people have said.

Writing Style

There were lots of changes I thought about making while reading, but people hate change, and this story is about ten years past when I wanted to be making editing passes on it. In many places I kept thinking of little extras I would add, things that would make the dialogue pop a little more, or provide characterization. I had this idea for a line where I describe Lois typing out two letters like she was letting loose with both barrels of a shotgun. There's dialogue to clean just a bit more, a few places where words are repeated or something is just a bit awkward, and where it could have been tighter or more clear.

The biggest thing that stood out to me was how little time got spent on scene setting and how short some of the snippets were, just five paragraphs to get a scene across before we're onto the next thing. I might have webserial brainrot, but those are definitely places where today I would give a little more breathing room and maybe use the same amount of words to describe something in a more oblique and stronger way. One that stood out as a clear example was a private investigator going home with Jimmy Olsen even though she was done pumping him for information, which could have been twice as long and benefitted from it. Another was a brief little thing about a Superman spotter on the roof, where I'd now describe everything he was doing, and only get to the conclusion of "he was a Superman spotter" at the end of the section to let the reader have this mini mystery of what they're being shown and why.

I would describe things more if I was writing this today, trying to get those nicely tight and evocative descriptions and ditch the stuff like "she wore a white blouse", but I often feel that way about stuff that I'm revising from last week, so it's not surprising.

The plot is very tight, which is good. I tend to prefer my plots tight, but it takes work, and webserials aren't conducive to it because it's difficult to know when you're writing a scene whether it's really pulling its weight as far as moving things forward. The initial idea for MM was to move as cleanly as possible through a series of events: Superman -> Superman is invincible -> Superman is Clark Kent -> Clark Kent grew up in Smallville -> the ship is in Smallville -> the ship has a Kryptonite power source -> Kryptonite can kill Superman -> Superman is dead. The only thing that would make it any faster would be if we dropped the Lois Lane subplot, but that's like half the novel.

Superman is OOC

I've gotten tons and tons of comments on this story over the years. If I hated myself, I would go back through my email and count them up, but there are some death threats and "kill yourself"s in there, and I prefer not to reread them. The major thing that people hate is the ending, which I don't care to talk about, but the other major thing is that Superman isn't Superman.

In this, I largely agree, but then, I'm pretty sure I've always agreed. That said, Superman has had a ton of interpretations over the years, and there's a wide range of acceptable behavior from "a Superman", even if we're not counting the really out there variations like Red Son or some of the alternate timelines.

... but I still would probably make him more like a canon Superman if I had to do it all over.

There are a few things that raise red flags at the beginning, which is where I think they're inexpertly placed. Superman takes Lois off the roof and flies her around, making her very afraid, and this is fine, I think, a misunderstanding that might be stronger if we got his insight into what was happening before we got hers to help bridge some of the disconnect there and characterize them both better. But there's a little note after that, where Clark makes a joke about "Superman's girlfriend Lois Lane" that I think is a HUGE red flag, and which probably comes too early in the story. It would be better as a joke someone else made that Clark laughs along with, which raises the red flag to half mast.

The other major moment I would change is when the bombs start going off. Superman pulls back, unsure whether he's actually immune to mustard gas, and I think this is one of the moments that most goes against the character of Superman. Canon Superman would just say "welp, guess I gotta find out whether I'm immune to mustard gas in a hurry". Superman making the argument that he doesn't know the bounds of his powers and so should exercise caution reads as either cowardice or as him being way too bitten by the rationality bug.

This would then obviously have to change the plot of that section a bit, because in the novel as it stands right now, Superman is convinced by Lois Lane that he can't just sit on the sidelines for game theory reasons. Better to either scrap that section or have Lois convince Superman that for game theory reasons he should offer to have testing carried out against him in a way that doesn't harm civilians, which canon Superman might submit to if it saved lives. Then the rest of the plot can proceed as normal, because Superman is immune to everything and that's the whole plot beat anyway.

I'd definitely clean up some of Superman/Clark's dialogue to nail the character voice better, but I don't think it's that bad, and it's mostly a few places where the wording is off. I think in particular the points where he's feeling anger go too far, and are not how someone internally conflicted about the anger might talk.

And then, oh yeah, Superman punches a guy's head clean off, which I think is the biggest sticking point for most people.

I've thought about that scene a lot. I personally like it. But if I were ever trying to sell this story to DC, it's one of the things I would almost certainly change. Superman doesn't kill, except in that one movie that came out just before this story was published where Superman snapped a guy's neck.

The change I am most happy/comfortable with is that Whitman, the governor whose children were [REDACTED], is the one to kill Calhoun. This happens just outside the courthouse with Superman watching and not intervening in the slightest, or maybe catching the bullets as they go through Calhoun so no bypassers get hit.

I don't know, as I type it out, it doesn't have the same weight to it. It's not cool. It's not a watershed moment. Maybe there's a plot thread to pull there, where Superman has tacitly endorsed other vigilantes, and it would be a great time to pull in other mundane street-level heroes ... but that's an entirely different story at that point.

Another option is for Superman to simply fly off with Calhoun and put him away, but that lacks punch too, and gets talky, and ... it's about the rage, right? The feeling of injustice, not just at Calhoun, but at the entire world, and it's not just an unhappy side effect that there's blood everywhere, all over the clamoring press, that's part of the point.

Social Justice

I really enjoy how wide-ranging the novel is, and how many things it touches on. Good job me. There was a line I had completely forgotten about where Lois asks "Why doesn't Superman stop abortions?" that I had completely forgotten I had ever written, and which brought a big smile to my face (but no wonder some Superman fans hate this story).

There are a few other things that I raise my eyebrow at a little bit, at least sitting here in 2024. There's a particular line that Superman gives when talking about this whitewashed mural of the past they're walking by, and he says "It's easy to forget that slavery ever happened, you know?" Now, I will grant you that this is a part of a conversation where he's saying that maybe he should have been a better student of history, and is saying this as a white guy in 1934, but I wanted him or someone else to tear that statement apart. It never really happens.

"It's easy to forget that slavery ever happened [if you and your people have not been affected by slavery]". The novel takes place ~70 years after the end of the Civil War, which means that when Clark was growing up there would have been freed slaves who were in their fifties, probably many of them in Kansas, though Smallville is (notably) small. I don't know, it wouldn't have been historically accurate for them to have a discussion of privilege, but there's way more meat on that bone, and it's all left as subtext.

Also probably the case that if I were writing it now, I would pay more attention to race in general, but that I'm less sure on, because it would mean some major structural changes to be done well. There's a single black guy in the whole thing, who is barely a character and has no speaking lines: the farmhand Ma Kent has before he gets lured away with the promise of being an actor. I have never felt that any novel needs racial balance to it, but if you're going to be talking about slavery and whether Superman would have done anything about it, you start to make black people look like props, which is not a good look.

I mean look, I think it's fine for a given story to not actually take a stance on political issues or have a diverse cast, but this story goes from abortion to the Equal Rights Amendment to Prohibition to Nazis to the death penalty, and then despite being set in 1934 sort of talks around the subject of how shitty race relations were. As a white guy, I never feel comfortable talking about race, but I think it would have been appropriate to have here in more than the cursory way it was handled. But the cast is just not that large, and the way that modern Superman stories handle that is usually making Jimmy Olsen black and then not actually talking about the fact that he's black so it's just a palette swap, which I don't think would work here, especially since Jimmy is such a bit character, and also it's 1934.

Sexual Violence

Alright, I will say it: there's too much sexual violence.

Chapter 7 is when the two Whitman kids get kidnapped. Their driver gets his throat slit, the boy gets dismembered, and the girl gets raped. I knew it was coming and I was still horrified by it.

I would not remove this part. I would foreshadow it better with a few scenes with Calhoun, the brutes, etc., and I might change some of the details to be a bit less awful and gruesome, but I don't think I would remove it. There are a few core ideas here that I think all work:

The better class of criminal has left the city now, and all that are left are the worst of the worst, the people who will not respond to incentives or symbols or rational thought.

If you cannot strike at Superman's physical self, you strike at his mind instead, and one of the ways to do that is psychic damage. In Calhoun's case, this is irrational, a pure desire to hurt Superman in any way possible while his empire collapses.

The amount of evil in the world is enormous. The pain and suffering cannot be comprehended. I love what Superman says, that this isn't really unique, that these things happen to children all the time. He's upset about not being able to save them, but they're a drop in the bucket.

I think you have to be careful with sexual violence, whether it's depicted or hinted at or just briefly mentioned. There are tons of people who are not on board with that in their media, and even of those who are on board, it has to be handled carefully and can feel very cheap, as though you're just going to the worst and most transgressive thing you can think of for the shock value. People will see it as lazy and trivializing and making entertainment out of this horrible thing.

I think the world is shit. I think terrible things happen. I have always felt both oppressed by the weight of evil in the world and powerless to stop it. I think that's the thing that I'm gesturing at here, and it feels weird to me that sexual violence would get put on a pedestal as the one thing too horrible to mention, even though we're mentioning all the most horrible things.

How do Superman comics and shows and movies deal with this? My impression is that they don't. Surely Superman must be stopping rapes from happening, but I cannot think of a single time I've seen it happen. I'm actually having trouble thinking of a time it was implied to happen. I think this is probably a good idea on the part of the people who make these bits of media, but it's absolutely not realistic if you're thinking about how Superman would operate in the "real world". Sexual violence happens, child abuse happens, and I guess we just sort of assume that these things are dealt with by Superman off-screen.

Though ... I mean it impacts the characters, right? Does Superman not have a trauma response? Does he have a superpower where he can bottle it all up? He's definitely too late to stop certain crimes, and he definitely can't make things better for some of the victims, and I guess in the comics when he shows up to a burning building he generally has a 100% success rate and people come out with only minor injuries, but ... alright, this is definitely the sort of thing that led me to write this fic in the first place.

It's a question that the fic doesn't have an answer for: how do you go on living when you know that there's so much evil in the world?

I think dialing that particular scene back is, maybe, fine. But it's the sort of thing that would feel like I was being less authentic in a way, as though I wanted to grapple with the big questions but not that one, wanted to consider ethics and morality but silo myself away from things that actually are on my mind. I see the point of blunting that scene, and I rebel against it because I don't want to be blunted, I want to be sharp.

I would, however, remove a lot of the earlier references, or blunt those, because they didn't need to be sharp. There are, before the Whitman stuff, about five references to sexual violence, and maybe even just using "sexual violence" would be enough, rather than "rape". One of these references is to what crimes Superman is statistically most likely to stop, another is to a plot to besmirch his name, both can be massaged or they can go.

I don't know if I think about these things differently because time has passed or I've had a bunch of discussions about these issues, or whether it's just having the outside view. It's weird to think about what a conversation with myself would look like, if we were working on the story together.

Retrospective

I understand why Superman fans sometimes hate this story. There's the Superman OOC stuff, sure, but there are also a lot of questions about Superman that apply to canon equally well, and people hate that. Superman is a fantasy, maybe the ultimate comic book fantasy. He stops crimes and bullets bounce off him! You're not supposed to think about his stance on abortion rights. You're not supposed to look at the Clark Kent mask and say 'huh, that's strange'. I mean it's media, you can do whatever the hell you want, but if Superman is a fantasy, then there are a lot of questions that are fantasy-ruining.

I stand by the story as written about 80%, which is higher than I thought it would be, though there are certain things that I stand by more than others. There are certain structural changes and many line-by-line changes, and I'm glad that I didn't have the story open in edit mode, because it would have taken me three times as long to read and when I hit "save changes" people would grumble about archives or bad changes or whatever, because you can't please people.

About five years ago, I started writing A Common Sense Guide to Doing the Most Good, which was meant as a companion piece to MM. It ended up being all mechanics, no plot, and the plot that I wanted it to have was divorced from the center questions it wanted to answer. It didn't feel as grand, I guess, and the cats were out of their bags a little too quickly.

One of the Answers that MM gives is that the thing you should do in the face of overwhelming evil is to grind relentlessly, grind until your bones are scraping the grindstone and there's nothing left of yourself. The story does not believe this answer, but it's one of the places I ended up ten years ago, and am still sort of at now. The other answer is to live as best you can, be aware of the evil and do what you can against it without letting the idea of it (or the battle against it) consume your soul.

When I was finished reading, I kind of wanted to write an uncritical Superman comic. Something where Superman can be as his most loyal fans see him, someone who is Good and doesn't often have to grapple with what Good means, where the thorny edges of moral quandaries never come to light and the hero is always there in the nick of time. Where Clark Kent is a bold and noble expression of humanity rather than a deception and a mask. Maybe I will go do that.

[firstelevens]

hi zainab!!!! 2, 3, 6, and 29 for the fic writer ask???

Hi Mak! Thank you for sending these in!

2. Do you read/reread your own fics?

Yes, because I am absolutely my own biggest fan!

On a much more practical note, sometimes I reread because it's part of a series and I'm checking a canonical detail (although if it's in the Bake Off AU I'm better off just asking @sesamestreep, who is the official lorekeeper and knows that universe's canon better than I do.) Other times, there's a fic where I just really like what I did with a character's voice or the general tone of a scene and I'll go back just to get a feel for what I did the last time.

3. What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written?

I mean, the Bake Off AU has my whole heart and there's so much of me in it that it will always be special to me BUT!!! I really love the Thunderbolts-era epistolary fic counted days, counted miles because I think it's an exercise in me managing to show writerly restraint, which is a skill I'm still working on. (And also I got to come up with so many fun spy tricks for hiding letters; it was great.)

6. Are there any fics from others you reread all the time?

How fortuitous that you picked this question when I have reread wish that i could wind (like a spiral stair through time) FIVE TIMES in the past month. That fic is a work of art. I am also never far from rereading and never ever watch the ten o'clock news, which is Emma's phenomenal Psych AU of Rogue One which is just so wonderful and funny and it continues to hold up. Oh also! There's don't read the last page, which is a Brooklyn Nine-Nine fic that is short and sweet and just so warm and cozy and I go back to that one a lot just for the mood of it.

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic.

Okay so this question reminded me that there's a 1200 word scene from the Formula 1 AU that was originally going to be the epilogue but got canned which SUBSEQUENTLY reminded me that there's a whole scene that I wrote for the Bake Off AU that got cut from Chapter 6 because things ended up going another way!

The beginning will looks familiar if you remember anything from that chapter, but then there's a sharp left turn that involves the lost plot point of Becca Barnes creeping on Joaquín's thirst trap and restaurant review filled Instagram in order to figure out where Bucky could go for dinner. I was sad to lose it tbh but the restaurant still made it into the fic as the place where Sam and Bucky go out on their definitely-not-a-date in Chapter 10.

A peek at the alternate timeline under the cut!

Bucky is starfished on his bed, trying to muster the energy to get up when his phone rings. His eyes are squeezed shut, but he opens one to peer at the screen. He only answers because it’s Becca, but he’s too tired to do more than grunt into the phone when he picks up.

“Good day, huh?” she asks, laughing when he just groans in response.

“Hope yours was better than mine,” Bucky says, when he finally manages to talk. “How’s day shift treating you?”

“I’m discovering that there’s this thing in the sky called the sun, and it provides light? And makes people happy? Do you think other people know about it? Should I be telling them?”

He laughs tiredly. “You can use all this newfound energy to make a TikTok about it.”

“I’ll get on that,” Becca says. “What about you? You okay?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, bringing his hand up to his face. “I just need to lie down for a while.”

Not that lying down for the past half hour has helped, but he’s got high hopes for that sixty minute mark.

“No, what you need to do is eat something,” Becca says, sounding remarkably like their mother. “Tell me your head isn’t hurting right now.”

Bucky freezes, his fingers still pressed into his temples. “It’s creepy when you do that, you know.”

She laughs. “I know. Hey, why don’t you go to that place that you and Steve went to all the time, the one with the waffles?”

The last time Bucky had been there, four years ago, he’d spent the entire evening bickering companionably with Sam while Steve dealt with a work emergency. It had felt remarkably like flirting, and he’d even thought about asking Sam to get a drink sometime—and then Bucky had been eliminated after the next day’s Showstopper, and that put an end to that.

He shakes his head to clear it. “I’m tired, Bec, and they pick us up at like, six AM. I think I might just grab something from the convenience store.”

“Buck, I spend half my time listening to newborn babies cry and that is still the most pitiful thing I’ve heard this week. You are not eating yogurt for dinner alone in your hotel room.”

Bucky huffs. “Well, I’d grab a random stranger off the street to join me, but I’m not looking to get murdered today, Rebecca.”

He can hear the sound of Becca typing, doing the thing where she studiously ignores his asshole behavior until he comes around and starts acting a more like a person. It’s annoying how well it works. 

After a minute or two of typing and what he assumes is scrolling, she lets out a, “Huh.”

When he waits for her to elaborate and she doesn’t, Bucky sighs. “What is it?”

“Do you know a Joaquín Torres?”

It’s far from the question he was expecting but Bucky answers in the affirmative. “He’s a baking consultant on the show.”

More typing. “Does he have good taste?”

There’s a tiny, childish part of Bucky that wants to say no, because Torres is chirpy and bright-eyed and his unfailing enthusiasm is exhausting at times, but that would be a lie. “Yeah, he knows his stuff. Why?”

“He lives in Atlanta; he posts about a lot of local hidden gems. There’s a Tunisian restaurant a couple blocks from your hotel, apparently? Kind of looks like a hole in the wall but he says the food is amazing.”

“I don’t know, Bec. It’s late and eating out alone is depressing.” His limbs feel heavy, and his shoulder is starting to hurt from having the prosthetic on for so long, and he knows that food would make his headache go away, but he just can’t drag himself off the bed.

Like Becca knows what track his mind is on—and honestly, she probably does—, she chooses this moment to go for the knockout. “Come on, Buck; it’s my job to look out for you, and you’re too far away for me to drag you out to dinner and make sure you eat. Throw a girl a bone here.”

She’s too powerful for her own good.

Bucky drags a hand down his face, sighing again. “You know, I hear some people don’t let their baby sisters tell them what to do all the time.”

“Poor them,” says Becca.

“Poor them,” echoes Bucky, and asks her to text him the address.

When she does, he looks it up and realizes that it really is only two blocks away: completely walkable, even in Atlanta’s late spring heat, and only a little further than the convenience store where he’d planned to grab his apparently pathetic dinner.

It’s only when he gets to the door of the restaurant that he remembers it’s a Saturday night and he probably should have thought to make a reservation. The place only has a handful of tables to begin with, and they’ve all got people at them. The host already has an apologetic look on his face as Bucky walks in, but they both turn in surprise when they hear someone inside the restaurant call out to him.

“Bucky!” says Joaquín, as brightly as ever. “Come sit with us.”

Because the universe has a sense of humor, ‘us’ is of course Joaquín and Sam, who are having dinner together. Alone. On a Saturday night.

It can’t be a date, Bucky reasons. No one would invite a random acquaintance to third-wheel their date, right?

He realizes that he still hasn’t responded when the host assures him that of course they’ll be able to add another place setting to the table, and before he knows it, Bucky is being whisked over to their table.

Whatever mood had settled over Sam after the signature today seems to have dissipated, and he turns to Bucky with a grin on his face. “I hope you trust Torres over here, because he ordered way too much food for us and didn’t let me see the menu.”

Joaquín shrugs. “I come here a lot,” he says. “Not enough people know about it, but it’s amazing.”

“Which is why he’s on a mission to be their one-man marketing team,” says Sam. “We got here half an hour ago and he’s already posted on Instagram like, ten times.”

Bucky thinks of the sound of Becca on her computer as she’d talked to him earlier, how she’d pivoted from suggesting the diner he’d probably have ended up at to this specific restaurant, and suddenly, this coincidence feels markedly less like a coincidence.

He’d probably feel more annoyed about it if he didn’t spend the meal close enough to Sam for their shoulders to constantly be brushing. Torres is right; the food is great, but if anyone asks, Bucky’s pretty sure the only thing he’d be able to recount is how many times Sam touched his arm to ask him to pass things, or dished some more food onto his plate, or gently nudged him while telling Joaquín stories of their time filming season two.

When the check comes, Bucky insists on paying, to make up for crashing Sam and Joaquín’s dinner, and as they stand on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, Joaquín offers to drop them off at the hotel on his way home. He’s about to accept when Sam waves it off. 

“I think we’ll just walk back,” says Sam. “It’s so nice out, and the hotel’s probably closer than your car is.”

There’s a moment where all three of them silently commiserate over the trials of city parking, and then Joaquín says he’ll see them tomorrow and heads off.

Bucky glances sidelong at Sam, whose eyebrows are knitted together as he looks down the street towards their hotel. He can see the entrance from where they’re standing, but Sam gently touches his elbow and nods down the street to their left—the long way, Bucky realizes, a moment too late.

[fratboykate]

so with the strike, are you going to have time to write more... I can't think of a better word, "proper" entries to kyfbau? Like I'm rereading the wedding and I can't really cry anymore for some reason, but the idea of these two dealing with the asshole Bishop parents is just... its so good.

If we strike I won't have shit to do for however long we're out so...yeah. We should've had a strike in 2020 but these greedy fucks were SO LUCKY with the pandemic. Our contracts are negotiated every 3 years so the last time it was up was May 2020. They played victims with their "oh no the pandemic we can't do anything for you" and obviously the world was in shambles then so we gave in. The work conditions have only deteriorated since then. With inflation, TV writer pay has gone down 23% in the last five years and 17% for films. Showrunners are making less money now than lower levels were ten years ago. A LOT of the people writing your favorite shows and movies are literally on food stamps. The model is abusive and it's not sustainable. Pretty soon only the kids of celebrities and other nepo babies will be able to afford to make a career out of this. That's the last thing we want. There's this huge misconception that everyone who works in the industry is rich and a lot of shitbags on twitter are ragging on writers for wanting to strike and calling us greedy/elites/whatever. That idea is WRONG. Probably less than 1% of all actors, directors, writers get paid millions of dollars. Everyone else was supposed to be "middle class" but that has disappeared in the last decade. Ten years ago a fraction of people worked for minimums (basically the equivalent of union minimum wage) and now MOST people including showrunners work for minimums. Minimums used to be the floor of what writers got paid and studios have now turned it into the maximum regardless of experience or previous success. They've been trying to hide behind the "streaming is not profitable" to do ENDLESS shady shit that I won't go into but that you can find if you scroll through the union tag on twitter. We don't even really get residuals for streaming. If a writer writes for a streaming show, your show could be watched millions of times across the world and you quite literally get residual checks worth cents. Meanwhile people who write for broadcast or cable get a hefty check every time their episode airs. That's one of the least offensive things they've been doing for the past few years.

All of the unions have contracts up this year and it's so bad that you might just see a cascade of strikes back to back. But writers are known to not be afraid to shut shit down so, while we're never the first up to negotiate (that's typically the DGA) other unions this year delayed their negotiations to see how it would go for us so they can basically ride our coat tails and get better deals for everyone. The 2007 strike lasted 100 days and it was so devastating many writers even lost their homes because they couldn't pay their mortgages. Writers are terrified but based on everything I'm seeing, when the Strike Authorization Vote results come back on Monday it's going to probably be close to 100% yes. We're fucking fed up and we're willing to risk everything because if we don't fix this shit now, it's only going to get exponentially worse. It's going to be devastating for a lot of people who are already financially struggling but this is the best long term alternative. No way around it. Soooo if we do strike…be kind to writers. Be kind to writers in general, all the time. People online love to pretend they know how this industry goes but you have NO CLUE unless you work in it. None. If you don't like what happened on a show or you have opinions, pretend it's 2001 and keep it to yourself. We get enough shit from the business to also have to deal with pedantic idiots online.

[mycurrentobsessionis]

What I thought was really interesting about this choice is how it plays so well into the medium, because I think it would have had a different impact in a traditional novel. The main character of any IF ultimately exists in a liminal space between the novel’s world and the real one. Even the best roleplayer is biased by their knowledge of narrative conventions. 

On my playthrough, I chose not to betray Caliban. I don’t like making “mean��� or “bad” choices, and I don’t like playing bad people. My personal values are that an individual’s life is just as valuable as the collective. Caliban’s well-being was not an acceptable sacrifice. But when Milo follows that choice up with “would you forgive me if I made that choice?” that gave me pause. 

I calculate risks based on how I understand the narrative. I know, as the player, that I have a certain level of plot armor. I can make choices that are consistent with my values without much angst because I know that things will work out somehow for my character. Milo only exists within the story, and he doesn’t get to have those meta-reassurances. Would I forgive him as a character if he did something that was so much against my real values, given that he has no way of knowing what I know? I would certainly understand the choice. It’s the trolley problem -- sacrifice one person, or passively let five more die. 

Ultimately, I decided to go with “no,” and to be honest, the question wasn’t “would you forgive me for sacrificing one person to save many?” it was “would you forgive me for sacrificing your friend to save thousands of strangers?” And to be honest, I was too emotionally invested in Caliban to say, “of course I would forgive that.” I would have ended the relationship, because it would be a personal betrayal over an idealogical difference. I would be upset about the latter, but at least in this case, I could understand the reason. Would I forgive it? I don’t know. But when combined with the former, it’s a definite “no.”

And I think that plays into how I felt about the ending. Because don’t get me wrong. I was shocked. I reread the passage multiple times, stared at it, even restarted the game and tried to make different choices. I was convinced I must have done something wrong, because that couldn’t be the real ending! But, I understood it, and it wasn’t exactly the same situation. 

I think a lot of people read NM as Caliban in this scenario, but they aren’t. Hazel is the Caliban of this situation. She is his childhood friend, his sister, basically. She’s also the literal sister and last family of his dead lover, whom he promised to protect. What makes Milo a bad Gatekeeper, I think, is that he values his people so much. He’s been acting in large part to protect Hazel for the past ten years, both directly and indirectly. She is where his loyalties lie. And if the Night Market dies, so does she. 

I am under no apprehensions that Milo is concerned about the fate of the Night Market for himself. It’s for Hazel, and it seems to him that there is no other choice to preserve it. He says as much to you -- “I love her, she’s my sister, I’d do anything for her.” The only people, other than him, trying to do anything, are NM and crew, and their plan is basically to find him and get him to fix the problem, even if they don’t know who they’re looking for. 

This is my interpretation of the story, anyway. The choice isn’t ever between you and the Night Market. It’s between you and Hazel. And the choice is difficult, but obvious. 

Pretty sure I'm the last anon but the way you described in an ask a romance like milo's and solas' in DA???? THAT'S MY SHIT, YES SIR (which is why is especially loved milo's route, fantastic angst and tension)

Also, i was thinking and isn't it ironic if milo is present during THE Caliban scene and you choose to (spoilers!) betray him??? Like, homeboy just saw you go against one of the only people the MC considered a friend and maybe thought "if they can do that then i should be fine, right??"

Yes! If you look at the conversation he has with MC after the Caliban situation, he does kind of talk about whether or not something like this can be forgiven. I think the dynamic is really interesting based on what you choose there. Also, I think it says a lot about some readers who chose they would forgive that kind of situation because the actions were born out of fear and protection, but these same readers are about ready to crucify Milo. I like making dynamics like that. I've always found it teaches us a lot when we put ourselves in those roles.

[doomednarrative]

u’ve got me interested in hoffstrahm now! what r some good hoffstrahm fics from marks pov vs peters pov? also how do you think people tell them apart writing style wise bc i feel like they r similar (i have read no fics i don’t trust going on ao3 blind without recs so even just the basic fics everyone has read are good to rec)

So I haven't actually read as many fics, because I tend to just reread the ones that I like a lot lol. That being said, I do have some recs! All of these are actually from Peter’s perspective, that seems to be the one most people enjoy writing from when it comes to Hoffstrahm, myself included.

I will say beforehand to answer your other question, as someone writing fics from both their perspectives, I think the biggest difference is that Hoffman is a man of Action, vs Strahm being a man of Words. And what I mean by that is that if you have a dialogue going between the two of them, Strahm’s going to be the one carrying the conversation more by a long shot. The guy never shuts up, both internally and externally. It’s just a part of his more neurotic nature. Hoffman meanwhile is a Lot less verbose, and doesn’t talk as much compared to Strahm. His thoughts don’t get externalized as often, and he’s more likely to just Do something rather than Say something. It makes for an interesting time writing for both of them tbh, and presents unique challenges either way.

With that said tho, here’s my list of favorite fics for the two of them that I’d recommend to you:

“I’ve done this before (show me your teeth)” by nucodiangelo is one of the first one’s I ever read for Hoffstrahm and one I come back to quite frequently. It’s a longer one shot that diverges from canon with the events of Saw V and goes into Peter’s internal struggle with accepting what he knows about Mark and what he’s willing to let slide in order to have a relationship with him. Truly represents just what I love in a more canon compliant relationship with these two.

Literally every Hoffstrahm fic by Doztoevsky is Amazing in it’s own way, but I particularly recommend the “Street Cats” series and the one shot “I’ll run (but I’ll come running).” “Street Cats” is a very fun exploration about how things could go with some canon divergence past the point of Saw V and onward and includes some great domestic slice of life stuff intermingled with everything else. (@/Jadenvargen also drew some truly stunning artwork for the series, and if that summary doesn’t sell you on reading it, the art will.) “I’ll run” meanwhile is a one shot about Perez interrogating Strahm about his relationship with Hoffman and what all he knew about him while they were together, very good little character study piece for Peter.

“Cosmo’s Top Ten Dating Tips” is a five part series by the wonderful @carouselcometh and is a series that’s both funny, but also has some really really interesting insight into how neurotic Peter Strahm can be, and it’s one of my favorites for that reason. It definitely helped to inspire how I’ve gone about writing him for my own fics. Remy has a unique voice for writing Hoffman that I haven’t really seen with anyone else either which makes it a very fun read compared to everyone else.

Last but not least, I will put “Strahm Dies At The End” by @romanromulus on this list as well. I’m putting it last because it does come with a warning: Unlike the others on this list, this fic is considerably Extremely heavy, and if you chose to read it you need to heed every warning that’s tagged on it. It goes to some very dark places, and is not at all a lighthearted or even Nice fic for Strahm and Hoffman. It’s fucked up, and it doesn’t romanticize that point either. But the fic as a whole is a Wonderful case study on both Strahm and Hoffman as characters and gets really deep into some detailed meta on who they are as people thanks to their circumstances, and it’s a really well done tragedy story as well, which I always like reading. Hell, my last art piece was an illustration of a scene from this story, that tells you how much of an impact it left on me. It’s definitely not a story for the feint of heart, but if you can handle some touchy subject matter, I do recommend it.

These aren’t ones I can give you links for yet, but I will also add that I’m currently writing a three part Hoffstrahm series for the Jigsquad Au that I share with @tibby, and once those are published I’ll be posting links to them here as well, so keep watch for those in the future~

I wish you well on your Hoffstrahm reading journey, and should you have any thoughts about them or these fics you’re more than welcome to come back to my inbox and talk about them with me :)

[girlhomosonly]

Smuca, oh Smuca [ Alberto x Luca ]

Inspired by @luca-x-alberto-prompts​

Also posted on Wattpad.

This is my first Luca related fanfiction! I fell in love with the movie, and I had to write more content of my sons and daughter hehe. Hope you like it!

Six months.

It's crazy to think half the year has already passed. Alberto never expected his past summer to turn out the way it did but he's pleased nonetheless.

Meeting Luca, and then Giulia, winning the Portorosso Cup...

Spending years admiring the town from afar, he was still adjusting to calling this place home. Sure, the town and its people adapted quickly from being sea monster hunters to lovers of sea monsters. But it was different from the time he spent on the island.

He now has friends that adore him and gained not only one family Massimo and Machiavelli, but also Luca's parents and grandmother. He also got along with the other kids in town, and he helps the elderly sea monster couple from time to time.

Again, it will take some time to fully adjust, but everything will be fine.

Perfectly fine.

Alberto will have to wait five more months tops for Luca to return. Only then will he be a hundred and ten percent fine.

      "You are drifting again, Piccolo (little one)." Massimo's gruff voice brought the young boy out of his thoughts. He looks up at the older man, who he now sees as a father figure. "Anything you want to discuss?"

Alberto hesitated, mouth hanging open but no words came out. It would be silly anyway, wouldn't it? He thought shyly, breaking his gaze from the man. Not that Luca is silly, no! Well, yes, but not silly to be thinking of him... Right? The young one is once again brought back from his thoughts with a grunt.

      "Nah," Alberto replied with a dismissive wave and he tried giving a reassuring smile to the fisherman. Who didn't seem convinced but didn't want to keep pressing on the topic for his son's sake.

      "Alright, give me a holler if you change your mind." Massimo reminded, and the boy nodded his head in acknowledgement. "Finish up your plate-" Alberto instantly grabbed the last handful of pasta and shoved it in his mouth, "wash up and try to get some sleep. Got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

      "Don't gotta tell me twice!"

He jumped out of his seat and raced towards the stairs. Heading to the washroom, he washed up and went straight to his room. Hearing the click of the door closing Alberto lets out a soft sigh.

He plopped himself at his desk, where several letters from both Luca and Giulia scattered the surface. There were pictures of the two of them, sometimes just Luca. Many drawings and trinkets were sent to him.

His favourite of them all being two photos of Luca. The first showing him intently writing a letter to Alberto, with his eyebrows furrowed and the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration. The second was taken a few moments after the first, a frantic Luca covering his writing with his arms, big brown eyes staring at the camera. With flushed cheeks that would shame a tomato.

Alberto often reread his letters, searching and scanning which one he wrote that would have made him so shy about.

All of a sudden, his fond memories that spread warmth and a sense of belonging, now felt bitter.

<◉ )))><<       <◉ )))><<       <◉ )))><<

Once he was absolutely sure Massimo was asleep, Alberto quietly crawled out of bed and tip-toed to the window. Opening the window, he winced as it creaked.

His heart about dropped to his stomach when he heard the creaking of his own door opening. Jerking his head to peer over his shoulder, he slumped in relief.

      "Machiavelli!" He hissed at the feline, who sat at the doorway. Eyes peering into his soul, judging him. "Ai, I won't be gone long. Don't wake up papà!" He ushered out.

With that, the boy lept onto the tree branch that leads to the treehouse. He climbed down, careful not to let gravity take him. Looking up at the house, he held his breath and he only left when he heard Massimo's snoring.

He snuck through the back and ran to the town square.

There, awaited three statues humbly named after The Underdogs. Luca and himself were in their sea monster forms, standing proud with an even prouder Giulia standing between them.

He walked to the smaller sea monster statue. Smuca, he liked to call it. It was an inside joke between him and Luca after he first showed Alberto his makeshift lookout.

      "Ciao, Smuca." The words were barely audible.

This is stupid, Alberto huffed in annoyance but immediately shook his head. Silenzio, Bruno. Coming to talk to this version of Luca did help to a point but he wanted the real person. Alberto was craving the real thing.

      "Sometimes... When I feel selfish- Shellfish," Alberto chuckled to himself, a small yet sad smile reaching his lips. "I wish you stayed here. Wished you didn't have to be so far."

      "I miss you every day. Both of you guys... But especially you." His eyes began to sting with tears. "I get lonely."

Alberto lets out a shuddering breath in an attempt to calm down. He didn't mean to come here to cry. He just wanted to talk... Vent about how he's feeling? He should've just spoken with Massimo.

      "I'm really proud of you, Luca. I really am, and I can't wait to see you again." Alberto rests his head on Smuca's leg, tears freely rolling down his cheeks. "I just-" a loud sob escaped from his mouth.

He hunched over, bringing his knees to his chest and lets himself cry. Not caring if anyone can hear.

      "I want y-you to come home now. What if you d-don't come back?" He sniffles. "Ever?"

      "Please don't.. forget about me, Luca. I miss you." Luca looks up at the Smuca statue. "I love you..."

[lastbluetardis]

Top 5 Fics

@sherl-grey tagged me to do a list of my top five fics. Thanks for the tag, darling! 💜 I wasn’t entirely sure if this was a top 5 kudos’ed or my top five favorite that I’ve written, but I’ve gone with the latter 😄

1. Catalysis series -- This series (currently just two stories) grew into something I didn’t anticipate. At first, it was just a fun little college AU that I wanted to play around with, but as I started writing Chemical Potential, these characters took on a life of their own and really guided the story. Then with its sequel Chemical Reaction, I had anticipated it to be a short little ten-chapter thing to guide me through their courtship, but once again, James and Rose took the story in a very different direction. I hadn’t realized how much trauma Rose was still holding on to, and I hadn’t realized how insecure James was about himself and his ability to be a good romantic partner. Chemical Reaction is by far one of my all-time favorite fics, and I suspect will continue to be one of my favorites.

2. What Makes a Family -- Once again, this story grew beyond what I expected it to be. I knew right from the start that there were two halves of the plot: James and Rose falling in love, and River returning. I expected each half to be approximately 50-75,000 words, give or take. Well, the story is currently sitting at 212,000 words, and I’ve barely skimmed the surface of the River plot, so God only knows how long this will end up being. But I am having the time of my life writing it. I love this little family. I love James and Rose and their kids, and I love destigmatizing “broken” families, and that dads can be really wonderful caregivers, and, as Rose said, “What makes a family isn’t blood or biology or DNA. It’s about love. Above all, love. And feeling safe and happy with the people you choose.”

3. Perfect Match -- This was my first baby. I’d never written a really long fic before, and certainly not such a long AU fic. But I’d read a prompt on tumblr that had me wondering how a soulmateship such as theirs would work, and how they would slowly fall into many forms of love with each other over the course of their youth, and how it would help them through tumultuous times. This series is a behemoth now, but I will always hold a spark of fondness for this story--it was definitely my gateway drug into long-fic AUs, and I haven’t really looked back since. I’m in the process of rewriting/editing this story because I’m lowkey mortified at my past writing skill/style. Which means I grew a lot since I first wrote it in 2016/2017, but still, I cringe to go back and reread some parts of it 😅

4. Sacred New Beginnings -- This story kinda crept up on me and demanded it be written. I was just vibing to Taylor Swift and suddenly ideas started tugging at my sleeve. I was so curious to explore how a relationship could begin and blossom when at least one half of the partnership was constantly in the public eye, and what it would mean for the couple. I wanted to know what sorts of trials and tribulations they would face, and also the joys and victories they would celebrate. This story let me play around with grimmer, grittier versions of James and Rose, which was a nice breath of fresh air for me.

5. In a Heartbeat -- This is an oldie of mine, something I wrote back in 2017 when I was fully in my soulmates trope obsession. It was a lot of fun to write and fairly short, it’s about soulmates who wear rings in which you’re able to feel your soulmate’s heartbeat. It was a slightly angstier/more dramatic fic than I typically write, but I really enjoyed myself.

Thanks so much again for the tag! I’m gonna tag @elialys, @melusine0811, @loupettes, @tenroseforeverandever, @lizann5869 and anyone else who sees this and wants to do it! 💜

[malachi-walker]

Happy birthday, Mal! I love your fics, they evoke so much emotion in me and have made me cry many a time. I don't often reread fics, but i've reread multiple chapters of Rhythm and Blues because they're stuck with me so much. You capture the emotional pain of their trauma and the catharsis that comes with their growth so beautifully. You also write some brilliant meta and just consistently post some fantastic thoughts. Also your love for swords is very appreciated. <3 have a lovely day!

First of all, my apologies for not replying sooner. I was making my mind up about something that would definitely require the use of a read more and thus necessitate dragging myself to desktop (which I hate because my laptop predates the dinosaurs.)

But seriously. Thank you so much. This is honestly one of the sweetest comments I've ever gotten and definitely made my already pretty sweet bday even better.

So about that read more. In honor of you, @metalesbo, my friends @n7punk and @jem-jarrett and everyone else who sent me well wishes or just really loves my work... Here's the opening section of the next chapter of R&B. Enjoy. It's a long one.

Adora Eternia is about two months shy of her fourteenth birthday when she first realizes she's in love with her best friend.

Though--if asked--she would hasten to explain that it wasn't when she fell in love. But trying to pinpoint the exact moment is an exercise in catching mist: the more she tries to grasp it in her hands the more it spreads out and covers everything. It just is: pure and simple and very, very complicated.

It's the beginning of December and the whole town is covered in a thick blanket of snow. Winterfest will be here in a few weeks, so to help out the kids who want to get gifts for their friends the Right Zone administration has shuffled around the groups that usually take their monthly trips on the third and fourth Sundays of the month to double up with the other two. As part of group three, she and Catra got the first week (the other three members of their crew are week two folks anyway and thus outside the reorganization.)

It's still kinda weird to think that: their crew. For so long, it was just Catra and Adora. Adora and Catra. One unit bound together, just them against the world. But there's also something nice about being part of a small cluster, their "scrappy little lone wolf pack" as Catra had once put it with a wry grin before Lonnie shoved her over with an, "Excuse you, I'm a great people person when I'm not busy making sure you idiots haven't set yourselves on fire!"

They all got a good laugh out of that one.

But regardless, the holidays are coming up and this is the first year that any of their group has felt like actually doing anything for it, aside from wrangling together a sleepover and seeing if they can convince the kitchen staff to slip them some leftover eggnog.

They made each other promise not to go too extravagant and keep each person's gift to ten dollars or lower. Even though their quarterly stipend has increased from three hundred to four hundred to match with inflation over the past eight years, it still isn't a whole lot for three month's worth of expenses, especially when they also have to budget regularly for clothes to keep up with the seemingly endless growth spurts.

There's also the usual budgetary concern of keeping her and Catra's first aid kit well supplied...

Adora shakes her head to dislodge the intrusive thought and continues marching onward through the snow. This trip is a good thing. She won't let all the awful realities of their life taint it.

With so many kids running around and wanting to shop on their own to surprise their giftees, Right Zone had to negotiate with both the local police and whatever other civic authorities they could get ahold of to come out en masse and keep an eye on them all. The kids had still come with their usual teachers, of course, but doubling the load and also splitting up was a logistical nightmare. Which is just a convoluted way to say the town is positively crawling with uniformed officers, off duty members of the fire brigade, emergency personnel, and other such authority figures quietly keeping watch and making sure no one tries anything.

Adora knows that somewhere in the press of bodies, Grizzlor's busy wrangling two new "brats" (seven and nine, respectively, and definitely not friends.) Somewhere, a certain Magicat is probably grumbling over the indignity of being forced to wear shoes and kicking every snowpile she can, like she can send a direct message to whatever cosmic force is responsible for her current frustration.

On an ordinary month she and Catra--being old enough to be allowed a bit more freedom to do what they want--would buddy up to watch each other's backs while they did their shopping. But this isn't an ordinary month, so once they'd each gotten gifts for the other three they'd split up on opposite ends of Main Street with an agreement to move clockwise to avoid running into each other. Afterwards, the entire group would rendezvous at the small clock tower in the park a block over before heading back to Right Zone.

Ten dollars wasn't a lot to work with, but Adora had done her best: a new stress ball for Kyle, some moisturizing oil for Rogelio since the early winter shed had wiped out his supply and he'd been too busy to pick up some more, a twelve pound kettle weight for Lonnie now that their shared exercise routine was getting a bit too easy for her... Utilitarian choices, to be sure, but she's been paying attention and that has to count for something.

Catra's the difficult one, of course. Partly because Adora doesn't want to just get her something practical, but also because they share nearly everything between them already. About the only thing that is definitively off limits is Catra's guitar, and she's told Adora enough about her time with Tao over the years that Adora wouldn't even ask. Beyond that... Well, there's a reason why most of Adora's day off hoodies have small strands of orange fur stuck to them.

Still. I want to get her something that's hers. Something she'll like. Something she doesn't have to share with anyone, not even me.

In the end, she nearly walks past it. In one of the artisanal shops that dot small towns like liver spots, she finds a display of hand stamped necklace pendants, with a design sheet beside it. There are a lot of the usual nature designs and such, but the one that catches her eye is a treble clef with the five staff lines bleeding out from it. They ring the edge of the pendant in a half circle, and scattered haphazardly along the lines are the other music notes.

The lack of proper order would drive Adora insane. She understands that it's just meant to look pretty, not be an accurate representation of musical notation, but still... She knows her own (broken) brain well enough to know that.

It suits Catra, though.

"Hey," Mismatched eyes looked down at Adora as her head draped backwards over the back of their desk chair, the throbbing behind her left eye threatening to escalate into a migraine. "Guess I don't have to ask how the composing's going."

"It sucks," Adora groused back, sitting up and gesturing Catra over. She jabbed at two particular spots with the half chewed off eraser end of her pencil, two hard jabs each, like she was filing a complaint. "Most of it is just what I'm going for, but these two places here... They aren't sounding right. I've been going back and forth over structure all afternoon, but nothing I do helps."

"Hmmm..." Catra stroked her chin and nudged Adora over so she could sit on the arm of the chair (they'd never gotten around to requesting a second, mostly because Adora didn't want to risk Shadow Weaver suspecting they were getting too chummy.) "Got any scratch paper?"

Adora pointed to the pile of half crumpled notebook paper she used when making adjustments and Catra snorted. "Ok, dumb question. Just let me see here..."

Grabbing a pen, she quickly inked a fresh set of staff lines and copied the notes Adora had already put down, making sure to leave space to work. Glancing between the two, she drummed her fingers on the desk, playing along in her head.

"Hmm..." Catra murmured, worrying at her lower lip with a fang in a manner that was... Oddly distracting. "Ok, how 'bout this?"

Adora jolted, tearing her gaze from Catra's face to look at the sequence of notes scribbled onto the scratch paper. She paused, brow furrowing as she played them over in her mind's eye. It was a little unorthodox, veering away from the path she had carefully laid out... But also blending well with the next part. Almost like the notes took a quick detour and then lead the listener back to where she wanted them.

"Yeah..." Adora replied thoughtfully, the tension all over her body starting to smooth out. "Yeah, that could work."

"Awesome. Let's take a look at the next part."

They ultimately ended up spending several hours going over the entire piece, sussing out every place where Adora was having even the slightest niggle of unease. She didn't accept all of Catra's changes and Catra didn't push the matter, but the ones she did...

They felt right. More right than they had ever felt when it was just Adora running circles around herself.

When they finally finished up she looked over at Catra, tail waving sedately in that way it got when she was simultaneously engaged but relaxed, and asked, "Umm... Do you want to learn with me? I like doing this."

'I like making music with you.'

Catra paused, looking over at Adora searchingly, almost like she couldn't believe the question had come up. No matter how many years had passed between them, that look never really went away, and every time she saw it Adora's chest ached in a way that was hard for her to process.

"I'd like that."

Catra's composing style is very different from Adora's. More wild, more willing to bend and break the rules if it means maintaining audience engagement, but there's always an underlying order to the chaos. To her surprise and pleasure, Adora found herself learning just as much from Catra as Catra was learning from her. Their styles brought out the best in each other.

The jingle of a bell kicks her out of the memory. Mind made up even though it's nearly double her budget, Adora scans the stand of necklaces for the one with the treble clef pattern.

It isn't there. Adora swallows down the disappointment, though she can't help the sigh. Of course. The town was well aware of the large population of music students a short drive away and catered to them accordingly. But there are also dozens of kids out on the street tonight. It isn't that big of a surprise that the design sold out.

Not surprising, but disheartening nonetheless.

She's just begun to turn away when a voice calls from the back. "Hang on a sec there, little miss."

Adora jumps, but remains where she is as a large Taurian man with a massive snow white beard trundles out from a door behind the counter, wiping his hands on his apron. "Was there a particular design you were interested in?"

Adora points at the treble clef, hope rising. "This one. But it looks like it's already sold out."

"Hmm..." The man scratchs at his chin. "Well with Winterfest coming up, I'm out of blank pendants-"

Adora's shoulders slump.

"-But," The man continues with a smile. "I can double stamp it onto the back of another. Ordinarily I'd charge extra for that, but it's my fault for not ordering enough blanks. Rookie move. Besides, it's the holidays. Now would that be all right by you?"

Nodding frantically in case he changes his mind, Adora scans the other designs, quickly alighting on one in particular. "That one!"

"The claw marks? Bit of an odd combination, but the customer is always right," The old man winked as he reached out to take the necklace from her. "My jig and press is in the corner over here if you wanna watch."

Adora was glad he specified, because as nice as the man seemed there was no way in hell she was going into a back room with a stranger. But she stood next to the window beside a display of miscellaneous knick knacks and puzzles, watching him carefully place the pendant in a cushioned stand to avoid damaging the already printed side and tighten it into place before moving beside the machine.

"You're gonna want to cover your ears," He tells her, patting the machine with one massive hand. "Had to switch to a steam press when the arthritis caught up to me. Used to do it all by hammer. This boy's okay, but he gets loud."

Adora nods, glad for the warning when he bellows "Clear!" and the machine's hammer comes down once, twice, three times with a sound like the ringing of an enormous bell. Once the machine is stopped and carefully turned off, the old man removes the pendant from the press and hands it over to Adora for inspection. "What do you think? Does it pass muster?"

Adora runs her fingertips over the impressions in the metal, memorizing the feel of it, the leftover warmth of the impact. "Perfect."

"Good. Now let's get you rung up."

Counting the five dollars she attempted to surreptitiously slip into the tip jar (the old man winked as he turned back around, so stealth fail) Adora went very over budget, but the others would have to put a gun to her head for her to admit it.

Besides, it's Catra. They already know she's the sole exception to all of Adora's carefully maintained rules.

With everything finished, she continues trudging through the snow toward the park, breathing a sign of relief as she moves away from the shopping district and the people thin out; no one wanting to go to the park in the middle of such bleak weather. Angling around a clustered group of bare trees, she spots the small clock tower in the distance, as well as the figure already standing beside it. Grinning, Adora picks up the pace a bit until she can see Catra clearly and--

Her breath catches.

Since her only experience with this kind of thing has been through books, Adora always expected this moment would be more dramatic. Like back to back in the middle of a fight, or eyes locking from up on stage. Something spectacular, like fireworks, lime explosions, like the feeling of playing a song without a single mistake for the first time. It's always seemed like such a big deal in the stories, and in a way, it is.

Because there's Catra, lost in her own world as she gazes up at the streetlight that's just come on, her left hand extended to let the snowflakes fall into her palm and the light catches the orange of her fur just right to make a blaze of color against the black of her coat. She looks so small, standing in that space all alone on a cold winter's night, but Adora knows deep down that she could never be that small, not when she's Catra, not when she means so much...

Pretty much everything about the past hour--about her entire life since they met if she's being honest--snaps into crystal clear focus.

Oh. I get it now. I'm in love with you.

It's a bad idea. Adora knows that. Shadow Weaver is enough of a menace while believing Catra is simply her roommate, her sometime tool--and Catra had ended up being all too right about the torture not stopping, even after years of Adora trying to direct Weaver's attentions away from her. If the evil old bitch figures out Adora's feelings run deeper, so much deeper...

Her heart beats double time. This whole thing is an unmitigated disaster.

But it's still the best worst thing that's ever happened to her.

She must make a noise, because Catra's ear twitches in her direction, snapping her out of that distant contemplation. She turns her head and looks at Adora, lips curling in a lopsided grin. "Hey, Adora. Wow, you look like you've seen a ghost."

Adora blinks, coming back to herself and mumbling the first excuse that springs to mind. "... Just cold."

"Well no shit. C'mere."

When she closes the distance Catra glances around warily, making sure they're the only ones around, before reaching up and retying the scarf around Adora's neck, patting it once when she's done. "There. I know I make it look good, but you don't have the advantage of fur like me."

Adora looks down at the thin AC/DC t-shirt that Catra's wearing beneath her half open coat, the line of her collarbones and neck, and makes a snap decision. "Is it okay if I give you your present now?"

Catra blinks, a little thrown by the non sequitur. "I mean... Sure? Do you want me to give you yours?"

"I'm good with either," Adora shrugs, trying to ignore how fast her heart is beating, how much she wants to do this before this moment slips away. "I just want to."

There's a long moment of silence as they each examine the other, equally searching. What Catra's looking for, Adora doesn't know. She isn't sure she wants to know.

"Okay."

Breathing deep, Adora reaches into her pocket and pulls out the necklace on its leather cord. Careful to keep the pendant hidden in her hand, she passes it over, fingertips sparking as it's taken. Catra brings it close to her face, running her fingers over the four parallel slashes on the side facing her.

"Why the claw marks?"

Adora laughs, nervous butterflies positively rioting in her stomach. "Because you're a badass. Duh."

"True," Catra smirks, flipping it over and squinting at the other side. "And this?"

"Badass, loves music with all your heart. Not mutually exclusive concepts," Adora says, trying not to give away how much she thinks about this, how much she wants to take that hand in hers. She settles for a playful shoulder bump instead. "Plus we all know you're secretly a big softie."

"Excuse you, I am all sharp edges," Catra giggles, lightly elbowing her before transitioning into a soft little smile. "... Just not with everyone."

Oh God oh God oh God. That smile will absolutely be the death of her.

Swallowing past her horrible awareness of that softness, Adora asks, "So you like it?"

"I love it. Good luck ever getting me to take it off," Catra laughs, then frowns, flexing her fingers. "Hands have gone a little numb, though. Help me put it on?"

Adora.exe promptly crashes to desktop. But she still somehow manages to move, helping Catra hold back her mane so she can slip the leather cord over her head and tuck it beneath her hair. If she hesitates a moment too long in letting go, at least Catra only shoots her an amused glance. "How's it look?"

"Great," Adora manages to croak out, trying to swallow past the sudden dryness in her throat. "You look great. Umm... Happy early Winterfest, I guess?"

"Well, I'm gonna hold onto yours a little longer," Catra laughs, playfully sticking out her tongue before reaching out. "C'mere, you big dork."

Adora shuffles closer, mind and heart both screaming as Catra draws her into a hug, nuzzling her head against the side of her neck. A little whisper. "Thank you."

Adora swallows again, even harder. "You're welcome."

Between them, the necklace rests, the music side pressed right up against Catra's heart.

----------

Fun fact: the shopkeep is based off a cool old dude selling machine pressed necklaces I ran into at a Scottish festival when I was 13, and he made such an impression I never forgot him. Anyway, happy Valentine's! Have a Big Gay Realization!

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Kismet {9}

Henry Cavill x Famous OFC Aliya Taylor

Warning: Slow Burn, Mild Cursing, Dialogue Heavy, POV Changes

Words: 3.5k

Summary: Aliya is a singer turned model turned actress. Since she was fifteen, she’s been creating her empire in the entertainment world. As the daughter of a famous fashion model/designer and Hollywood director, you’d think life is easy for her, but her past has been anything but easy. Due to past trauma, she’s forever changed and no longer trusts any man that is not in her family and a select few in her team. She’s sworn off love and serious relationships and has planned never to fall again, but love isn’t something that can be planned. It just happens when it’s meant to. Can Aliya outrun a love that seems hellbent on holding tight to her, a love that is Kismet?

If you enjoyed this please LIKE, COMMENT, REBLOG!! 😘  

As always, thank you so much for reading. ❤️❤️

***Loosely Edited/Proofread***

***Interactive***

Previous Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 

The change within you was instantaneous, and your body fought it like a foreign virus. You’d barely slept a wink the night before. You tossed. You rolled. You took up your phone and hovered over Henry’s contact only to put it back down and toss and turn some more. Half of you wanted to talk to him so badly, but the other half wanted you to practice some restraint. There was no happy middle ground, and because there wasn’t, you struggled to find any peace in your mind. By the time you managed to fall asleep, it was one hour before you had to get up to prep for your day. When you opened your eyes, the first thing you saw was a message from the culprit to your sleeplessness himself.

 MSG Henry: Good morning, beautiful. I didn’t sleep a wink. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I must have picked up my phone ten times to text or call you. It’s torture not being able to hear the one voice you want to hear more than anything.

 As soon as you read the words, your heart literally melted, and butterflies filled your belly.

 “Christ almighty,” you whispered as your fingers itched to rapid-fire. Before you could catch yourself, you’d already typed out a reply and sent it.

 MSG: Good Morning to you too, handsome. I know what you mean. I didn’t sleep either. I almost called you so many times. I think you’re addicting.

 You reread the message then groaned at the last sentence.

 “Really, Aliya, addicting?” You rolled your eyes hard and pushed to get yourself ready for the day.

 By the time you’d left the hotel, he still hadn’t replied, and you regretted responding altogether.  So, here you were sitting in one of your four meetings for the day trying to keep your head in the game and your mind off of Henry’s lips, or his eyes, or the feel of his muscular arms around you. It was proving more complicated than it sounded. When you weren’t thinking of his lips, or his eyes, or his arms and kisses, you were overthinking your message and his lack of response.

 A little more than halfway in your first meeting, your phone went off, and you had to make yourself slow down and not leap for it. Nonchalantly, you glanced at the screen and saw Henry’s name.

 MSG Henry: Addicting, huh? I like that, but you should not be talking. I have been addicted to you since the day you bumped into me.

 Any worries you’d had the last few hours melted away, and a smile spread across your face.

 MSG: Do tell me more, Mr. Cavill.

 Barely a minute passed before another message came in.

 MSG Henry: I would rather tell you while looking in your eyes so you can see the depth of which I mean them in my eyes.

 You bit your bottom lip and closed your eyes. He was different alright, you thought.

 MSG Henry: I’m sorry it took me this long to reply. I’m trying to finish up all business between today and tomorrow. I had to hide my phone from myself, or else I would have been messaging you this entire time.

 You couldn’t lie. That felt good to know that he was having as much of a struggle going about his typical day to day tasks as you were. The knowledge of that comforted you, but it also worried you. This thing was still so new. For the duration of your meeting, you texted on and off. It continued as you moved to your second and third meetings, and by then, your focus was shot. The only thing you cared about was what he was saying.

 You loved how open he was. He always found a way to describe to you just what he was thinking or feeling while still remaining mysterious enough to have you wondering what he felt and thought. It was interesting. You’d always been able to predict every man that tried to enter your life. You could predict their motives, what tactics they’d use to try to weasel themselves in, and you often could predict how things would end. With Henry, you’d been having a difficult time with those predictions. It bothered you.

 By the time you got back to your hotel room, it was nearing seven o’clock. You wasted no time putting your phone on silent to concentrate on a little self-care beginning with a soak in the jetted tub. You did your best to keep your mind open to allow the meditation track you played to really work at loosening the knots in your shoulders and tension in your neck. The stress of your life, mainly from work, was really beginning to show. It had always shown, you just never listened to your body whenever it told you to slow down or take it easy.

 Many of your friends and family teased you that you lived to work instead of working to live. There were times you were inclined to agree with them because you didn’t need to work so much to maintain the lifestyle you were accustomed to. You had more money than you knew what to do with. You could afford to take time off to recharge but, you’d lived with the belief that the less time you had to be idle, the better it was for your mental and emotional health. Idle hands, after all, were the devil’s playground. You’d grown so accustomed to working nonstop that you didn’t know how to just do nothing.  

After almost two hours in the bath, as you walked into the bedroom, you saw your phone light up. It was an incoming call from Henry. Sighing, you plopped onto the bed, trying to fight back the smile that wanted freedom. The smile won the battle.

 “Hello?”

 “Did I wake you? I called earlier but--.”

 “No, I’m awake. I put my phone on silent and took a long bath,” you clarified.

 “Ah, that sounds relaxing. Maybe I should try that. I’m feeling this burnout more and more.”

 “Those who are serious about their craft work too much.”

 Henry sighed softly, and you wondered if there was a hint of mint and Guinness on his lips.

 “I don’t want to work tonight,” Henry declared. “Tonight, I want to be with you.”

 You dropped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. “Oh, do you now?”

 “Yes,” Henry confirmed, his voice dropping in baritone. Your belly fluttered, making you press your palm against it.

 “Have you eaten?”

 “I haven’t,” you breathlessly replied.

 “Good. I’ll be around for you in forty-five minutes.”

 You sprang upward. “That’s not enough time.”

 “Oh no? High maintenance are you?”

 You snorted and shook your head, hearing the tease and challenge in his voice.

 “Forty-five minutes then, just don’t get mad when I don’t look like pictures in magazines,” you quipped.

 “Come as you are.”

 Your reflection caught your eye. Because you’d gotten your hair slightly wet in the tub, it was now in a half natural half blown out state, making you look crazy. You doubted forty-five would be enough to tame it.

 “See you soon,” you said before hanging up to focus on getting yourself together.

 Forty-nine minutes later, you were dressed and on your way down in the elevator. As it made its way down, you assessed your appearance, thankful you were able to straighten your hair again to add a few loose curls. Part of you hadn’t wanted to bother, but you knew the dress you were going to wear would be better complemented with a sleek look. Your eyes skimmed the half sheer and half bodycon black dress you wore, loving that it was the right mix between sexy and classic. You added another layer of your mauve tinted lip gloss and just in time for the doors to open.

 It didn’t take long for you to spot him sitting in the lobby where one of the big-screen TVs were placed. He was watching a rugby match. You crossed the black and white designed tiled floors and approached behind him. When you dipped to his ear, his scent almost had a moan escaping you—almost.

 “Either, no matter where you are, you gravitate to rugby, or I took too long,” you whispered.

Henry turned, and the moment his eyes landed on you, a dumbfounded look washed across his face. You tried not to bashfully look away as you watched his jaw drop when his eyes took in the full view.

 “Wow.”

 A giggle that would have been nauseating from someone else slipped from you, making you press your fingertips to your lips.

 “You’re breathtaking.”

 You smiled, then gently tapped his chest.

 “Stop.”

 “I’m being completely truthful.”

 Those damn butterflies made their presence known once again.

 “Thank you,” you whispered.

 Henry held out a single peony to you. “For you.”

 As you took it, your smile widened. “Wow, one of my favorite flowers.”

 “Is that so?”

 You nodded.

 “Hmm, happy coincidence,” Henry replied as he stood and buttoned his suit jacket. Once done, he held out his arm for you. “Shall we?”

 You nodded and looped yours with his, ready for whatever the night brought on.

 ��-Henry-

As you sat across from him under the hanging flowers and dim lighting of the restaurant perusing the menu, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. It could have been the way the golden light bathed your skin, giving it an almost glowing aura. Or it could have been the soft smile pasted to your subtle painted lips. It could have even been the spell of the restaurant, the classical music playing, and the sweet scent of flowers that surrounded the two of you. Whatever it was, he itched to touch you, itched to get closer, and itched to do nothing but find a way to keep a smile on your face.

 “What?”

 Realizing you were now looking at him, he smiled back at you.

 “Nothing.”

 “No, no. That’s a something look,” you said, still not able to not smile.

 “It’s nothing,” he repeated.

 “Henry, seriously. What is it?”

 You reached out and gently slapped his hand, then rested it on top of the table.

 “Nothing, really. It’s just—I can’t seem to keep my eyes off of you,” he admitted.

 Your smile slipped, revealing a serious expression for a few seconds before you smiled again and dipped your head in a bashful way. Unable to keep his hands to himself any longer, he closed the gap between your hands and took yours.

 “Your parents must be proud to have raised such a charming son.”

 He smiled, then shrugged. “She has five of them.”

 “Bless her heart,” you added, making him chuckle.

 A comfortable silence drifted between you as he enjoyed the softness of your hand in his and the way your warmth mingled with his. He could get used to this, he thought to himself. When the waiter returned to the table to pour the chosen wine into your glasses, you pulled your hand away, but he didn’t take offense.

 “So, by this time next week, I will be off the grid,” he said after the waiter walked off again.

 A quizzical look swept across your face.

 “Off the grid? Are you a spy?”

 He smiled. “I promise I’m not.”

 Another waiter approached the table, this time carrying your selected third and final courses. He thanked the waiter as he laid the plates before you before he retreated.

 “You were saying,” you prompted, lifting your dinner fork from the selection of three different ones to your right.

 “I’ve earned some much needed R&R.”

 With your fork paused at your lips, you smiled. “Oh, that’s great. Congratulations. When was the last time you took a holiday?”

 He watched you chew and quickly got lost watching your mouth. It took him several seconds to regain his train of thought.

 “Eh-em, uh—perhaps a year and a half, if we are talking about a true holiday.”

 “Wow, that’s a long time.”

 “What about you?”

 You smirked, then scoffed. “Define holiday.”

 He returned your smirk then rested his knife and fork atop the braised beef on his plate before he replied. “Time off, no work, nothing that you have to worry about that can cause stress,  anxiety, or tension. Oh, and of course, sleeping late, drinking until three or four in the morning, fun every day, and feeling refreshed upon return.”

 You smiled as you finished chewing. He watched you take another sip from your glass and knew the wine was only making your lips even sweeter than they already were.

 “Ha! Jeez, when you define it like that, it’s been years upon years,” you replied.

 “Not good at all.”

 You nodded. “Tell me about it.” A soft smile was still on your lips as you placed another forkful of the pan-seared sea bass you were eating.

 With those words, a thought formulated in his mind, and it was a thought he wondered if he put words to would you be receptive. The remainder of dinner passed comfortably. Another reason why he couldn’t stop thinking about you and enjoyed being around you was because your conversation was always excellent. There was never any form of discomfort or awkwardness between you. You easily talked about so many things, and the things you said were always thought-provoking and intelligent. While everyone thought you were just a pretty face, you’d repeatedly allowed him to see that the world knew nothing.

 His hand was rarely without yours in it, and when he held your hand, you softly raked your fingernails against the palm and fingers. Every time you did it, the goosebumps that raced across his skin sparked a reaction that was visible much, much lower than his hand. Everyone else in the restaurant could have disappeared for all he knew because you’d captivated him and every single one of his senses.

 By the time you left the restaurant, it was close to midnight, but you didn’t seem to care what time it was. You held onto his hand as you walked along The River Thames. He often did this late at night when he couldn’t sleep. It was really the only time he could come and not be bothered or recognized because he was more than likely the only one there. Tonight your laughter danced through the air, and the gentle ebb and flow of the water only helped the glistening light from the bridge and neighboring buildings shimmer that much more. It was quite romantic.

You stopped and pressed your back to the iron gating that kept pedestrians out of the river. You stretched your arms out, leaning back as if to really enjoy the gentle breeze.

 “It’s a beautiful night,” you sighed out.

 Just like that, he drifted closer to you until there were only a few inches between your bodies. When you came upright again, your smile was still bright, even realizing he was so close.

 “Are you trying to push me in?”

 He smiled and shook his head. “Never.”

 “Oh no?”

 “No,” he repeated, taking another step to you.

 You bit your bottom lip then sucked it into your mouth, and he became even more painfully aware that he hadn’t sampled them since the night before.

 “Unacceptable,” he whispered.

 “What?”

 Reaching out, he cupped your jaw and slid his thumb across your cheekbone while he slowly traced every inch of your face to his memory. When his eyes met yours, he fell another foot or two deep into the quicksand-like pit of his growing feelings for you. He was so close to going under it was alarming.

 “It’s unacceptable that I haven’t tasted your lips in over twelve hours.”

 He heard a soft gasp escape your lips, and it was the only sound you made before his lips pressed to yours. The only move you made was to entangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. The feel of your fingers against his skin brought those familiar goosebumps. He moaned, then pulled you flush against him. The feel of your body against his made his heart thump rapidly, and when you moaned against his lips, the need to consume you took precedence.

 When he delved his tongue into your mouth, he was shocked when you swirled yours around his, and the sensual move had him pressing you firmly against the iron behind you. It was out of character for him to do this so wide in the open, but he felt himself doing things that no one would ever guess he would do when he was with you. Your soft nibbled on his bottom lip brought his mind back to the rising dilemma, rising being the operative word.

 Pulling his lips from yours, he rested his forehead to yours. Both of you didn’t speak; instead, you were both lost in trying to catch your breath. Long moments passed, and in those moments, he fought to regain his composure. He’d never reacted to anyone the way he reacted to you.

 “Come with me,” he whispered, his voice shakier than he’d expected.

 Your eyes fluttered open, and he didn’t know if it was wishful thinking, but he swore he saw actual stars in them that put the night sky to shame.

 “Where?”

 “Away on holiday.”

 You pulled back a few centimeters and gazed into his eyes more intently. He watched them dart from his left eye, then to the right and back again. Slowly the stars vanished, and humor replaced them.

 “Good one,” you said before you laughed out loud, pulling your body from his.

 “Oh my god, you really had me going for a second,” you said through laughter.

 You took two steps as if to continue walking, but he laced his fingers with yours and pulled you back before him. You gasped, and the sound of it made him close the space between you again, pressing you onto the iron bars. With his body pressed to yours leaving no evidence of there being two bodies, you moaned, and the sound almost had him capturing your lips again. If he did though, he didn’t know if his hands would remain respectful.

 “I wasn’t kidding.”

 Your eyes were on his lips, and the desire for you to take control, almost overrode his desire to be in control—almost.

 “What?”

 “Come on holiday with me, just the two of us, a beach wine somewhere—anywhere.”

 He saw the moment you realized he was as serious as a heart attack.

 “You’re serious,” you reiterated.

 “More serious than I’ve been about anything.”

 You didn’t speak for the next minute, but you also didn’t move away. He decided he’d give you the time to consider it.

 You scoffed before you spoke. “What? Henry—we can’t.”

 “Why?”

 You gaped at him as if he were insane.

 “Why?” That was when you pulled away from him and took a few steps sideways while still leaning against the gate. “We—we don’t--.”

 You looked as if you were wracking your brain for a response, but you also looked like you were trying to catch your breath.

 “We don’t know anything about each other.”

 He took a step to you. You didn’t move.

 “Which is why a private holiday would aid in us getting to know each other—uninterrupted without the pretexts,” he replied.

 Your eyes widened before you shook your head then turned to face the water. You peered out silently, baffled. “Henry—we can’t.”

 He approached you, and as he leaned against the gate, you looked at him. “Tell me why,” he requested.

 “Why—because—I—I don’t do—that,” you stuttered.

 “What holidays?”

 He saw the exasperation wash across your face before it went blank. You stepped away again, then cleared your throat.

 “I have an early flight out tomorrow.”

 It was hard not to feel the rejection, but he hid it the best he could. Nodding, he held out his arm for you to take.

 “Then let’s get you back to your hotel.”

 The entire ten-minute walk, his mind went from one thing to the next. He worried he’d come on too strong, or that he’d said the wrong thing, or somehow offended you. Then he went back and forth with his decision to even ask you. Part of him felt like maybe he was jumping a little too far ahead, but the other part of him felt there was nothing wrong with inviting you especially based on how things had gone the entire night and the vibes he picked up. That made him wonder if he’d read the evening entirely wrong.

 When he stopped with you in your hotel's lobby, he was in no hurry to ask you again. He’d begun to feel quite stupid. His hurt feelings needed the night to recover. He took your arm from the crook of his elbow and held your hand. Again, you didn’t pull away. Deciding he couldn't afford to give you the time to, he lowered your hand and stepped away from you.

 “Thank you for dinner.”

 “T—thank you,” you said barely above a whisper.

 He nodded and debated his next move. He took a timid step forward and kissed your cheek.

 “Have a safe flight.”

 “Thank you.”

 This one was a whisper.

 “Good night, Aliya,” he breathed out before he quickly kissed your forehead then walked away out the door and down the street without looking back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[couvers]

i keep rereading all the dialogue prompt fics you’ve posted and i need.. more .... pls🥺

maybe number 6 for percabeth if you’re up for it?❤️

6.  “Do you want to get out of here?”

It was getting late. Estelle had already been put to bed – read two stories each by Percy and Annabeth – and, after that little hellion had fallen asleep, Sally had suggested they watch a movie. The movie had been watched and enjoyed. Paul, having school to think of in the morning, had said his goodnights as soon as the credits started rolling. With class also ahead of them first thing in the morning, Percy had figured that was a good time for him and Annabeth to think about heading home themselves. His mother, however, had refilled mugs of tea and settled in to chat a little longer.

That had been an hour ago. Now, Sally was doing a little late night tidying up. Percy figured it was time for him and Annabeth to think about heading home, since they also had class to think about first thing in the morning, but it seemed like Annabeth had other plans. She had curled up against Percy’s side on the couch and showed no signs she intended to move any time soon. If Percy was a betting man, he would’ve said she was a good ten seconds away from beginning to snore.

(Annabeth denied, adamantly, that she snored, but Percy had witnessed it himself on countless occasions and knew the truth.)

Even though he didn’t want to disturb Annabeth when she seemed so at peace, and when they were so close to his mother being able to back him up about her snoring, Percy decided to five her a gentle nudge. “Hey, Beth? It’s getting late. Do you want to get out of here?”

“No,” Annabeth replied, only stirring enough to nuzzle a little closer to him. “Let’s stay a little bit longer.”

“You’re just going to fall asleep,” he argued, though it was hard to fight her when she was acting so cute about it. “It’s only going to be harder to leave if we wait.”

“But I like it here,” she said, practically whining. If she got any cuter, Percy was going to be entirely useless at denying her whatever she wanted.

He attempted to have a semblance of a backbone though, gently rubbing her arm in an attempt at coaxing her further awake. “You’ll like it better at home in your own bed.”

Unconvinced, she shook her head. “I like it here.”

“Why?” Percy asked, all curiosity and no annoyance. He had to admit, he enjoyed hearing that she liked being at his parents’ place. It made him feel good about the fact they’d made standing plans to spend every other Sunday afternoon there, plans that would cut into his and Annabeth’s already limited alone time. Apparently she didn’t mind sharing.

“It feels like you here,” Annabeth explained, the words slow, quiet and lazy, evidence of how tired she’d become. “Being here makes me happy. Must’ve been a nice place to grow up.”

Percy hadn’t really grown up in that apartment. He’d moved there in high school, after his mom and Paul had gotten engaged. In reality, Percy had grown up in a series of apartments, many of which had been little more than closets, and falling apart on top of that. He still understood what Annabeth meant. Even though he hadn’t lived in particularly nice apartments, they had still been pretty great places to grow up, in the grand scheme of things, if only because his mom had been there, making the best of their circumstances.

“It wasn’t too bad,” Percy agreed, turning his head to get a better look at the woman beside him now. “It’s still a pretty nice place to be, too, you’re right.”

“Let’s stay like ten more minutes,” Annabeth suggested, shifting slightly against him to get more comfortable.

Sally appeared from the kitchen, leaning against the wall and observing them with a tiny smile. It never failed to make Percy’s heart break into a sprint when his mom looked at Annabeth that way – like Annabeth had always been hers to shower with love, and she intended to make up for all the years she hadn’t been able to do it as quickly as possible. Annabeth looked at Sally in much the same way, if not with a few more, very understandable, reservations. All of it confirmed what Percy himself had felt from the very beginning of his relationship with Annabeth – they were meant for this, to be together, to share their lives and their families, and build a future of their own one little block at a time.

“Why don’t I just make up the couch for you two so you can spend the night?” Sally offered, that fond smile on her lips only growing. “It’s late and you both look like you’d be better off just getting to sleep now.”

Annabeth lifted her head, blinking sleepily at Percy. “Can we?”

So rarely did Annabeth defer to Percy’s judgment with such entirety, Percy almost didn’t know what to do with himself. It did make sense, though. This was his family, so it was his choice, not that he had much of one when his mother was so clearly happy to have them and the woman he loved so completely content to be there.

“Yeah, it sounds like a good idea,” Percy agreed, reaching over to tuck a rogue ringlet behind Annabeth’s ear. Her sleepy, responding smile only made him that much more confident in his decision.

They managed to get themselves up just long enough to clean up a little in the bathroom. Percy had his own toothbrush at his parents’ place, but that night Annabeth got one of her own, too. When they returned to the living room, Sally had finished dressing the couch with blankets and pillows. It didn’t pull out, but Percy had no doubts they would be comfortable enough. He and Annabeth were disgustingly cuddly sleepers, anyway.

Both Percy and Annabeth were given hugs and forehead kisses goodnight before Sally finally turned in. Percy didn’t miss the way Annabeth’s cheeks flooded with pink when she got hers. If he hadn’t valued his life so much, he might have grabbed his phone and snapped a picture of her that way. Since he wished to live past the night, he had to settle for the mental image.

It didn’t take them long to get settled on the couch after that. Annabeth’s body, half on top of him and half wedged between him and the couch, was a comfortable and welcome weight. His fingers instinctively found their way into her hair, twirling strands around them in what had become a soothing nightly habit. Percy didn’t think he’d ever loved anything quite the way he loved falling asleep each night with Annabeth.

“Thanks for letting us stay,” Annabeth mumbled into the stillness of the night.

Staying would mean an even more rushed than usual Monday morning, but Percy thought it was worth it. “I’m just glad you like here so much.”

“I really do,” she confirmed, the reverence in her voice making it sound a little like a confession.

“I like being here with you, too,” he told her, thinking it just as much as a confession. Percy always liked being with his family, of course, but being there with her was a different kind of special. It made him feel complete.

She hummed softly, tilting her head to press a kiss against his jaw. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he echoed.

Percy wasn’t sure exactly when that had become their nightly ritual, saying I love you instead of a standard goodnight, but it was always one of his favorite parts of the day. If the world ended while they slept, he would have no regrets about those being his last words. He never failed to sleep a little more soundly having said them.

Dialogue Prompts!

[evergardenwall]

bookworm tag 🌟

i got tagged by my beloved mutual @wolfsnape !

1. how many books are too many books in a series ?

once it gets past ten, it is definitely Way Too Much for me, so... i think five is a good limit :)

2. how do you feel about cliffhangers ?

unless they're added to the actual end of the saga, i think cliffhangers are cool!

3. hardback or paperback ?

both >:)

4. least favorite book ?

i don't think i have a least favorite book... but the closest to this category are the books i have Never finished, like the song of achilles and this is how you lose the time war. i don't feel very strongly about them, and even enjoyed most of what i've read before giving up on them, but... i don't know. i eventually got bored and did not like as much as i was expecting to (in the case of this is how you lose the time war, it's funny because i love the out of context quotes from this book -- some of them are really beautiful -- but when i was reading it, i was just... not enjoying it and incapable of remaining focused. it felt like it was just pretty words, and...empty).

5. love triangles, yes or no ?

depends on how it's written! i don't mind them not being solved by polyamory, by the way -- as long as the way conflict between the characters is handled in an interesting way. like, both outcomes have their pros and cons, and in my opinion, there isn't one that is better than the other.

6. the most recent book you just couldn’t finish ?

[points to this is how you lose the time war and sighs]

7. a book you’re currently reading ?

it's a manga, but at the moment, i am re-reading witch hat atelier :-)

8. favourite authors ?

haruki murakami, arundhati roy, anne percin, guy de maupassant, and, on a completely unrelated note, india desjardins, because her books were such a huge part of my childhood and i love listening to her speaking in podcasts while washing the dishes or doing the laundry nowadays 😭

9. buying books or borrowing books ?

both... although i too often impulsively purchase books whenever i have money 😬

10. a book you dislike that everyone else seems to love ?

... WELL. these popular books i have never finished, probably

11. bookmarks or dog ears ?

also both!

12. a book you can always reread ?

probably all the books of the aurélie laflamme or the pjo series, because i still have a huge fondness for them :,) and they are easy to read when i don't have the energy for more complex books

13. can you read while listening to music ? 

yes!

14. one pov or multiple povs ?

i am not the biggest fan of switching povs (especially when there are too many), but i do like both. being obsessed with heroes of olympus did that to me 😔

15. do you read a book in one sitting or over multiple days ?

it really depends on my mood and the book's length (and whether or not i am hyperfocusing)!

i am so sorry for not having much strong opinions... i hope my answers to the questions still were interesting to read 😭

tagging @bauliya, @catilinas, @penguinooooooo, and @satans-poptarts, if you want to!

[xncasi]

EDIT: jdkdjfkdkd I DIDNT WRITE A TITLE & also cuz someone requested i will deliver: a pt 2 will follow!

just a short snippet of writing i felt like doing, based off the song “Butterfly’s Repose” by Zabawa :) i edited as i went along so it might be a bit messy, i’m sorry >>>

Dr. Spencer Reid x shy!reader

length: 11.2K

warnings: a LOTTA angst, small fluff, emotional abuse, death

—————————————————

Dr. Reid is one of many things, as y/n has noticed, but she’d never say that he was overtly emotional. From the time that she started working for the BAU until now, which has been about five years, she’s come to know this enigmatic man. 

Not only has she gotten to know him though, but she’s begun to care about him. Sure, she cares deeply about the well-being of the team; which of its members wouldn’t? But this strong surge of emotions came early on and have since remained. 

She can vividly recall the first case she’d worked on with her new coworkers, back when she was fresh to the BAU. The unsub’s signature had been riddles that apparently would reveal the location or subject of his next attacks. They’d spent night after night poring over those puzzles, and she can practically taste the bitter, old coffee that the station had offered them. But more fondly she can recall Dr. Reid’s furrowed brows, the way he’d sat for hours in front of papers, trying to write down new ideas that came to mind. Y/n can remember the way his eyes lit up when he finally pieced it all together, the quickness of his words and the way she struggled to understand. 

Morgan had tried to jokingly explain Dr. Reid’s genius prior to her first case, but it wasn’t until she saw it in action that she truly understood. And, to be honest, she was intimidated.

Sure, she’d done well in her classes throughout her school career, but she’d fought so hard to reach her dream job. The endless late nights of studying and bitter tasting coffee had pushed her through all the required class credits she’d needed; y/n had never stopped working, never wanting to possibly even entertain the idea that she couldn’t make it. And to finally be able to say she’d succeeded, and then to walk through the doors of the FBI and BAU after a few years of working in the field; it was a dream come true!

And yet...she couldn’t ever quite understand how the genius was just so smart without even seeming to try. He could read full books in ten minutes, recite statistics he’d only read about once, and was able to piece together puzzles that saved countless lives. She wasn’t jealous, per-say, but she yearned to know how he did it and who he was. 

And so, the quiet and reserved y/f/n watched. She wasn’t a woman of many words, and yet she’d still been able to contribute to a variety of cases. Hotch knew that despite her lack of words she was still a valuable asset, and that’s really all that mattered to her. 

But that’s besides the point. 

Around the year mark of her joining the BAU, something happened. Dr. Reid and her had been assigned by Hotch to interview the supposed unsub’s father one last time; they’d arrived thinking it’d be another simple interview, but the father ended up pulling a gun on them both and managed to shoot him in the leg. Something about “protecting his son” she believes, but one way or another it didn’t matter. 

Dr. Reid had been bleeding so heavily that y/n had thought his femoral artery had been pierced. She’d shot down the father and then fallen beside her partner, doing her best to apply pressure to the oozing wound. Those few minutes they spent together had been filled with talking, something which she hadn’t been very good at. Who is she kidding, she STILL isn’t good at it!

But anyways, getting back to the point--

To keep Dr. Reid alert, y/n had made small conversation with him. She’d asked about his favorite books, and then his favorite lines from those books. She questioned his music taste and took mental notes on all of it. So was it a surprise to him when he’d woken up to her asleep next to his hospital bed, one of his favorite books laying haphazardly in her lap?

She isn’t sure. 

After that, their friendship blossomed. Dr. Reid would talk about his favorite books, music, or movies and y/n would listen. They’d often meet up for coffee and walk to work together, and they often were paired up during cases because of their efficiency together. Y/n favored the quieter, library-like settings of a cafe and Dr. Reid would follow suit; bars were never exactly his thing anyways. They shared coffee and tea recommendations, they’d converse about classical literature, and sometimes he would accidentally spoil books for her because of how fast he read. 

(She’d never forgive him for spoiling the ending of “A Farewell to Arms.”)

The friendship between the two of them was strong, and it grew to a point where y/n might’ve even considered him to be her best friend. 

In her third year at the BAU, though, y/n had started dating a guy outside of work. At first it started okay; they’d go on romantic dates to fancy Italian restaurants, the ones where Frank Sinatra played in the background of a dimly lit, large room. He’d brought her her favorite flowers, and he even tried to drink the tea she liked. And Dr. Reid had put up with it all, only crossly wondering to himself WHY he felt so agitated whenever y/n would bring her new beau to their bar nights. Why wouldn’t he be happy for her? Y/n was his best friend after all, and she deserved to have a man who loved her. 

Around the third month of their relationship though, he began to notice how much more exhausted y/n had become. She often was late or didn’t show up to get coffee with him in the mornings, and she was unusually silent towards everyone when working cases. Whenever she had to take phone calls she’d step outside, and Dr. Reid had to simply pretend like he didn’t see her strained expressions when she entered the room again. This continued on for a good two months before he finally stepped up and asked y/n what was going on. 

It was their first fight.

He’d simply asked if she’d been doing okay, and y/n snapped. The dark bags under her eyes and the frazzled appearance she had screamed that no, contrary to whatever she was saying she wasn’t alright. There wasn’t anything he could do though, not when she raised her voice at him for asking about her well-being. So he dropped it.

He hadn’t expected her to reach back out so soon again though, especially not the exact same night of their squabble. Dr. Reid had been flipping through the pages of an old book he was rereading when his phone began to ring. Surprised at the thought that anyone would want to talk to him at this hour, he’d picked up his phone only to hear her sniffling on the line. She’d quietly apologized many times over, but no matter what he said he couldn’t get her to tell him why she’d called. It wasn’t until he heard a familiar voice yelling in the background and a yelp of fear that he understood. 

Promising to be over soon, Dr. Reid threw his heavy jacket over his shoulders and headed out into the cold and rainy night. The whole way there he’d been touching his phone, wondering if he should’ve call again. What if something happened while he was making his way there? Should he have called the police before leaving? At least he would’ve known then that she would’ve been okay. As he pulled up to the front of y/n’s apartment complex, he spots y/n shivering miserably on the front steps.

It’s less than twenty minutes before she’s back in his warm apartment, in a dry, borrowed pair of pajama pants and one of his old t-shirts. He hadn’t asked her specifically what had happened, not wanting to dredge up any of their earlier fight, but she’d still managed to find herself talking. Dr. Reid had only just given y/n a steaming cup of tea when she’d broken down, salty tears running down her red cheeks and staining the borrowed shirt. He’d settled beside her on his couch, highly aware of the warmth emanating from her body and the way her tearful gaze avoided his. With some gentle coaxing he managed to get an explanation out of y/n. 

Her boyfriend had been cheating for upwards of two months, but she hadn’t been able to leave because of his threats. They’d always changed from one night to the next, but most of them held the same message: if you leave me, I’ll kill myself or hurt you. 

Now Dr. Reid had never considered himself to be an angry person; competition was something he avoided for the most part, and he was incredibly slow to anger. This, though, this made his blood boil. 

And so the young man had gathered y/n in his arms, comforting his best friend as he remained fully aware of how close they physically were. He told himself that this is what friends did, and her? Well, she was too far gone in her own mind to possibly even consider what could’ve been passing between them. 

Now, though, she’s fully aware of how close he is to her. Much like on that night, when Dr. Reid, no -- Spencer -- held her, she’d felt safe. Wrapped in the doctor’s arms she’d known nothing could’ve reached her, not if he didn’t want it to. 

Pressed up against his chest, y/n can feel the past two years of uncertain flirting and the dancing around each other dissipate. The months of awkward glances and longing stares has finally reached a head, finally manifested into real touches and love-filled gazes. 

She only wished it had happened sooner. 

She wished it had happened long before this case, long before they’d flown out here to take on the serial shooter that’d been terrorizing this city. Because now, with her blood pouring out of her chest and abdomen, she knows she has no time left. There’s no more time for first kisses or late night talks, no more shared coffee breaks or reading to each other while curled up together under a blanket. 

Spencer, her best friend who’d she’d loved for so long, has no time either. 

He’s holding onto his best friend’s body, pressing her to his chest with tears welling in his eyes. Sirens sound in the distance, possibly growing closer, but they’re too muted for him to be able to tell. He’d heard the shots and had come running, but it’d been too late. Y/n had been shot four times, three times in the chest and once in the abdomen. She’d toppled over, shock written all over her face as her gun had clattered to the ground beside her.

And now, she can barely remember any of it. She can still feel the ringing in her ears, but now she’s beginning to realize how hard it is to breath. She can taste the metallic tang of blood, and as she coughs and splutters she can feel it running over her lips. It’s warm, too warm. 

Fear begins to overpower her, and she finds herself uncontrollably shaking. “S-Spencer, I d-don’t wanna die,” she rasps, her y/e/c, tear-filled eyes turning to look up into his chocolate brown ones. 

He has to swallow back his own tears, fighting to hold on as he looks down at the person he’s cared about for so long. Stroking her cheek with his thumb, he shakes his head. “Honey, hold on for me, okay?” he asks gently, his voice cracking. 

“I promise I won’t leave you,” he murmurs, tears beginning to slide down his cheeks. Y/n whimpers as she begins to feel a tingling numbness move up her legs. “Spencer, I-I...I love y-you,” she whispers, her hand shakily reaching up for his face.

 Leaning down into the body in his lap, Spencer Reid presses his forehead against his best friend’s. 

Softly pressing his chapped lips to her bloodstained ones, he gently pulls away and rasps, “I know.�� 

As y/n’s eyes begin to flutter closed, she grasps onto her best friend’s hand for dear life and lets out one last, heart-wrenching sob. 

[thegreatestofheck]

Ocean and Alcohol Pt. 10 ✘JJ Maybank✘

part one! part two! part three! part four! part five! part six! part seven! part eight! part nine! 

I feel like I should make a masterlist or something. This is getting kinda crazy. 

(gif not mine! all credit to toesure! thank you for this beautiful gift. I love it) 

Word Count - 6014 Warnings - Fighting, swearing, depictions of verbal, emotional, and physical abuse,  Synopsis - Kie convinces your dad to let you come with her to the annual summer movie series, where tensions between the Pogues and Kooks finally comes full circle. Your dad finds out a secret which means there’s hell to pay for you.  Taglist -  @bitterbethany​​​  @lovelymaybankk​​​  @ilymarkchan​​​  @downbytheouterbanks​​​  @clearcolourlessglass​​​  @obxwriterfan​​​  @tangledinsparkles​ ​​ @chill-sushi​​   A/N - Hey, so this chapter is pretty heavy! There’s some pogue on kook fighting, but also the reader goes through hell with Gerald. I don’t think the depictions are too graphic, but still, if it bothers you, please be cautious. Your safety is my priority! Also, I’ve been feeling rather irritated by my own writing. Every time I reread my work, it just sounds so apathetic and unfeeling, but I didn’t want that to interrupt this series because I know there are those of you out there who still read it! Thank you to those of you who have been interacting with my work in all forms, it is really encouraging. Anyway, here’s part ten! Stay safe, stay healthy, stay groovy, my friends! 

When your dad opened the door and you saw Kie standing there on your front porch, your heart seized for a moment. You thought maybe something had happened to one of the boys, but from the small smile on her face, you could tell that wasn’t the case. 

“What can I do for you, miss?” Your dad asked, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. You neared, meeting her eyes and giving a small wave. She didn’t wave back, but her smile grew wider. 

“My name is Kiara Carrera. My mom and dad own the Wreck? I live not too far away from here,” she said, which was her way of saying that she was a Kook and lived on Figure 8. “I was wondering if your daughter wanted to come with me to the summer movie series today.” 

Your heart soared as you turned to look at your dad quickly. Being able to spend the day with Kie without fearing any retribution from your dad was high on your list of things that would make you very happy. You stepped toward your dad, pleading with your eyes even if he couldn’t see you. 

“Well, Kiara, that offer is mighty nice of you, but-”

“Daddy, can I please go?” You asked with another step, twisting your hands. He turned to look at you, jaw tight. You pinched your eyebrows together as you knit your eyebrows together. He watched you carefully before finally sighing and hanging his head. 

“You’ve been good this summer,” he said. “You can go.”

A smile broke across your face as you glanced over at Kie. She grinned almost as widely. You ran toward your dad, throwing your arms around his neck. For a moment, he hugged you kindly, until he grabbed your arm with an iron grip. You glanced over at Kie and her smile faltered. 

“Anything happens today,” he hissed in your ear, sending a ripple of tremors down your spine. “And you’re dead.” 

You nodded against his shoulder and as you slowly let him go, you tried to fix a smile back onto your lips. He dropped his hand from your arm and smiled again, but you could see the venom behind his teeth. 

“Thank you, Daddy,” you whispered, not confident in the sound of your own voice. 

“Go change,” he told you. “I don’t want my daughter out looking like a whore.” 

With that, he turned and walked, throwing the dirty towel onto the floor at your feet. He flinched as he slammed the backdoor shut, closing your eyes and breathing slowly. 

“Hey,” Kie said as she took a few steps into your house. You opened your eyes and smiled at her. “Let’s get you changed.” 

***

You were in the passenger seat of Kie’s car when you pulled up to Pope’s house. 

“They’re gonna resist coming,” Kie said as she parked her car. 

“What, resist spending all day with us out in the sun watching movies?” You scoffed, opening your side door. “No way.” 

Kie laughed and the two of you walked up to Pope’s front door. Kie lifted her hand to knock, but you stopped her with a sly smile on your face. She pinched her eyebrows together. 

You pounded on the door with your fist and deepening your voice, you called out.

“Kildare PD, open up!” 

Kie shook her head and pressed her palm to her face. You laughed quietly to yourself as you heard a few swear words and bodies shuffling around. Pope finally flung the door open with a forced smile. When he saw the two of you laughing on his doorstep, his smile fell and he glared. 

“That wasn’t funny, Elm,” Pope said with a sigh. 

“I thought it was pretty funny,” you said, glancing behind him to where JJ stood. He hung his head, hiding a small bout of laughter from Pope. 

“What’s up?” Pope asked. 

“Summer movies,” Kie said. “We want you to come.” 

The two boys glanced at each other, sharing something between them that made both you and Kie nervous. 

“I think we should stay inside,” JJ said, walking up to the door to stand beside Pope. You scowled, but quickly tried to shake it off.

“On a day like today?” Kie scoffed. “No way, couch potatoes. Not on my watch.” 

Pope shifted uncomfortably. There was something going on. You weren’t entirely sure what it was, but you didn’t like it. And you were going to find out what it was. 

“Yeah, no, you’re coming with us,” you added, crossing your arms. Whatever it was they were up to, there was no way you were going to let them scheme it out on their own at home. It took a few more minutes of convincing, but you and Kie eventually got both of them in the car. 

“What movie are they playing?” You asked, trying to break the silence in Kie’s car. 

“You’ve really never been to one of these?” Kie turned to look at you as you shrugged. “Even JJ and Pope have been before.” 

“Yeah, like twice,” JJ said, fiddling with his lighter. He was fidgeting more than normal. Something was definitely off with him. 

When you arrived, the grass was already packed. You carried a few blankets in your hands as Kie led you to a clear spot in the grass. 

“I’m glad they’re still doing this,” Kie said with a smile, nearly skipping. “Keep calm and carry on. Back to the OBX life. Aren’t you guys glad we made you come?” 

“Ecstatic,” Pope said without so much of a twinge of emotion as he set a chair down onto the grass. You spread out a blanket and flopped to the ground with a happy sigh. 

“Pope’s couch was pretty comfy, I’ll be honest,” JJ mumbled. 

You glanced up at Kie as Pope and JJ whispered back and forth to each other. She nodded her head toward the concessions stand. 

“Sure,” you said, pushing yourself upward and following after her. There was a smile on your face as you walked beside her, but it fell when you saw who else was over there. A growl came from your throat before you could stop yourself. 

“Down, doggie,” Kie laughed, following your line of sight. “He won’t make a scene here, don’t worry.” 

You scoffed and tore your glare away from Rafe just before he glanced over at you. 

“Two Pepsi’s please,” Kie said to the guy at the concessions, pulling her wallet out of her back pocket. “You want anything, Elm?”

“I got it, Kie.” 

“No, it’s my treat.”

You raised your eyebrows at her and she narrowed her eyes. Finally, you turned back to the guy standing there waiting for your decision. 

“Just a bag of popcorn please,” you said to him. He nodded his head. “Thank you, Kie, you didn’t have to-”

Kie held up her hand.

“You’re my friend, Elm. Not gonna let you starve over a few bucks,” Kie told you with a smile. 

“Hey, Kie, Elma.” At the sound of Rafe’s voice, you felt your entire body seize up. You shut your eyes, hoping that maybe it was a hallucination, that if you willed him to go away, he would. “How are you?” 

Kie turned to look at him while you opened your eyes and took the popcorn and drinks from the stand. 

“I’m fine,” Kie said with the most uncomfortable smile you had ever seen. It almost made you laugh. You looked anywhere but at Rafe, remembering your last conversation with him. He had threatened you, you had threatened him right back, and then he had almost tried to protect you when JJ started shooting. It was confusing and you hadn’t thought of it much, but now that he was in your line of sights, you started wondering about it again. 

“And you, Elma, how are you?” He asked. You looked up at him, meeting his eyes with a glare. 

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” You ground out through your teeth. 

“Just once more, sweetheart.” You lunged forward at the nickname as it sent ice through your bones. Kie stepped in front of you, keeping her perfectly placed smile on her face. You fumed from behind her, glaring daggers into Rafe’s skull. There was a wicked grin on his face as he looked past Kie and straight through you. 

“Tell your boy we know what he did,” Rafe said once he finally looked back at Kie, inching closer. You had half a mind to shove him backward. 

“What boy are you talking about?” Kie asked. You had no idea how she kept her cool so well. If she hadn’t been there, you would have already knocked him back on his ass and given him a few new bruises on his pretty face. 

“He’ll know.” 

That was definitely a threat. And it was a threat to one of your friends, maybe even JJ. Your eyes narrowed even further. If it weren’t for the Pepsi and popcorn in your hands, you might have strangled him. Kie turned away from Rafe, hooking her arm through yours. She pulled you away, but you didn’t take your eyes away from Rafe. He had to know that if he came after any of your friends, you would be there and he would get his ass beat. 

“Watch your dog, Kie,” Rafe called after you, causing a few heads to turn. You made to attack, but Kie wouldn’t let you go. 

“Elm, c’mon. Remember what your dad said,” Kie whispered, tugging you along. You finally whipped your head around, breathing ragged. 

“I really hate him,” you sighed as you sat back down on your blanket. 

“Who?” JJ asked, tensing almost instantly. 

“Rafe.” You popped a piece of popcorn in your mouth. JJ stood, but you put your hand on his knee, pushing him gently back into the chair. You settled between his legs, still glowering as you chewed on your popcorn. 

“He said,” Kie added, handing a Pepsi to Pope. “and I quote ‘You tell your boy that we know what he did’.” 

“What is that?” Pope’s voice raised an octave as he looked over at JJ, who shrugged. 

“Um…” JJ cleared his throat. “Where is he?”

You pointed your finger behind you, staring forward. Pope and JJ spun around to look in that direction. You could feel JJ’s legs bouncing up and down, another sign that he was nervous. Something had happened to him and Pope and it had something to do with Rafe. It was official, you were definitely going to kill him. 

“Great, the whole death squad,” Pope breathed. You scowled up at him for a moment before looking back at the screen. 

“Don’t stare,” JJ said, pushing Pope’s head back to the front. “If they corner me, I’m coming out swinging, okay?”

You sat up, turning back to look at JJ. 

“If that doesn’t work,” JJ continued, plucking his backpack off the ground. You wondered why he had brought it with him. “I got this right here.” 

Your stomach dropped and you looked over at Kie, who had a worried mother look on her face. It wasn’t until her eyes met yours that you realized what exactly JJ meant by it. Pope and JJ muttered back and forth together for a few moments as you and Kie tried to internalize what you had both just realized. 

You pressed your palms against your forehead, sighing heavily. 

“Hey, JJ?” Kie said, her voice tight. “Please tell me that you did not bring a gun here.” 

At the word, you lifted your head, shifting your jaw. Both you and Kie were staring JJ down, which made him visibly uncomfortable. He glanced between the two of you before responding. 

“Kie, I didn’t bring the gun.” JJ twisted one of the rings on his fingers. He was lying. “Everything’s fine, okay?” 

Another twist. Another lie.

Your eyes fell to the bag on the ground as Kie drilled into him about the rules of the Pogues and what not. You barely heard Pope say something about ‘it going down tonight’, but all you could think about was the gun in that backpack. All you had to do was ask JJ for it. He would give it to you. He wouldn’t ask questions. Even if your dad turned up the next day with a bullet in his head, JJ would never question you. 

You forced yourself to look away and engage back into the world of reality. By that time, the first movie had started and your friends had fallen silent. You leaned back against the front of JJ’s chair, resting your head against his knee, trying to get your mind off of the gun. He dropped his hand down to your shoulder, giving a short squeeze. 

Focusing on the movie was a thousand times harder with JJ’s thumb brushing your neck. The actors on the screen were talking to each other, but you had no idea what they were saying. If there was a mind reader in the crowd, they would be scarred after reading what was going on in your head. You clenched your jaw so tightly that it began to ache. The sun started to drop, darkness falling over you and JJ got a little bolder. 

When you couldn’t take it any longer, you put your hand over his and pulled on his arm until he leaned forward. You could see the smile on his face as you turned to whisper to him. 

“I might cut your hand off if you don’t stop, Maybank.” 

JJ laughed and turned to say something, but before he could, Pope patted his arm. JJ sat up and turned toward Pope with a rather irritated “what?”

“I gotta take a piss,” Pope whispered. You laughed to yourself, turning back to the movie that you could now actually focus on. Still, you had no idea what was happening. 

“Hold it,” JJ hissed. 

“I can’t hold it, I drank too much soda.” 

“It’s too exposed, they’ll totally see us.” You raised your eyebrows up at them, but the boys were both too engaged in conversation to notice. 

“I gotta go.” They both looked back. “They’re blocking the bathrooms.” 

“I could distract them so you sissies could go pee,” you said, keeping your eyes on the screen. JJ flicked your neck gently, making you pout. 

“Come on,” JJ said. “I know where.” 

As he shifted in the chair, you took the note and moved away so he could stand up. You huffed, lifting yourself into Pope’s chair beside Kie as the boys scampered off behind a tree. 

“This isn’t good, is it?” You whispered to Kie. She shook her head, a reflection of the screen in her eyes. 

“No, it’s not.” 

You watched Rafe, Topper, and Kelce walk across the lawn behind the same tree. 

“Kie,” you said, tapping her arm and nodding over toward the boys. 

“That is definitely not good,” she said. 

“Should we-”

“No. It’s a boy thing. We shouldn’t get involved.” 

A few more moments went by and none of the boys came back. Your heart started to pound in your chest. You were worried for JJ and Pope, sure, but you were also itching to get Rafe a little bloodied. And when you couldn’t handle it any longer, you pushed yourself out of the chair and hurried over, ignoring the disgruntled protests from the people you walked in front of. 

You weren’t surprised to find that a fight had broken out. You remembered that first fight you jumped into, saving John B and JJ all those weeks ago. This one was eerily similar. 

Kelce held onto JJ, Rafe pounding into his stomach. Topper had Pope by the throat. 

You didn’t take the time to really assess the scene much farther before jumping in. Grabbing Rafe by his shoulder, you spun him around and landed a punch across his face. Pain splintered throughout your hand, but you didn’t care. A startled yell came from him, but it didn’t take him long to compose himself and fight back. 

Kie came running around from the other side of the screen, swinging the backpack with all of her strength. You watched with a smile as she smashed it against Topper’s back. The moment of distraction was enough for Rafe to land a solid punch against your jaw. 

“Don’t fucking touch her!” JJ yelled, struggling against Kelce’s grip. You spat blood at Rafe’s feet. 

“That the best you can do?” You asked. He swung again and you ducked, jabbing him in the stomach with your fist. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Rafe said, wiping blood from his lips. 

“That makes one of us.” 

The scuffle carried on. You and Rafe moved around each other expertly, almost like a partner dance the two of you had been playing for years. The fight wasn’t stopped until Kie used the only brain cells that any of you had and set fire to the screen. Topper let got of Pope, Kelce releasing JJ. 

As soon as JJ was free, he tackled Rafe to the ground. 

“We gotta go,” Kie said, helping Pope to his feet as the screen burned. “JJ, Elm, we gotta go!” 

You pushed yourself onto your feet, cringing against the pain in your ribs. You grabbed JJ’s wrist before he could pound Rafe’s face into the dirt. 

“C’mon, bucko,” you said, pulling him backward. “We need to get outta here.” 

JJ stood slowly, stumbled off of Rafe. You wrapped your other arm around JJ’s waist, pulling him back as the movie watchers started to scramble away from the burning screen. Lacing your fingers through JJ’s, you ran after Pope and Kie as they made a break for her car. 

“Anyone want to fill us in on what exactly happened?” You asked, jumping into the backseat. JJ didn’t even get the door closed before Kie stepped on the gas. 

“I may or may not have totaled Topper’s boat,” Pope said, breathless, as Kie tore out of the parking lot. He started to cough, rubbing a hand against his neck. 

“Here,” you said, passing him a bottle of water before Kie started yelling. 

“What the hell, Pope?” she shrieked. 

“They started it!” JJ protested, half standing. You pushed him back against the seat. “Rafe and Topper jumped Pope while we were on delivery.” 

“They didn’t,” you said. 

“Yeah, they did.” JJ crossed his arms. “So I told Pope to sink Topper’s boat. They deserved it.” 

“Whether they deserved it or not, there’s going to be absolute hell to pay for this,” Kie said. “But first, we gotta get Elm home so her dad doesn’t kill her.” 

You let out a heavy sigh, looking down at your knuckles. The skin had broken from your first punch, blood dribbling down your hand. 

“Let me see your face,” JJ said, putting his hand under your chin and moving your face toward him. 

“I’m fine,” you said, waving him off. “Kelce was beating you pretty bad though.” 

You tried to pull up his shirt to see what kind of damage Kelce had done to his ribs, but he waved you off in the same way. 

“Kie,” Pope said in an airy voice, mocking you. “Let me see you. Are you okay? Is everything alright? Are you dying? You were hurt pretty bad….”

You rolled your eyes as JJ kicked the back of Pope’s seat. Kie was still fuming, unamused by Pope, her knuckles tightening over the wheel. 

“You’re just jealous that you don’t have a girl to fawn over you, Pope,” you cooed, giving a fake pout. “See, JJ here gets beat up and it’s hot as hell and I just can’t keep my hands off of him.”

Pope gagged, rolling down his window to fake vomit. JJ turned to look at you as you grinned at Pope’s reaction. 

“Do you really think it’s hot when I get beat up?” 

You shook your head. 

“No. It makes me want to set Kelce’s house on fire,” you told him, tapping your finger against his shoulder. “But seeing you beat Rafe up…” 

“Seriously, guys, I’m going to jump out of this car if you don’t stop,” Pope said. You finally scooted away from JJ, still laughing. You had been joking to make Pope uncomfortable, of course, but you weren’t lying. Watching JJ beat the shit out of Rafe was incredibly sexy and the next time you got him alone….

But you knew that probably wouldn’t be any time soon. 

A few miles before pulling up to your driveway, Kie stopped the car. 

“Pope, get in the back,” she said. 

“Are you really that mad?” 

“Pissed as hell? Yes. But Elm’s dad can’t see either of you. So, switch places with her. Now.” 

Pope popped the door open and switched places with you. Kie drove the last few miles in silence.

Seeing your house as you pulled up made you sigh. Even if there was a big fight and you get pushed around a bit, the freedom you had felt being out with your friends with no fear as nothing like you ever felt. 

“What are you going to tell him about your bruise?” Pope asked, both him and JJ laying flat against the backseat. 

“I’ll make something up,” you told him with a smile, not looking back. You could see your dad at the front window, waiting. You waved up at him. “See you guys later.”

You didn’t wait for either JJ or Pope to say anything else before hopping out of the car. Kie followed you to your front door. The door was opened before you even made it to the top steps, your dad standing right inside. 

“What happened to your face?” He asked. You smiled at him, rolling onto the balls of your feet. 

“Oh, the bruise?” You asked, pointing at your jaw. “I got excited when we got to the movies, tripped over a curb. I tried to catch myself on a tree, but….”

You lifted your hand to show the cut on your knuckle. Your dad shifted his gaze over to Kie. You could feel her tense under his cold gaze. 

“It’s true, Mr. Gerald,” she said, arms wrapped around her stomach. “It was actually pretty funny.” 

You turned back to your dad with a smile. He glanced between the two of you for a moment before letting out a heavy sigh. 

“Did you have fun?” 

“Oh, yeah.” You remembered the feeling of JJ’s hand against your skin, the feeling of spending time freely with your friends, the feeling of your fist against Rafe’s face. “I had a blast.” 

“Good, I’m glad,” your dad said. “Thank you, Kiara, for getting her home safely.”

“Of course, sir,” she said, but you could hear the strain in her voice. “I hope we can do it again someday...soon.” 

That was a risky thing for Kie to say. One day out with no apparent issues wasn’t about to convince your dad that you could go out more. Still, you appreciated Kie’s attempt. She knew the prison that you lived in, how much worry was on your shoulders whenever you snuck out. Your dad sighed, putting his hands on his hips. 

“I’ll talk about it with my daughter,” your dad said. He opened his hand out to you and you took that to mean that you were no longer permitted to be outside. “Thank you again, Kiara.” 

You stepped inside and turned back to look at your friends. 

“I had a good time today,” you said to her and she smiled. “I’ll see you around?” 

Kie nodded, biting her lower lip. 

“Yeah, see you around, Elm.” 

You cringed as she turned to walk away. Your dad slammed the door shut behind her, but this time, you didn’t flinch. 

“Elm?” he asked, turning to you slowly. “What, the name I gave you not good enough?”

“It’s not like that, Dad,” you said, backing away slowly. “We...we’re friends. We give each other nicknames. That’s the one she picked for me.” 

Your dad narrowed his eyes at you. 

“Go to your room, Elma,” your dad said. “Sleep well.” 

“You too.” 

You hurried upstairs before your dad could say anything else. Kid popped his head out of his bedroom with a smile. 

“Hi,” you said, voice quiet. 

“Hey,” he replied. “How was your day?”

You lowered yourself to the floor, crossing your legs. Kid stepped out of his room completely and copied your position. 

“My day was good,” you told him with a smile. “How was yours?” 

“Good.”

Even though neither of you could really talk about what really happened with your dad standing just underneath you, undoubtedly listening in, it was enough to just sit there and see the smiles on each other’s faces. Knowing that Kid had a great day, whether he was at Dex’s house or playing with his other friends at the arcade or browsing the comic book store, was all that it took to make your heart burn with happiness and pride. It didn’t matter how deep your father’s actions cut into him, your brother never let it ruin his morale. 

“Sleep tight, Kid,” you told him, ruffling his hair. He tried to dodge your hand, laughing as he shoved your arm away. 

“You too.” 

You stood and helped him up. Putting your hands on his shoulders, you steered him back to his room. Once he was back inside, you leaned up against the wall. 

“I love you, Kid,” you said, looking at the floor. “I don’t say it enough.” 

Kid turned back to look at you, the smile gone and a serious look on his face. 

“I know,” he said. “You don’t have to say it. I always know.” 

You smiled, feeling tears prick into your eyes. 

“That’s good to hear.”

“And, El?” You looked up at him. “I love you too.” 

***

You were rudely awoken by the front door slamming shut. You sat up, gasping for breath, whatever dream you had fading instantly. The sound of your father storming back and forth across the lower level of the house, pounding and slamming almost everything he came in contact with, made your bones rattle. Chills ran up your spine as you closed your eyes, trying to build up the courage to go downstairs and confront him about it. The sooner you went, the better things would go. 

Flinging your blankets off, you shuffled out of your room. As you passed Kid’s room, you saw him peak out, just the barest of his eyes visible. You waved him back inside. He opened his mouth to protest, but you shut his door without waiting to hear it. 

You swallowed a lump in your throat before making the long trek down the stairs. Heart pounding, you neared the dining room where your dad was shoving chairs back and forth to make more noise. 

“What...what’s wrong?” you asked, your voice cracking. He froze where he was. Your ears burned with anticipation. Your dad turned to you, his eyes burning with fury. You took a step back, hands dropping to your sides, ready for whatever was to come. 

“What’s wrong?” His voice shook. “What’s wrong is that I was just told that my daughter has been sneaking out and around behind my back, lying to my face, hanging out with the scum of the earth. What’s wrong is that I’ve just learned that you’ve been fooling around with some boy from the cut. That’s what’s wrong!” 

Your heart plummeted into your stomach. After slowly taking in what he said, you tried to control your breathing. 

“Daddy, please, I-” 

“Don’t lie to me!” His booming voice echoed through your house. “You can’t lie your way out of this one, you sly bitch. No, I’ve got proof.” 

Eyes wide, you watched in horror as your dad pulled a stack of photos of his pocket. 

“Explain this one to me. It’s from last night, isn’t it?” He threw the photo at your feet. You covered your mouth with a trembling hand as you stared at it. There you were, sitting between JJ’s legs, his hand resting against your neck. The familiar sting of tears pained your eyes as you looked back at your dad. “What about this one? Can you lie your way out of this?” 

He threw another picture at you. It was you and the Pogues on the HMS, dancing. There was a wide smile on your face as Kie guided your movements with her hands. JJ sat beneath you, his eyes glued to your back. 

“Dad-”

“Oh, this one’s my favorite,” he said with a cruel laugh, looking at the picture in his hands. “When was this? That night you asked to go over to Sarah Cameron’s?” 

It was from that night. You were wearing JJ’s sweater, the sweater that you had hidden in your room. His hands were on the side of your face, his lips against yours. You were smiling. The picture took you back to that day. You remembered the flash of lightning as the storm came rolling in. 

As if a ton of bricks had been dropped on you, a realization dawned on you. The flash you had seen wasn’t lightning. It was the flash from someone’s camera. 

Somebody had been taking pictures of you then, and they had been ever since. 

You looked up at your dad again, a large tear dropping from your eye. Your dad tossed the entire pile at your feet, the photos scattering around you. You and the Pogues at the Wreck, you and Kie at the ice cream shop, JJ teaching you how to surf, John B cheering you on as you shotgunned a beer, you and Pope dancing at a kegger. 

Mind racing, you closed your eyes to try and shut it out, but all you saw were the pictures. You thought you had been safe, you thought you had been clever, you thought he would never find out. 

It goeth before the fall, they say. 

“Did Bradford know about this?” 

You snapped your eyes open, a new breed of fear starting to pump through your blood. You hadn’t protected yourself well enough, but you could still keep Kid out of it. You stepped forward, nearly slipping on the pile of pictures. 

“Kid didn’t know anything,” you said, your voice shaking. Your dad sneered at you, staring down at you and your tears. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“Daddy, I swear, Kid didn’t-” Your dad’s hand shot through the air, hitting your nose and breaking it almost instantly. You gasped, falling back as you felt the blood start to drip down your face. “I swear, I swear. Kid didn’t know. He didn’t know.” 

“So you admit to it?” Your dad shouted, looming over you as you tried to crawl away. “You admit to it!” 

You nodded quickly, your hand slipping on a photo as you tried to crawl away. 

“Yes,” you said as you stared up at him. “Yes. I’ve been out with them. I’ve been sneaking out to see them. To see him. But Kid didn’t know.” 

Your dad lifted his foot and brought it down hard against your hand, the same hand you had dug your teeth into a few nights before. You cried out against the pain, feeling iron tasting blood drip into your mouth. You pulled your hand to your chest in an attempt to stop the throbbing. 

“What’s his name, Elma?” Your dad asked. You started crawling backward again, using your one good hand. “Your little boyfriend, what’s his name?” 

You clamped your mouth shut, lips trembling as you stared up at him. There was no way you were going to tell him. JJ didn’t deserve to suffer for your mistakes. 

“What’s his name!” 

You shook your head furiously. 

Leaning down, your dad grabbed you by your hair and lifted you off the ground. He slammed you against the wall, your back hitting the corner. A whimper came from your mouth before you could stop it. 

“You think you’re so tough?” Your dad seethed, winding up his fist for a punch. You braced yourself for it. Still, your head whipped around when it hit. “You think you’re so clever?” 

Another punch and you felt the skin on your face break, blood spewing from your mouth. 

“Daddy, please-”

“I never wanted you!” He screamed, hitting you in the stomach. “But I try to protect you. I still try to protect you!” 

He pulled you away from the wall, only to slam you back against it again. Hitting the corner for a second time tore the breath from your lungs. You gasped, pain riddling your every movement. You lifted your hands to your head to prevent another punch, but he no longer went for your face. His hands were big and he only needed one to wrap around your throat. 

It already felt like you couldn’t breathe, but now with his hand squeezing, you knew you couldn’t. You tried to pry his hands from around your throat, but your strength was fading fast. You saw Kid standing in his doorway, mouth hung open and tears falling from his eyes. If you didn’t put an end to this soon, Kid would get brave and step in. You weren’t sure you would be able to save him from that. 

“Dad,” you managed to squeeze out. He didn’t loosen his grip. “Midsummers.” 

He looked away from your throat, glancing up at you. 

“What did you say?” 

You pulled at his fingers, straining as you felt your cheeks begin to tingle from lack of oxygen. He released the tiniest bit of pressure from your neck, enough for you to squeak in a small breath. 

“Midsummers,” you said again, your voice a little less weak than before. “I can’t...Midsummers...like this.” 

He seemed to get the picture you were painting. Concealer could only go so far and there was no way you could pull up to Midsummers looking like you were hit by a truck. You had never missed a Midsummers before and there would definitely be questions if you didn’t go. All you needed to do was get your dad’s hand off of your neck, all you needed to do was breathe. You just had to convince him that his reputation was worth more than killing you. 

Apparently, it was. He let your neck go, still holding your hair and pressing you up against the wall. 

“You ever lie to me again and I’ll kill you,” he seethed in your ear. You nodded your head slowly, trying to hold off how badly you wanted to cough. He finally let you go, stepping away as you fell flat against the floor. You coughed, trying desperately to suck in any form of air as you curled your legs up to your chest. You lay amongst the pictures someone had taken, the pictures that had damned you. 

The front door opened and then slammed shut again. 

“El!” Kid raced down the stairs. When he reached you, he dropped to his knees and scattered the pictures even farther. He didn’t even seem to see them as he stared down at you. 

“I’m okay,” you said, tears and blood running down your face. Your voice was harsh like gravel. Speaking just made another wave of coughs shake through your body. Kid put his hands on your back, brushing your hair out of your eyes. 

“Shh,” he cooed, laying down in the pictures beside you as you coughed through sobs. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” 

Who in the hell had taken these pictures? Who could hate you enough to take all these pictures, go through the effort of printing them out, all to show your dad? 

Only one person you knew hated you that much, only person who knew enough about you and the Pogues to have this much evidence against you. There was only one person in the Outer Banks who would want you to hurt so badly. 

Rafe Cameron. 

[sit-back-and-read]

Happy Birthday

Kendra was currently sitting on her bed. It was her birthday, at noon, so in a few hours she would go downstairs and blow out the candles on her birthday cake. She knew that it was supposed to be a surprise, but she had overheard her parents and Seth talking. From the conversation, she knew that her grandparents were coming, along with Warren, Dale, Vanessa, and Bracken. They were most likely already here.

But here she was, in her room, looking through a very particular box of letters. Gavin Rose’s letters.

She had read a certain letter many times. It was the first letter she had received from him. 

Dear Kendra,

I’m very sorry I can’t be there to escort you home.

Crazy news from Dougan, huh? I can hardly believe how upside down everything 

has become! I knew there was something shady about good guys wearing masks

. . . they’ve done away with them now.

I’m off on another mission. Nothing as dangerous as what we went through

together, but another chance for me to prove myself useful. I’ll fill you in later. 

Guess why I like letters? No stuttering!

You’re an amazing person, Kendra. I want you to know how much I have

appreciated getting to know you. Hopefully I’ll get a turn standing guard over 

you and you’re brother in the fall. I hope someday soon we’ll get to know each 

other better.

Your friend and admirer,

Gavin

Kendra quietly wondered if Gavin had meant anything he had written. She remembered looking forward to each letter, rereading the parts about missing her and hoping to see her soon. She had even memorized most of them! Had he had signed that letter “your friend and admirer” with a smirk on his face, knowing that his betrayal would leave her crushed? She hoped not. Kendra didn’t like to admit it, even to herself, but she had fallen totally head over heels for the demon prince. He had seemed so innocent and kind---the complete opposite of Navarog. 

Out of nowhere, Kendra noticed the sentences on the letter seemed blurry. Why was she so upset? She couldn’t be crying, could she? Contrasting her thoughts, a tear slipped from her right eye and onto the paper, making the ink clot around the word “friend”. She felt pathetic. How could Bracken, the most attractive person she had ever met, like her? She was just an ordinary girl who had powers because the fairy queen had pitied her. Dougan had given her that letter around the time of her birthday about four years ago. Why was she still upset over something that had happened so long ago?

The door to her room swung open so fast she jumped. Bracken jumped in holding a box wrapped in blue decorative paper with a metallic pink bow on top. 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” he shouted. Kendra quickly brushed away her tears with her forefinger. She managed a tight, awkward smile. 

“Thanks,” she said, her voice cracking. Bracken’s smile vanished. 

“Hey,” he said softly, closing the door behind him. “You okay?” He sat down next to Kendra on her bed, setting aside the present on the bedside table.

“Yeah,” Kendra replied, “I’m good.”  Bracken looked unconvinced. 

“You never were a good liar, were you?” he asked, brushing a new tear off of her cheek.

“No, I guess not,” she confessed, smiling a bit.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he said, concern in his eyes. “What happened?”

“Well, it’s a long story, and, I mean it happened a while ago…”  Kendra started.

“Oh, come on.  You know I have all the time in the world.”  

“. . . Alright, here it goes.” she said hesitantly. Bracken nodded. 

“So, when I first became a Knight of the Dawn, two other people were getting knighted along with me. One was an old woman who I never got to know very well, and one was a 16 year old boy named Gavin Rose. Me and Gavin were friends from the start, we got picked for missions together, and wrote each other letters,” she said, nodding towards the heap of envelopes and ruffled up notebook papers sitting on her bed. She continued the story.

“Over time, we grew closer. I began noticing small things as romantic implications.” she admitted, glancing over to Bracken, hoping he wouldn’t mind her talking about this. His expression remained neutral, so she continued on.

“We were eventually assigned a mission at a dragon sanctuary. We had to regain a key to an artifact vault. We successfully found and took the key, but trouble began on the way out.

“Two dragons waited in ambush on the top of a pass that was a necessary exit route. We were all ready to fight, but before any one of us had made contact, Gavin transformed. His face elongated, and he grew wings, and before anyone knew what was happening, the pitch black dragon that had been an innocent 16 year old only a moment ago, ate Dougan, and hurled Mara off of the cliff. And then I was alone. I ran to a crevice in the mountain where I knew dragons would not be able to fit. In panic, I didn’t think about their human avatars.

“Before long, the Gavin I had known entered the cave. He was sporting a smile that looked like it belonged in a horror movie, not on his innocent face. He was holding a bag. It was the knapsack that held a pocket dimension to the room Warren was in, injured. He burned it to the ground. If we hadn’t recovered the teleportation artifact, Warren would still be in there, rotting.

“Gavin approached me slowly. He threatened me, tried to hurt me. Of course, the only lasting damage he had inflicted was on the inside. I wanted to break down and cry. I managed to stay strong though, at least until Raxtus came and saved me. He was small, and fit in the tiny cave. Navarog was gone in three bites.” 

Kendra had finished the story. She was staring at her feet. She felt tears coming, and didn’t blink them away, letting them flow down her cheeks. She gave Bracken the letter. When he finished reading, he glanced up at her. “How could he have written those letters Bracken? How could he have written these words down on this paper knowing that in the end he would betray me? Try to kill me?!” Kendra’s voice quieted. “Knowing he never even felt anything for me in the first place?” she looked away. She wished Bracken hadn’t seen her cry. He seemed a little unsure of how to reply.

“He must have been despicable, Kendra. He obviously had no idea how lucky he almost was.” He paused. Kendra wondered what he had meant when he said lucky. “Do you need time alone?”  He asked. Kendra hesitated. She half wanted to sit alone in her bed, alongside the pile of letters, and cry; but she also desperately wanted someone’s comfort. Or maybe just Bracken’s comfort. 

Bracken began standing up.

“No, stay” she said, not truly wanting him to leave. She tugged at his sleeve. He sat back down. Kendra began to notice that he was a little closer than before. Their legs were almost touching. She laid her head on his shoulder, and more tears streamed down her cheeks, making his shirt damp. They sat like that, undisturbed, for what felt like an eternity. Not in a bad way, in a wish-you-could-stay-like-this-forever kind of way.  After a while Bracken broke the silence. He moved his head to look at her. Kendra did the same. 

“No one is ever going to hurt you again.” he promised her. Tears glazed Kendra’s eyes. She looked down and nodded bitterly. “You know I would never hurt you, right? He asked. She looked up, straight into his clear, blue-grey eyes. She realized his face was slowly growing close to hers now. Her nose brushed against Bracken’s, and, moving ever so slowly, her lips found his.

All of a sudden, nothing really mattered. Gavin Rose was beyond her field of thought. The Society of the Evening Star had never been farther away. A dragon war was a problem for tomorrow. And the so many betrayals she had experienced had been made up a few seconds ago, when Bracken’s lips had found hers. 

Fresh tears beelined down her face, making her cheeks sticky. It felt like she had dranken all of Tanu’s bottled up emotions at once. She felt guilt and excitement, confusion and happiness, fear and love. And then their lips parted, and she opened her eyes, and looked up at him. 

“I know,” she whispered. They kissed again, the mood lightened by their connection. Seth sprang into the room. Kendra and Bracken both jerked their heads toward the doorway, where he was standing. For a moment the three of them just stared at each other, unsure of what to say. Then Seth started turning red, as if he couldn’t breathe.  “Seth?” Kendra said, nervous. 

“I KNEW IT!” he screamed suddenly, making Kendra jump. “OH MY GOD WARREN YOU OWE ME TEN BUCKS!” Kendra could hear him running down the stairs. “VANESSA! WARREN! YOU ARE SO NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS!” he yelled, already downstairs. “I TOLD YOU SO!” he yelled, followed by a slammed door. Kendra and Bracken slowly turned their heads toward each other until they were looking directly into each other's widened eyes. And all of a sudden they were laughing. Kendra didn’t stop giggling until Vanessa stood in the doorway. 

“Kendraaa” she said in an accusing tone. 

“Yes?” she said, blushing.

“If what Seth told me is true… did you two…” she turned a little red.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not,”  Kendra said in a smug tone with her head up. “I’ve bet you’ve kissed Waaarreeeeeeen a ton of times” Kendra said, leaving Vanessa speechless. Kendra grabbed Bracken’s hand while Vanessa was thinking of what to say, pulled him up, and ran past Vanessa and out the door. As they ran down the stairs, giggling, Kendra could hear Vanessa say in a fairly loud voice, “I happen to be in my twenties, young lady! You’re 15!” This only made Bracken and Kendra laugh harder. 

“I’m 16 now, actually!”

Kendra could hear Vanessa half-heartedly jogging after them, so she sped up. Kendra threw open the screen door and ran outside, still giggling. She spotted Warren and Seth sitting in two lawn chairs just right of her. Seth was totally wide-eyed, and Warren had his hand out. Kendra gave him a high five and kept running. She heard Vanessa say “Warren!” in an exasperated voice, as Kendra and Bracken, still holding hands, entered her mom’s wooden greenhouse, locking the door behind them.

Kendra, panting and laughing, fell down into her mother’s bed of poppy flowers, her hand leaving Bracken’s in the process. It was pitch black in the greenhouse; her mom used special lights to grow her plants, not real sunlight; and sometimes she forgot to turn them on. Kendra tried getting out of the flowerbed, only to fall back down, laughing even harder. Bracken was also laughing hysterically, about two meters away. After they both calmed down, Bracken spoke.

“Kendraaaa” he whispered “where aaaare yoooooou”, he joked in a spooky voice. It took all Kendra had to stay silent and refrain from laughing again.  “Keeeendraaaaaaaa” he repeated. “I can't seeeee youuuuu.” Kendra snickered, and quickly covered her mouth. Bracken’s silhouette turned towards her and started walking. He passed her, and so she silently got up and started creeping away. Just when Kendra thought she found a great new hiding spot, she felt warm arms wrap around her waist, twirl her around and pull her closer. “Caught you,” Bracken whispered playfully. After a few moments of gazing into each other's eyes, Kendra felt Bracken’s face growing closer to hers. She could almost feel his breath on her face. Nervous, Kendra gradually moved her face closer to his. Their lips brushed against each other, and Bracken moved his face away from hers for a moment, as if asking permission. Kendra nodded slightly. He moved in slowly, and eventually their lips met. Kendra put her arms around his neck, and Bracken put one arm around her waist and used the other to pull the metal cord above him, which turned on the lights. Kendra suspected she would have squinted at the bright light, but she didn’t mind because her eyes were closed. Bracken’s other hand wound under her arm and bent upward to end with his hand on her shoulder. They stood, embraced, for many minutes. She wished this moment could last forever, just her and Bracken, but eventually she pulled away. 

“We should probably go.” Kendra said. “Wouldn’t want to miss cake”

“Yeah.” Bracken replied, sounding a little hurt.

“Hey,” Kendra said, pecking him on the lips. “It’s not you.”

He smiled.

Later, at dinner, they had asian food. Bracken and Kendra sat across from each other instead of next to, judgment of Vanessa. They played footsie until the cake was done. 

Soon, the lights were turned out, and the candles were lit.

“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to Kendraaaaaaaa, Happy Birthday to youuuuuuu!!!” sang Warren, Vanessa, Grandma, Grandpa, her parents, Seth, and Bracken. Kendra beamed. She couldn’t imagine a life without any one of the people in front of her. 

Before she knew it, everyone was saying their goodbyes. Warren had winked at her and wished her good luck with Bracken. She had blushed and nodded. Vanessa told her to fill her in on all the details by writing her letters with umite wax. Kendra had agreed. Grandma and Grandpa squeezed her tight and made her promise to call them at least once a week until her next visit to Fablehaven next month. And finally it was Bracken’s turn to say goodbye. 

“You’ll write?” he asked.

“Promise.”

“And call?” 

“Of course.”

“Then I have nothing to worry about.” he sounded relieved.

“Should I be worried?” Kendra asked, concerned. “Aren’t you going to a dragon sanctuary in a week? Are you gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry needlessly. We’ll keep in touch.” he said, handing her a swirling pearly prism.

“You’re horn?”

“Yup.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely.”

“Okay. I guess calling won’t be necessary then.”

“I guess not.”  

They stood in silence for a moment, looking at the ground.

“I’m gonna miss you” Kendra blurted, looking up at him. She blushed and looked back at the ground. “I mean, I have know idea when I’m going to see you again, or even if you’re going to make it out of the dragon sanctuary, and we have Ronodin to worry about, and I know you told me it doesn’t matter but---”

“Hey,” he said, tilting her chin up to look at him. “Everything is going to be fine.” Kendra sighed. 

“I know. It’s just---”

“Nope. No ‘it’s justs.’ it’s going to be okay.” he promised.

“Okay.” she sighed.

“I’m going to miss you a lot.” he admitted. Kendra smiled shyly.

“I will too.” she told him. She looked up at him. He looked away. Bracken took a deep breath, as if building up to something. He seemed a little nervous, his bright eyes hinting at anxiety. He glanced up at Kendra. Their gaze met, and his eyes shot back down. He inhaled heavily.

“I love you,” Bracken said, holding his breath. Tears were building up just above his lower eyelashes. Kendra kissed him before they could fall. When they broke away, Kendra looked up at him. His eyes were still closed, his mouth in an anxious grimace. He seemed to be dreading her answer.

“I love you too, Bracken.” She assured him. He took a deep, shaky breath and opened his eyes. This time it was he who leaned in for the kiss. It was soft and gentle, and Bracken wrapped Kendra in a warm embrace with one hand, the other on her cheek. She rested her hands on his shoulders. Their lips parted slowly. Kendra still had Bracken’s arms around her, and he had hers. Their foreheads rested on one another. When they broke apart fully, they gazed into each other’s eyes. Bracken’s thumb caressed her cheek. 

“Happy Birthday” he said.

[musicallisto]

without fail tag

THE “WITHOUT FAIL” TAG — List five things that you, WITHOUT FAIL, weave into or explore in your stories, whether it be specific themes or tropes, character archetypes, allusions to other literary works, what have you! It really can be anything that you consistently include in your narratives for whatever reason. Then invite others to share theirs by tagging them!

I was tagged by @deadlymodern - thank you so much for tagging me, this tag is amazing and I loved reading your answers! I can tell you have a very thorough approach to your writing & themes, it’s so cool!

(tagging people at the bottom of the post if you want to skip)

1. flowers, skies & words

grouping them together since they're all related to a wider, general literary device: symbols and allegories in my stories. Without fail, I’ll always use flower symbolism to evoke certain themes, places, characters... withered petals for death, blossoms for youth, you name it, it’s probably been in one of my stories. just consider my main WIP’s title, The Grave of Roses (Le Tombeau des Roses). It’s a little basic, and has been used time and time before in literature, but I still love it.

Other elements that often make it into my stories as symbols are planes (because I love aviation obviously, but also as a symbol of breaking free, independence, of man’s domination on mortality, what with having tamed the skies, but also his frail condition and how everything hangs on a thread). Also, the sky is pretty.

And lastly, words, stories, novels always have their place in my stories, and more often than not one of my characters is a writer, or someone who uses words and stories as some kind of comfort, outlet, or a driving force.

At its [the tombstone] foot, below the name, red roses piled up, enough of them to cover ten graves. A single vermilion bud, a wind-swept poppy, clashed with the rest of the bouquet, and Samuel knew that it was William's children who had placed it there. Only they knew that he didn't even like roses anymore, and that he would come to lay poppies on his father's memorial every time he returned to London...

The tomb was both smaller and prettier than Samuel imagined, less opulent than England would have wanted to give its precious child. The morning sun, like a caress, illuminated the epitaph, a Latin verse that Samuel had known in the past. “Bury me southward,” he heard William say so clearly that he almost turned around, "so that I can look at England and France in the same breath." His name, however, was drenched in full light, facing east, and inexplicably this saddened Samuel.

“And there it is... it's pretty, don't you think? I don't know if he would have liked it... You probably know it better than I do...”

“And why do you care about that, huh? You don't even believe in God.” “He's a writer. He believes in symbols.” “He believes in vanity, alright.”

“I think he would have liked it anyway,” he nodded in agreement, his eyes glued to the lonely poppy. (Translation)

2. parental roughnesses

this was bound to come, because I feel like we were all pretty fucked up at some point in our lives from our upbringing. I didn’t go for straight up “parental issues” because I don’t deal with like, abusive or absent parents or anything, just complicated relationships between parents and their children, but who still love each other. Oftentimes it has to do with one of the children idealizing the heck out of their parent and slowly realizing that they make mistakes and are not a hero at all, and/or unmeetable expectations and parental pressure. but it’s not like I’m projecting or anything lol

“You never knew Father, William,” Grace stopped him immediately [...]. “Don't you dare pretend you know what it's like.”

“Growing up without a father is not necessarily better than losing him in childhood! Everyone here has suffered from his disappearance, Grace. You have no idea how much I miss him, despite never meeting him. But that's all in the past now. And there's no reason for there to be another war.”

“Of course there is!” she retorted ferociously, despite the tears spilling from her eyes. “Of course there is, and they're going to send you there like Father, and you'll want to play hero like Father, and then you'll get shot down like a dog! Where's it going to be this time, huh? Above Luxembourg, just like him, or maybe somewhere in your beloved France?” (Translation)

3. patriotism

One way or another, all my stories always deal with patriotism, nationalism, pride in one’s country and more broadly speaking one’s relationship to it. It questions what it means to belong to a country, to share one culture, one language; does it justify acting in the benefit of one’s country, and where do you draw the line before you intentionnally harm others’; what even is a country, a nationality, and it what sense do you belong to one, and what do you owe it, if you even owe it anything? Is it wrong or right to feel love and attachment to your place of origin? And what does it mean to fight for your country, for its values, for its people? & other things of the like. It probably stems from my own experience as a binational person; growing up, I was always asked stuff like “but who do you root for in a football game” “but are you like really French or not?” “if Spain and France got into a war what would you do?”, and this all lead me to question “am I more French or am I more Spanish - which one am I, and which one would others perceive me to be - do I need to pick a side? And how can I express my affection to these places that raised me both differently, without undermining the other - or others? can I still be proud of my heritage given the horrors my countries have committed in the past?”. I still haven’t found a definitive answer, so my writing is just me throwing trails out to the world and hoping I’ll figure it out someday. that’s why my stories often have a war setting; firstly I just love historical fiction, and secondly it’s the perfect backdrop for all these questions to unfold.

William laughed at the idea - he, a true Frenchman! It was a very silly thought. He may have loved what he had seen of Charlotte's country, but England was not to be ashamed of any other land, for it was the only one he would love until his last breath. (Translation.)

4. just a hint of supernatural

I love me a good ghost story, and I’m a fan of everything spooky, but what’s subtly spooky, and not the gory, in-your-face horror. This particular theme may have increased since I saw The Haunting of Hill House which completely OBLITERATED ME with how it uses the house and its ghosts to tell a story of family and trauma and memories... but I’ve loved ghost stories forever. Another piece that truly resonated with me was One Hundred Years of Solitude (Cien años de soledad) by Gabriel García Márquez. It was my first dive into the world of magical realism and I didn’t make it out of there the same person I was when I entered. This one is not necessarily included in every piece without fail, because some are just too anchored in reality, but if it’s not a straight-up spirit or an otherworldly creature, I’ll always find a way to include an aspect of superstition, a myth, a legend, a tale from faraway that is neither proved nor disproved throughout the story. It truly adds to the atmosphere of the world, even in a very realistic and gritty setting, I believe.

I hear murmurs of legends among the soldiers. [...] One of those stories caught my attention, I must admit... It is not very special, nothing more than a children's tale, but I thought it was beautiful enough to please your Romantic soul. Some pilots speak of a cemetery, somewhere in the countryside north of London, which has something mystical about it, lost in the flowers that sway as far as the eye can see, in the calm rhythm of the wind, wrapped in the heady scent of eternal spring, and where the bravest warriors would go to rest forever, tired of their exploits and the continual explosions. No one knows exactly where it is or what to do to be buried there, but this beautiful image simply floats like a dream in the minds of many and, I confess, in mine as well since I first heard about it.

It is said that there only flowers dare to disturb the heroes in their sleep... This fragment of silence is called the Grave of the Roses.

So if I were to leave you, if you were to hear that I am gone...

With a bit of luck, that is where you will find me.

5. love

this one is broader and less obvious than you might think. Of course, I’ll always, always implement an element of romance to my story (and more often than not it’s angsty with star-crossed lovers or insurmountable obstacles or forbidden romances and whatnot), but there’s more to it. I don’t think I have ever written a story that is entirely grim and bleak, simply because I do not believe the world is built like that. I’ve said time and time again that love is my favorite thing in the world, and I believe it is the force that drives us all forward and connects us all together; love is, to me, the truest power of humanity, and its inherent purpose. And love covers all subjects and all types of relationships, but my absolute favorite ways to explore and show love in my stories is through long-lasting, rock-solid friendships (because friendships are often overlooked both in fiction and real life), and just a grandiose love letter to humanity as a whole. I’m an optimist, and many people who have suffered more than I have would deem me naive for thinking this - and I cannot blame them -, but as Anne Frank put it more bravely than I ever could, “despite everything, I still think humans are good at heart”. My stories are always born out of love and made for love. For the love of humanity and kindness and literature and love of myself, too, because sometimes I just like rereading the words and thinking, “wow, I’ve made it this far. look at me go.” In a word, yes, I would say that is what it boils down to; my work, but also what I hope my entire life and being will be. An ode to love.

“He admired you and truly loved you, you know. You were a good leader, I'm sure, and a good friend, above all.”

He thought she was going to put her hand on his shoulder, and prepared to bend to avoid it, but instead she came to rest on the polished marble of the tomb, which was already beginning to erode at the corners. The soft light bathed her hand, and Samuel's on the other corner, still resting above William's surname, the only thing he had been proud of from beginning to end.

“And I loved him too. I loved them all. If you only knew...”

well, I got carried away, as I always do when talking about my writing, but it made me miss it so much. I haven’t worked on any of my projects since literally October and I’m feeling the void rn. anyway, thank you again for enabling me to ramble about what I love most, Thais! and I’m tagging @softeninglooks, @lxncelot, @myriadimagines​, @swanimagines & @randomfandomimagine + plus any writer who wants to talk about their marvelous work <3