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ohdorothea · 2 months ago

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Which Taylor Swift Song is Queerer? Album by Album Tournament - Bonus Round

Welcome back to the Taylor Swift’s Queerest Song Album by Album tournament!!! We have reached the end of the album tournaments and four songs from each of Taylor’s albums have been voted to be The Queerest songs from each album. All of those songs will be competing in the Ultimate Bracket, alongside the top four songs from the Unreleased and Miscellaneous rounds that are ongoing. There are still eight slots left to be filled in the bracket. So welcome to…. the Bonus Round!!!

At the above link you can find a Google form in which you can cast eight votes! I have chosen from all the songs that didn’t make the final cut and picked 26 that I believe deserve a second chance. The songs you can choose from are…

1. A Place In This World

2. Better Than Revenge

3. But Daddy I Love Him

4. champagne problems

5. Change

6. Crazier

7. Cruel Summer

8. Eyes Open

9. Fortnight

10. Getaway Car

11. Glitch

12. I Wish You Would

13. Labyrinth

14. ME!

15. Miss Americana & the Heartbreak Prince

16. My Boy Only Breaks His Favourite Toys

17. Paris

18. Peter

19. Snow On The Beach ft More Lana*

20. Stay Stay Stay

21. Tied Together With a Smile

22. The Man

23. The Manuscript

24. The Other Side of the Door

25. The Lucky One

26. The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived

I have also written a voting guide below the cut with my reasoning for including each of the songs with links to anything I think might sway your vote!

This Google form will be open until the 1st of June so you have until then to decide where to allocate those eight votes!

*original Snow On The Beach did not win a place in the final tournament

Bonus Round Voting Guide (made by ME!)

A Place In This World

youtube

I think this song is queer because… This is the original Swiftian song about questioning your place in a heteronormative cis world.

If The Outside is about begging to be let into that world, this is the song about sensing deep down that even if you could fit into that world it’s not the place for you.

This is the song about wanting to get away from the restriction of trying to be someone else even if it means being isolated, even if it means having no one else on your side, because you know there is a place out there that is meant for you.

I think this is cemented by the A Place In This World x New Romantics mash up Taylor played on the final night of The Eras Tour

Better Than Revenge

I think this song is queer because… This song has oh so many of the classic Swiftian queer motifs!!! Triangulation of desire (shout out to Kathryn’s betty essay for teaching me the concept), referring to boyfriends as ‘toys’, revenge, spending a song that is meant to be about losing a guy talking about a girl instead, walking the line between fury and horny, the list goes on!!

Also in the outro she literally asks the woman to “show me how much better you are” and if that’s not a lesbian proposition I don’t know what is.

I also want to link to this PowerPoint that also makes a lot of great points

But Daddy I Love Him

I think this song is queer because… while there are many interpretations that fit this song to me it screams gay awakening in a small religious community and fantasising about breaking out of misogynistic homophobic culturally expected ‘self control’.

Running with her dress unbuttoned, being pregnant out of wedlock, her lover being described as ‘crazy’ by her community all point to a narrator who feels confined by the expectations put on her by her religion/religious community.

“If all you want is grey for me / Then it's just white noise / And it's just my choice” also follows in the vein of OOTW / illicit affairs / Question…?/The Prophecy lyrics comparing life without this type of love as grey/colourless and life with the love as colourful, a motif I very much consider to be queer.

I also think the tour staging of the song very much is telling a queer narrative

The song starts and the dancers are all in white coming from this grey colourless world behind them (very Wizard of Oz)

And Taylor/the narrator is in front (imo imagery matching the image of a young queer person being the first person they know to come out/realise their own queerness)

Skipping to further in the choreography, Taylor is standing in the middle of what seems like a community gathering/religious gathering and then goes to her knees, following the dancers in choreography that looks like prayer/begging/pleading

But then as the story of the song progresses she gets up (Tonight we'll stand, get off our knees anyone?)

And not only that as she rises through the air she is surrounded by flames! It gives me the image of someone who has been told being queer is a sin that will send them to hell and now she’s just embracing the flames

Shout out to this post as well as it helped form my thoughts

champagne problems

I think this song is queer because… I have since first listen felt like this song��s narrator is a queer woman. I’ve moved through different interpretations of the exact events or identifies of those involved but it has always been for me the story of a queer woman who is in a ‘perfect’ relationship to outsiders but in the moment the person proposes she realises she has made a mistake.

That she can’t spend her life being the person she needs to be to stay in this relationship, she must break this person she love’s heart to be able to find herself and live her life authentically.

The line that particularly leads me to this interpretation is ‘“she would have made such a lovely bridge / what a shame she’s fucked in the head” they said / but you’ll find the real thing instead’.

Within the song this is sung with defeat and devastation, even self hate. However in the performance of the song during The Eras Tour I feel she really reclaims the lyrics and makes it into something else.

Shout out to Kathryn’s We Were Happy / champagne problems essay

Change

I think this song is queer because… This song has always been a queer anthem to me!

I don’t really have a clear argument other than when I listened to this song as 13 year old baby queer it stirred something in my little queer heart and every time I’ve listened since I feel the same way. Because these things will CHANGE!!!!!!

And I do think the bridge lyrics are called back in quite a few more recent songs;

Tonight we stand, -> Ladies and gentlemen, will you please stand?

get off our knees -> Fifteen years, fifteen million tears / Begging 'til my knees bled

Fight for what we've worked for all these years -> 'Cause when I'd fight, you used to tell me I was brave

And the battle was long, -> I tried to pick my battles 'til the battle picked me

it's the fight of our lives -> It's the goddamn fight of my life

But we'll stand up champions tonight -> As if you were a mythical thing / Like you were a trophy or a champion ring / And there was one prize I'd cheat to win

Crazier

I think this song is queer because… It is a classically Swiftian move to compare falling in love with the narrator losing her mind or because ‘crazy’ (The Way I Loved You, Don’t Blame Me, Wonderland, Welcome To New York, False God, I Don’t Wanna Love Forever are just a few examples).

To me Crazier is kind of the core of this motif. It tells the story of a narrator who meets someone that changes their life by leading a kind of life that the narrator never dreamed of being possible for them self.

The second verse really encapsulates this; I watched from a distance as you / Made life your own / Every sky was your own kind of blue / And I wanted to know how that would feel / And you made it so real / You showed me something that I couldn't see / You opened my eyes and you made me believe

And then the bridge, while being short and straight to the point, I think solidifies this as a song about queerness to me; Baby, you showed me what living is for / I don't wanna hide anymore

Cruel Summer

I think this song is queer because… it’s new! The shape of your body! I don’t want keep secrets just to keep you! I love you ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard? It’s NEW! THE SHAPE OF YOUR BODY!!!!!!!!

If those lyrics don’t convince you then I present to you this web weave and the idea that the song is about The Great Gatsby (we were so Gatsby for that whole year!)

And if that doesn’t convince you I present to the sophisticates amongst you, RPF;

And I snuck in through the garden gate

Every night that summer, just to seal my fate

Eyes Open

I think this song is queer because… ok so let’s say hypothetically you are a closeted queer country pop singer songwriter who is becoming very famous and scrutinised and you wanted to write a song about it.

If we take Eyes Open away from the context it was released (for The Hunger Games movies) I think this song tells the story of a narrator who is experiencing this hypothetical. I also think the song ties in a lot of themes and ideas that appear again and again in Taylor’s discography.

Everybody's waiting / Everybody's watching -> Somethin' happens when everybody finds out / See the vultures circlin', dark clouds

Even when you're sleeping / Keep your ey-eyes open ->

The tricky thing is yesterday we were just children -> Oh, darlin', don't you ever grow up / Don't you ever grow up

Playing soldiers, just pretending -> Long may you reign

Dreaming dreams with happy endings -> It could stay this simple / And no one's ever burned you / Nothing's ever left you scarred

In backyards, winning battles with our wooden swords / But now we've stepped into a cruel world -> It’s cruel summer with you

Where everybody stands and keeps score -> I didn't know you were keeping count

So here you are, two steps ahead and staying on guard -> Baby, I know places we won't be found

Every lesson forms a new scar -> We cry tears of mascara in the bathroom / Honey, life is just a classroom

They never thought you'd make it this far -> Someday I’ll be living in a big old city / and all you're ever gonna be is mean

But turn around / Oh, they've surrounded you / It's a showdown -> I was in the alley, surrounded on all sides

And nobody comes to save you now -> You could have helped if you had wanted to / But no one notices until it's too late to do anything

But you've got something they don't / Yeah, you've got something they don't -> So we've been outnumbered / Raided and now cornered / It's hard to fight when the fight ain't fair / We're getting stronger now / Find things they never found

Keep your feet ready / Heartbeat steady -> Walkin' through a crowd, the village is aglow / Kaleidoscope of loud heartbeats under coats

Keep your eyes open / Keep your aim locked -> Dear reader, when you aim at the devil / Make sure you don't miss

The night goes dark / Keep your lights open -> This love is glowing in the dark

I’d also like to shout out Kathryn’s interpretation of this song that they posted on the poll, I really love this interpretation as well!!!

Fortnight

I think this song is queer because… I actually think there are two different queer interpretations of this song that I really enjoy.

The first is in quite a few classic Swiftian way - she talks about a husband but uses you to address her lover, the narrator is clearly miserable within her life of heterosexual expectations and she says loving this person has ‘ruined her life’. Falling in love with a woman would certainly ruin the life of someone stuck in a heterosexual marriage.

I also think the way she uses touch as a metaphor is connected to lots of other queer songs in her discography - I was gonna type this all up but I actually made two web weaves about it already so I’ll link the first here and second one here.

But the second reading of this song that is also explicitly queer is the doppelgänger reading. Other people have written about this better than I can but I do have a little collage I made;

Like!!!!!!!!! The gender of it all!!!! Like I lost my twin!!!!!!!

Getaway Car

I think this song is queer because… in my head Getaway Car and Cruel Summer tell the same story in two parts and both parts are queer as hell.

In my interpretation Getaway Car is a song about a narrator who leaves a relationship with a man to be with a woman but then back tracks on coming out so she also abandons the woman. Cruel Summer is Getaway Car from the other woman’s perspective.

I came to this interpretation after realising that the end of Getaway Car and the beginning of Cruel Summer sound so similar (if you watch this video from 3:45mins until Cruel Summer starts hopefully you will see what I mean!)

youtube

So once I heard the similarities I started seeing the similarities in the stories as well. Both stories start with intense heat (I struck a match and blew your mind -> Fever dream high in the quiet of the night).

Both stories take place almost entirely within cars. Both narrators describe a relationship that is unlikely to work (Devils roll the dice, angels roll their eyes / What doesn't kill me makes me want you more -> I knew it from the first Old Fashioned, we were cursed / We never had a shotgun shot in the dark)

But there are also differences within the perspectives. Getaway Car’s narrator is already driving away, while Cruel Summer’s narrator is stuck in the moment she said ‘I love you’, still seeing the relationship through rose coloured glasses. Getaway Car’s narrator is not ready to step out of the closest and commit to this relationship but Cruel Summer’s narrator doesn’t want to keep secrets but wants to keep this woman she loves!

This turned out way longer than anticipated so I will stop there but I’d also like to offer up the video played before Getaway Car at the reputation tour;

youtube

Glitch

I think this song is queer because… I think there’s been a WE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE JUST FRIENDS!!! Now regardless of what this song is about in this Canon Swiftian universe I have always heard this song as a song about your first queer relationship.

And I think it ties in so many themes from other songs in Taylor’s work; friends to lovers, not wanting to apologise for her love, that perhaps this love she wants is not real, comparing love to substances, her love not standing a chance, DANCING!!!! It really has it all.

I Wish You Would

I think this song is queer because… ‘We're a crooked love / In a straight line down / Makes you wanna run and hide / Then it makes you turn right back around’ are to me some of the most explicitly queer lyrics in her entire discography!

The song is also built around a sample from a song called ‘She Drives Me Crazy’. This links with the motif I have already talked about where Taylor describes love as if she’s losing her mind. Dolly Parton also covered the song, and while it’s not explicitly a queer cover (she changes the she to you, although isn’t that such a Taylor move) I wanted to mention it because the cover goes SO. FUCKING. HARD. Highly recommend.

Labyrinth

I think this song is queer because… it just feels queer to me ok!!!!!!!!! I’m not usually one for advocating for queerness based on vibes but for me if I am going to use this argument for ONE song it’s this one. The production, the way she’s singing, lyrics they all just FEEL queer to me! I said what I said.

ME!

I think this song is queer because…

Spelling is fun! That is all 🌈🦄🏳️‍🌈💗

Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince

I think this song is queer because… I mean first things first this Halsey tweet lives in my head rent free:

But honestly I hadn’t thought about it much until I read Kathryn’s post about the song being a set up to Lavender Haze. I love this interpretation so much and totally see the vision!

My Boy Only Breaks His Favourite Toys

I think this song is queer because… it’s intersection of gender + objectification + doppelgängerism for me!!

Ok so the song is tied to the idea that the narrator’s lover saw her as a toy.

The metaphor of people as toys is not a new idea in the Swiftian universe. However previously she has used it to describe her muses. As far as I know it was introduced as a metaphor in Better Than Revenge (Soon, she's gonna find stealing other people's toys / On the playground won't make you many friends)

She then used it again in Don’t Blame Me (I've been breakin' hearts a long time, and / Toyin' with them older guys /Just playthings for me to use) then again in Cruel Summer (Bad, bad boy, shiny toy with a price / You know that I bought it) then again in Hits Different (I used to switch out these Kens, I'd just ghost).

And now, the role is flipped. She is the toy, was the plaything, she was ghosted. But she isn’t just a doll, she’s an army doll. In traditional gender roles it’s boys who play with the type of doll she is. She is also a doll built for war, battle, instead of romance.

She is queen only of temporary unstable castles that are washed away by the see, once more invisible. Her lover puts her back on the shelf because the heat of her touch, the intensity of this relationship, is too much for her lover to bare. But even with all that she’d play again! She’d be willing to pretend again because she ‘felt more when we played pretend / Than with all the Kens’.

However you cut it all this reads as super queer to me. I’d also like to shout out Charlotte’s web weave that I really love.

Paris

I think this song is queer because… it’s the parallels with Down Bad for me!

I wanna brainwash you / Into loving me forever -> Just to do experiments on / Tell me I was the chosen one

I wanna transport you / To somewhere the culture's clever -> I'll build you a fort on some planet / Where they can all understand it

Confess my truth / In swooping, sloping, cursive letters -> They'll say I'm nuts if I talk about the existence of you

Let the only flashing lights be the tower at midnight / In my mind -> Did you really beam me up? / In a cloud of sparkling dust

We drew a map on your bedroom ceiling -> Show me that this world is bigger than us

No, I didn't see the news -> What if I can't have us / I might just not get up / I might stay down bad

Peter

I think this song is queer because… ‘Forgive me, Peter, my lost fearless leader / In closets like cedar, preserved from when we were just kids / Is it something I did?’ For my money those are the loudest queerest saddest most tragic beautiful lyrics in Taylor’s ENTIRE discography!!!

But then it’s ALSO in the same song as ‘As the men masqueraded, I hoped you'd return’ and ‘I've heard great things, Peter, but life was always easier on you / Than it was on me / And sometimes it gets me, when crossing your jet stream / We both did the best we could do underneath the same moon / In different galaxies’ AND ‘You said you were gonna grow up, then you were gonna come find me’ like!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’ve also made many many web weaves about this song that I think make my position pretty clear.

I also want to shout out this web weave that I love and Charlotte’s post that I also love

Snow On The Beach ft More Lana

I think this song is queer because… it’s quite literally a in canon love duet between two women that features references to the You Are In Love, Down Bad, and Janet Jackson, a prominent queer ally and gay icon. The lyrics revolves around the the narrator’s disbelief that this love is a ‘real thing’ and sounds like falling in love while in danger but also like being so in love you don’t care what comes next.

Truly so surprised it didn’t make it further in the Midnights tournament! To me it feels like one of the most obviously queer songs in her whole discography but I do think it was at a disadvantaged because most people know the original album version better and that is much much less queer to me.

It really does show to me how much different production can make to how a song is perceived! And it is interesting that this is the version hidden away one of the many re-releases.

Stay Stay Stay

I think this song is queer because… it’s about compulsive heterosexuality!

Taylor has talked about writing this as a daydream about a future relationship that is better than her past loves. The secret message for the song is ‘Daydreaming about real love’.

But the relationship the song describes sounds like a nightmare (dressed as a daydream?).

‘I'm pretty sure we almost broke up last night / I threw my phone across the room at you’ ‘You think that it's funny when I'm mad, mad, mad’ ‘I love you, because you have given me no choice but to / Stay, stay, stay’

Behind the cutesy country pop of this song is a controlling violent volatile relationship! So her choice to present the song as a daydream about her future is so fascinating to me. Regardless of her own interpretation of the song to me this is a song about having a nightmare about what staying within the confines of compulsive heterosexuality will bring.

Tied Together With A Smile

I think this song is queer because…

So I’ve already written here about my theory about gold representing self acceptance of queerness, which I’m linking to because my interpretation of TTWS is linked to it.

I didn’t include TTWS in that post because I was focusing on Taylor’s more recent discography but I do think that it fits into the overarching metaphor.

‘Hold on, baby, you're losing it / The water's high, you're jumping into it / And letting go, and no one knows / That you cry, but you don't tell anyone / That you might not be the golden one / And you're tied together with a smile / But you're coming undone’

So to me this is describing a narrator who thinks being ‘golden’ means being heterosexual. That the only way she can accept herself/that she will be accepted is by being straight. And she’s so terrified that she’s not straight, that she isn’t the golden one, that she cannot fulfil the expectations being placed on her. She is barely holding it all together with a smile.

This link was my reason for choosing this song for the bonus round, however when I revisited the lyrics for this write up there were some other lyrics that really stood out to me.

‘I guess it's true that love was all you wanted / 'Cause you're givin' it away like it's extra change / Hoping it will end up in his pocket / But he leaves you out like a penny in the rain / Oh, 'cause it's not his price to pay’

To me ‘cause it’s not his price to pay’ is signifying that the narrator cannot be loved romantically by this boy because she is not a straight woman.

The Man

I think this song is queer because… it’s actually so queer / so gender that there have been multiple web weaves made about it including one by me and by Kathryn!!!

And I mean we obviously have to talk about the music video in which Taylor creates a literal drag performance of The Man.

Which she then recreates with her dancers in The Eras performance.

And also the lyrics literally say if she was a man Taylor could brag about all the ‘bitches and models’ she’s fucked like!!!!!!!!! CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME OVER WHATEVER THE QUEER FUCK IS GOING ON THIS SONG??

The Manuscript

I think this song is queer because… of three sets of tags left on the poll that The Manuscript lost that immediately won the song a place in this Bonus Round.

The Other Side of the Door

I think this song is queer because… the door is the closet door!

The door as an object is a motif that shows up again and again in Taylor’s work. It’s a way she is locked out, trapped in, separated from her lover. And if we are reading that motif through a queer lens I would argue almost every door motif in Taylor’s discography is alluding to the closet, and it all starts in my mind with this song!

‘Wait there in the pouring rain, come back for more / And don't you leave 'cause I know / All I need is on the other side of the door’

Her lover is out in the open, in the pouring rain, waiting for her to come out. And she knows they are there, and she wants them to wait! But she’s not ready to open the door.

This idea was also fuelled by the door imagery in Taylor’s later work including the I Know Places 1989 tour performance.

Like look at it!!! It’s such strong visual storytelling. And while I was finding these images another image caught my eye:

This is the imagery from the Fearless platinum edition!!!! It ties back to all the other songs about doors! It’s the original door!!!!!!!!

The Lucky One

I think this song is queer because… well I’ve always loved the interpretation of the line ‘your lover in the foyer doesn’t even know you’ as a reference to bearding which is why I initially included this song in the Bonus Round HOWEVER when I had a look at the lyrics a new queer interpretation jumped out at me that I really really love. Imagine the song as a narrative about a trans singer!

‘New to town with a made-up name / In the angel's city, chasing fortune and fame / And the camera flashes make it look like a dream / You had it figured out since you were in school / Everybody loves pretty, everybody loves cool / So overnight, you look like a '60s queen’

Does anyone else see my vision??? Regardless I think there is something queer about the reinvention and the relationship between the narrator and the muse.

The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived

I think this song is queer because… for lots of reasons (Betty connections / doppelgängerism / genderism) but the reason that has stuck in my head since a little while after TTPD came out was sent on anon to someone I follow and I DIDN’T SAVE IT so I’m gonna do my best to pass on that anon’s queer wisdom.

The anon basically connected The Smallest Man’s Eraser tour costume

With the costumes in the ME! music video

With the lyrics ‘And I don't even want you back, I just want to know / If rusting my sparkling summer was the goal’. And ever since I read that anon message my little rpf brain has been whizzing and buzzing thinking about it.

And that’s the end of maybe the longest post I’ve ever written!

If you read to this point I love you and here is a gold star ⭐️

#tsqst

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ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit · 9 months ago

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Moments the boys fall in love with Yuu

Romantic or platonic, mostly fluff, a little angst with comfort

Ruggie Bucci, Jack Howl, Deuce Spade, Ace Trappola, Rook Hunt

Ruggie Bucci

Yuu had been helping Crowley with all sorts of paperwork this year, as she had taken on the apprenticeship under him for education. She was already doing most of it anyway, might as well get paid for it right? But it gave her access to a lot of information other people don’t.

So when she found the grant and looked at the details, she knew she at least had to offer it.

Yuu knows better than to pull Ruggie out of class, he hides it well, but it pisses him off. He can’t afford to get anymore behind than he already is compared to these rich bastards. So, she slips a note to the teacher to give to him to arrange a meeting in the next few days.

It ends up being over dinner at Ramshackle a few days later, after a late shift at the Monstro Lounge, that she finally gets to talk to him.

“So, you can tell me off, but I ain’t doing it out of pity or nothing,” she starts, pulling out a stack of papers. He cocks his head, starting to skim over the complex and small text. “Long story short, it’s a grant for schools under a certain income bracket to receive additional help, including a three-meal program. If you can convince instructors to continue using the building over breaks, you can even continue with meal program during the breaks so that the food comes around all year, all shipped in and paid for on the governments dime. It lasts around 5 years.”

Ruggie’s ears are flat against his head, flipping through the pages. She gets the impression that he would have set his plate down if she hadn’t waited until he had scraped the pot clean.

“NRC obviously makes too much in donations alone,” especially from the royal families, no nepotism rules her ass, “but if you could give me some more details about your place, I might be able to-”

“Set up an actual school.”

That makes her pause. There wasn’t...no.

“I know you said that you learned from the hard knock school of life but...there’s nothing?” she asked.

“Naw. So, this grant would guarantee that a school could stay and that the kids might actually attend, especially with the promise of food.”

“Well, I’ll need to find the forms for that, but I'm sure it's doable, especially if I can make a good case. It was pretty buried in there, so I don’t think I’d have to try too hard, I don’t imagine a lot of folks even know about it.”

He squints his eyes at her, leaning back in his seat.

“What do you get out of this?” he asks, folding his arms, “You don’t know my home. You don’t know my people.”

“No, but I know you love them and you work hard for them every day.” She gestures to the apron folded over the chair. “And if you do, I will choose to. Besides, you and I both know these rich bastards have no problem taking our taxes and doing stupid shit with it. Might as well take it back and apply it where it needs to be.”

He huffs, covering his mouth as it turns to a full cackle as he curls in. He might have said something in between his laughs? She can’t tell, but he’s cheeks are ruddy and glowing when he finally collects himself.

“Alright Prefect, what details do you need?”

Jack Howl

There were lots of places boarded off at Ramshackle that Yuu was still exploring. Finding a sunroom was the last thing she thought Ramshackle Dorm might have, but after sweeping and cleaning the place, it’s charming. Open windows, dark frames lining the three out of four walls, and the furniture actually isn’t too bad, just needing a wipe down and some wood oil to make it shine again. The fact that Ramshackle was also being used as an oversized storage unit helps since it has upholstery, furniture and fabrics for repairs for every dorm that she can really make the place shine.

She knows that Riddle and the boys would love to decorate in Heartslabyul colors, line rose boxes and vines and lilies in the hanging baskets, but she has a better idea.

“Hey, Jack!” She calls out after track practice. He raises a hand at her, giving his body a light shake to get rid of the soreness in his muscles. “Do you have any succulent or cactus cuttings you could spare?”

His ears narrowed in straight on her, standing a bit straighter.

“Ah, yea...I could have some sent from home too.”

“Is this about the sunroom?” Deuce asked. “We could have some rose bushes sent in from Heartslabyul too. Riddle would be ecstatic to have the Queen’s roses out.”

“No offense to Riddle or Heartslabyul,” Yuu rubbed the back of her neck, “But there are roses everywhere. Queen Heart’s Roses, Fairest Roses, Thorn Fairy Roses, you get the idea. Besides, I like plants that are heartier and don’t require alot of tending too. Just free to do their own thing.”

The only reason Jack’s tail wasn’t wagging is because he was holding it. Deuce snickered behind his back, cackling as he avoided the swat at his head.

“Let me bring what I have at the dorms right now. Besides, it’ll be nice for my dormmates to not be able to mess with it at least some of them.”

Jack wasn’t able to bring anything big with him when he came to NRC, but the cuttings would grow quickly. The fact that his Mom paid for some of the bigger ones to be sent carefully through the mirrors helped fill out the space, and Leona donated some of the ferns and larger faunas when Ruggie mentioned it. It was in exchange for having a daybed in there so he could nap whenever he wanted, but it was a small sacrifice.

By the time they finished putting the room together, including sewing together some pillows in Savannaclaw colors and tightening a few screws on the benches and chairs, it looked like a slice of his dorm. Mainly yellows and oranges, with the soft greens of the succulents and more saturated green of the cactus to accent it all. His cactuses were clearly the center point though, blooming like nothing else.

His Mom had also taken the opportunity to send Yuu a few old clothes that his sister no longer fit in, warm sweaters and shirts that were very much in the style of home. Jack hadn’t known until they started unpacking the box, but Yuu had loved them and he couldn’t find it within himself to be too upset. Afterall, Yuu didn’t have much to begin with, and he knows that fall will be coming in soon.

When he comes in a few days later He sees her curled up on a chair with her study materials. The tap of her pen against her lip, the smell of heat and fauna thick in the air, snuggled into an old hoodie of his, he can’t even blame his heart for skipping a beat.

It’s only natural, he tells himself. Instinct even. He doesn’t have to think too hard about it.

“Why’s your tail wagging?” Yuu asks, pointing to his back.

“No reason!” he barks, ignoring the way he’s heart does it again as she cackles.

Only natural.

Deuce Spade

Deuce would tell you that he’s not the smartest guy in the room. He knows that academically he struggles, and even sometimes with common sense. There’s a lot of things that he never learned or forgot because he made some stupid shitty decisions in his past.

Maybe that’s why he prefers studying with Yuu one on one instead of a group. Yuu is having to teach herself the basics too, history, spell work, math, literature, they aren’t exactly on the same page, but they are closer than he would prefer to admit.

Riddle, bless him and his tenacious ways, kept his notes from all his grades. It’s binders and binders worth of material and even if they are slow at it, Riddle never says anything about how long the binder is gone from his bookshelf. He simply continues to offer help.

Yuu gets the idea after she sees Riddle’s magicam and puts 2 and 2 together with Cater’s exam results.

So, the next time they get together, she takes him to a side room where a broken radio is.

“What’s this?” He asks, looking at the tools set off to the side.

“I have an idea,” Yuu says, sitting on the floor. “I’m going to quiz you while you fix the radio.”

“Huh?”

“I have an idea, I think it’ll help, I just need you to trust me.”

He shrugs his shoulders, rolls up his sleeves and starts answering questions as he pulls the panel off. The quiz is tomorrow and anything is better than nothing at this point.

Professor Trein smiles at him a bit as he passes the quizzes back at the end of the period.

“Well done Mr. Spade. Your studying is paying off well.”

83. He had gotten an 83.

“Dude!” Yuu jumps on his back, hugging him, “Awesome! It worked!”

He knows the blush on his face isn’t pride or joy. Neither is the goofy grin. But if that’s what Yuu thinks when she sees it, she doesn’t need to know.

If they dance together with that fixed radio and his hands linger a little too long on her hips or waist, he doesn’t think too hard on that either.

He isn’t a very smart man, but he knows he is a happy one.

Ace Trappola

Ace will admit that he’s an asshole sometimes. He is self-aware enough and selfish enough to not care. But he isn’t a complete asshole, and really, he’s just preventing you from being stuck with another Overblot like what happened on Winter Break!

That was the only reason he invited Yuu over. No other reasons.

He of course does the polite thing and introduces you to this family, including his brother. He doesn’t dislike his brother, he’s actually pretty cool, but he’s aware that he is cooler than Ace. And smarter. And more handsome.

He isn’t purposefully keeping Yuu away from him, but if it so happens that every time his brother is home that you two are out doing things, that’s just a weird coincidence.

It’s sunset on the last day, and his family insisted on a cookout all together. They like Yuu a lot, and for the most part try and keep him out of trouble. Which meant lots of talking, family telling stories and comparing between the two of them, like they always do. It isn’t malicious, he knows that, but it hurts sometimes when his brother has a seven-year head start. It’s winding down now though, with his parents and brother going to bed already for work in the morning. They should have been, the train leaves early the next morning, but neither of them can sleep, so they are trying to wind down with cards. Ace always has a pack on him, but in his room he has multiple. He’s even nice enough to let Yuu pick the deck she wants.

“You ready for tomorrow?” she asks, laying a card down.

“Totally. I love my folks but being here just makes me itch to leave again.” he makes a pair, chuckling at her huff, “Besides my brother is...well he’s my brother, you know.”

“I mean, he’s ok, but I much prefer hanging out with you.”

It’s such a small thing that it shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t. But damn if he’s face doesn’t twitch into a genuine smile. Prefers him. Yuu prefers him.

“Ah, you gotta crush on me?” He teases, poking her cheek, “You got something you want to tell me?”

“Oh, fuck off.” She snips, kicking his foot, “You got an ego that makes Vil look humble.”

He can only laugh, muffling his delight into a pillow. He tucks the memory away with a breath, making another pair.

Rook Hunt

The gardens of Pomefiore aren’t as well-known as some of the other dorms, but they are beautiful, nonetheless. Carefully cultivated and trimmed, it has more of a nature tamed by man aesthetic, but it was still beautiful.

Rook knows them better than most students, spending so much time amongst the trees, bushes and flowers to practice his hunting skills and photography. When Yuu asked him for pointers, he was more than happy to give her a hands-on lesson.

“And that is how you achieve this effect!” He says, setting the glass off to the side.

“Nice!” she nods, finishing the note she was writing. “That is so much easier than what I was picturing. I can’t thank you enough for this Rook, this will help so much with the commission that Crewel gave me. What got you into photography anyway?”

“Having pictures of Roi De Poison and Monsieur Curiosity that nobody else has? Bliss! But also, I do so enjoy the thrill of the hunt. Photography gives me the means to shoot and not kill my target. Their beauty must live on until fate takes them. Or my arrow.”

Yuu cannot help but chuckle a bit, figuring that was the case.

“Vil told me a bit about the day you two met. It makes sense. He also said you started in SavannaClaw?”

“I did. Transfering dorms was the best decision I have ever made!” He touches the leaves above him, the apple tree swaying a bit in the cool breeze. “Why do you think I switched dorms, Mon Trickster?”

Yuu zips up the ghost camera into her bag, taking a moment to try and phase her words. The Rook that Vil described reminds her of herself here. Ambition with no direction. Goals of survival with no room for anything else. Of being so cautious and gentle with everything around, but the people aren’t with her. Even those that care for her bruise her, even when they don’t mean to.

“I think...you got tired of your life feeling like a museum.” Rook cocks his head at her. “Before, you kept your hands behind your back, quietly observing, scrutinizing and praising the beauty around you but never interacting. I don’t know if you thought you didn’t deserve it or that you couldn’t have it, but I think you got tired of imagining what softness would feel like. I think you decided that you would rather be an active participant, in your life, even if it meant changing, however scary it is.”

It is quiet behind her. Yuu secures the last of the props into the tote, still waiting.

“Rook?”

She doesn’t get a chance to turn around. His front thumps into her, arms wrapping around her shoulders.

“Apologize Mon Ami. I was stunned by your wisdom un moment.” He whispers. She feels him take a deep breath into her shoulder, but he’s hat completely blocks him from her view. “You might be the closest yet.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, nothing!” He jumps in front of her, grabbing the tote with a bright smile. “Let us return, Roi de Poison does hate one being late!”

“We are meeting Vil after this?” She asks, jogging to keep up his pace that’s more like a skip.

“Of course! We have traveled much today. We must replenish with good food and drink!”

He goes on to describe what is on the menu, but inside it is taking everything within him not to gather you up and take him home. Oh, Mon Trickster, you read him too easily. He will have to keep you close in the years to come to just keep himself safe, in whatever capacity needed. There is, after all, more than one way to be a lover.

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howtofightwrite · 1 year ago

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I'm writing a scene where character A gets ambushed by an assassin. A gets injured and starts bleeding out. B swoops in to save them in the nick of time, but A starts fading in and out of consciousness. B transports A using a horse-drawn carriage (setting is 1890's London, so no cars) to a safe place for medical attention. Would the carriage be safe enough for transportation or make things worse? Also, any ideas where the wound could plausibly be located on A? (Stab/cut, no guns.)

Okay, so this is a good news/bad news situation.

The good news is that blood loss is really easy to understand. If someone pokes a hole in you, and you start leaking, you'll generally keep leaking at a pretty consistent rate until you manage to stop the leak, or until you start getting additional holes poked in you.

Now, joking aside, moving around, and staying active can accelerate bleed out. Especially if you're engaging in activity that keeps your heart rate up. For example: Running, or fighting. But, normally, you're going to keep losing blood at a fairly consistent rate. (Now, it's worth noting, as you lose blood, your body will actually increase your heart rate to keep oxygen going to your brain. This means that the rate of loss isn't completely consistent. You'll also start hyperventilating.)

The fun part about blood loss is it can actually turn into a math problem. If you know the volume lost per interval, you can calculate roughly how long it will take to die. Just take 2,000, then divide that by the blood lost in milliliters per interval (so, for example, minutes), and then you will know how many minutes your character has before they bleed to death. (Technically you can go over that two liters lost a little bit. (In sloppy napkin math, this means that you'll slightly overestimate how long the character will last.)

Here's the problem.

Hypovolemic shock has four recognized stages. These stages are bracketed by how much blood you've lost. Stage one is up to 15%, Stage two is 15-30%, Stage 3 is 30-40%, and Stage 4 is 40% or more. You might know that the human body has roughly five liters of blood in it, and if you were paying attention you'll notice that two liters is 40% of five liters.

As a quick aside, Stage 1's only symptom is that you'll be a little paler than usual. Otherwise you're basically fine (even if you don't feel particularly great.) To put this in context, you can (almost) lose a liquor bottle's worth of blood without serious side effects.

Once you hit stage 2 and 3, you'll see some mental issues. Anxiety and restlessness at Stage 2, confusion and impaired reasoning at stage 3.

Loss of consciousness (and comas) are symptoms of stage 4 blood loss.

This is the bad news. If you are losing consciousness from loss of blood, you have already lost so much blood that your body (and possibly your brain) are already dying. Humans can lose a frightening amount of blood before it incapacitates them. And, that fun little math problem earlier, the time to death that you're calculating, is also the time to loss of consciousness, because there's a tiny margin between, you bled to the point that you're drifting in and out of consciousness, and, you have bled to death.

There's still some hope here, but it's not great. First aid for hypovolemic shock is to stop the bleeding. It kinda makes sense, because if you don't, they'll bleed to death and after that, it won't really matter. That means, if you're swooping in to the rescue, the first thing you need to do is stop the bleeding, as best you can. When you're already looking at someone in stage 3 or 4, you're not going to stop it in the field, and the best you can do is buy time. But that is a critical step.

This leads to a really important question. How long did it take your character to lose two liters of blood?

Because, if they lost that much blood duringthe fight (which is, actually possible with some arterial hits), there is no medical science that would keep them alive long enough to get them to a surgeon. Not in 1890, and even in 2024 it'd be touch and go with modern emergency trauma packs.

This is a mortal wound.

Now, if you slow it down, and they're bleeding out over the course of the ride, that's entirely feasible. You'll probably want to read up on the exact stages of hypovolemic shock, keep in mind that the stages do transition from one into the next. And, keep in mind that, “slipping in and out of consciousness,” is basically the end. At that point they're about to die. Immediate surgical attention could still save their life, but they need a hospital. This is beyond the scope of what a back alley clinic could reasonably deal with.

I know I didn't address it earlier, but, “where,” could be pretty much wherever. So long as it didn't sever an artery, because at that point they would be dead. Arterial nicks could result in serious bleeding over time. Really, any serious, persistent blood loss that refuses to clot could create a situation like this. Deep tissue penetration, particularly when it damages internal organs, can be pretty nasty, and surprisingly hard to stop a bleed. If someone is hemorrhaging internally, that's going to require surgical attention to keep them alive, and any effort to stop the bleed will really be wasted effort (because they'll continue bleeding into the chest cavity), though, unless your characters have a pretty solid grasp of anatomy, they're unlikely to know that.

The real issue here, from a practical application, is just the, “swooping in at the last minute.” If you're really coming in at the last minute, you've got a minute to make peace with their death, and move on. If you get there sooner, you have more of a scene. You have more options to spool out the drama, and subvert expectations.

Consider, alternately: Your character comes in to disrupt the assassin, and the pair make their escape. While escaping, the character who's been injured discovers they're bleeding. Leading their rescuer to realize that the situation is much worse than they initially thought, and having to change route to a hospital, while the injured character starts to become less coherent.

In this alternative, you can carefully track how quickly the character is bleeding out, so that they're getting into the hospital right around the time it's starting to become touch and go. With a real possibility that they'll die, either before or during surgery. (Also, with added stress that now your character needs to keep them safe in a public space, while that assassin is still on the loose, and they can't move the injured character to someplace more secure.)

So, you've got options, and now you've got a math problem you can play with to figure out how quickly your characters will expire after you poke new holes in them.

-Starke

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#writing advice #writing reference #writing tips #how to fight write #starke answers #starke is not a real doctor

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thewriterwithnoplan · 1 year ago

Text

THE TRAITOR'S SOULMATE (2/2)

Summary: Humans once had four legs, four arms, two heads, and two hearts. For humanity's hubris, Zeus struck them in two. You and Luke Castellan are determined to find your way back to each other, but before that can happen, there are things the two of you need to do.

[Part 2 to The Hero's Soulmate]

Soulmate AU: You meet the future version of your soulmate.

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Reader

Word Count: 7378

Warnings: Canon typical warnings, swearing, I use the spelling 'mom' because the series is American but I - and I cannot stress this enough - am not American, she a long one.

A/N: I've loved reading your comments, thank you so much for all the support in part one. I hope you enjoy, because we all deserve a little Luke Castellan every now and then!

Masterlist

Amphitrite had been gifted a premonition and the world was all the worse for it. The dream had come from Apollo or perhaps the Oneiroi or whatever great heart pumped blood and Gods and monsters out into the world.

It did not matter to the Goddess from whom the vision came, for in this dream Amphitrite had watched her husband fall in love and sire a child to a mortal paramour. A precious boy that Poseidon might even one day love, with a taste for the colour blue and a heroism that would grow to rival his namesake. And for the Queen of the Seas, that simply would not do.

It would not be the child’s nor his mortal mother’s fault – she was not Hera after all – and so she would have to punish her husband for the blame would be his. But how was one to punish a King among Gods before his crime even came to be? Why to beat him at his own game, of course.

So, Amphitrite set out to sire her own demigod with the mortal man her husband would hate most. A devout catholic.

Amphitrite stayed with her mortal lover and their half-blood daughter until the girl was all but five. Far longer than the greater Gods were wont to spend with their offspring. But what a precious babe she had bourn and what a traitorous husband she had back home.

But fate and prophecies and soulmates were such funny things. Inciting chaos. Inviting paradox. Introducing dangers untold.

It took Amphitrite all those years – though seemingly short in her immortality – to realise her fatal error. She had been the one to leave Poseidon. She had been the one to sire a child. She had been the one to drive her husband to the surface and his mortal. And so, the blame was hers to shoulder.

Amphitrite decided that she would be a self-fulfilling prophecy no longer. It was time to venture back below the surface.

In a last fit of guilt, she bestowed her first and final act of mercy unto her mortal lover. She told him everything.

When finally, she had gone back to the sea to reconcile with her husband, the catholic man took his turn to bestow his first and final act of mercy unto his young demigod child.

Against all the teachings of his faith. He abandoned his young daughter at Half-Blood Hill. And let the devil-spawn keep her life.

The Spirit of the Hudson River never did learn to like you. You with your greedy hands, snatching debris from its murky waters. You and your strange sea creature friends who would not dare brave such pollution were it not for your presence. Your pile of war spoils tossed aside like children’s toys. Your strange little bubble of air on the sandy floor of the river, where you stowed your treasures and slept bracketed by water. Were it not for the pollution that slopped against the edge of the river as if it were trying to escape you, the Hudson River Spirit might have chased you and your sea friends and your collection of trinkets out of his waters. But as it were, you made a strangely amicable tenant for a demigod. So, as long as you paid your dues the spirit let you keep your little underwater oasis.

For your first years living there, you made your way in New York City by selling lost things dredged from your river home. Bikes and old weaponry and tarnished jewellery and buckets of coins from across the world. You were careful and you coveted your few precious belongings, but with the rivers bounty, you rarely went hungry.

By the time you were fourteen, you found you could venture further into the city without as many questions. You had met an odd assortment of people whilst selling the lost and unloved things of the river; all who knew someone, who knew someone, who needed another set of hands and so you offered yours. You babysat and cleaned, worked in delis and sandwich shops, helped old women with their groceries and young families mend their clothes. A retired teacher gifted you packets of schoolwork and with little else to fill your hours under the river you took to learning. Your numbers came easier than letters and reading always gave you a hard time but the activities she gave you each time you tended to her balcony garden gave you something to do when the sounds of the city kept you up at night.

All the while you followed Percy Jackson from the recesses of the Hudson. Shuffling your little bubble and its blessedly dry treasures up and then back down the river as he was bounced listlessly from school to school. Watching over him as the mythosphere tried desperately to barge into his little mortal life. Feral harpies that tried to snatch him into the air, great snakes that tried to sneak through air vents and all manner of underworld-born sea creatures that sought to pull him below. You had wrestled and dismembered and slayed them all. Adding their feathers and scales and great weapons to your dragons-hoard.

You were sixteen when you finally knocked on Sally Jackson’s door to introduce yourself. You had spent weeks working yourself up to it, planning your outfit and then fussing over each piece. All your clothes had been gifts and were often a size too big or printed with some generic tagline like Spread peace not hate!; or made entirely from yarn that the old woman whose meals you prepped at the start of each week had gifted you after she had taught you how to crochet; or like the dress you wore now, were sown together from thrifted fabric scraps and embellished with pretty shells and baroque pearls. You had planned the time you would arrive down to the minute so that her oppressive husband would be out, but the hour would not be so late as to make an unexpected visit threatening. You had planned to keep Percy safe while you were away from him by entrusting your friends Clarence the Crab and Emily the Squid to supervise him for the evening.

What you had not planned for was the possibility that Sally Jackson would be the most lovely woman you had ever met. You had been struck dumb by it the moment she opened her door and greeted you with a kind smile. Couldn’t your mother have chosen a mortal as gentle as she to be your parent? Alas, the Gods had never done a thing for you.

“Can I help you, lovely?”

You tried not to burst into tears as you asked, “Mrs. Jackson?”

“Are you alright?” She opened the door wider, leant out and scanned the corridor behind you. “Is there something you need?”

“No ma’am. I’m here about your son, Percy. His father sent me.” A good ambiguous statement that would pique her curiosity but let on nothing about the Gods. Allowing you to spin your tale – that you were Percy’s long-lost step-sister, come to reconnect.

“Poseidon?” Alas, the Gods had truly never done a thing for you. “Is something wrong? Is Percy, okay?”

“He’s fine Mrs. Jackson, I’ve been keeping him safe.”

She scanned the hall behind you once more, “You best come in.”

Over a cup of tea, you told Sally Jackson everything.

You liked your home under the river. For lack of a better term, it allowed you to remain liquid. You could follow Percy wherever trouble took him. You could stay up until the city grew quiet for that brief moment before dawn. You could train with the Hudson River Spirit, even if he only entertained you because he enjoyed winning.

You liked your bed made out of stacked wood pallets and a mountain of blankets. You liked your wooden chest of draws stuffed full of trinkets and weapons and the precious few items you owned. You liked this place that you had carved out with your own two hands.

But you also liked your home in the Jackson household. Where there was always music playing. Where it was always warm and dry. Where there would always be some blue-ified food in the oven or blue candy in the mason jars by the sink.

It became your job in the summers to babysit Percy, to keep him away from Gabe and from danger while entertaining his endless need for motion. You took him to art galleries (which he hated) and aquariums (which he loved), to craft fairs (which he tolerated because he liked the things you made) and swimming pools (which he only liked when he won your swimming races).

“What even is a soulmate?” Percy had asked you one day at the park.

“The person with the other half of your soul,” You scrunched your nose up, “Or well, that's what people say.”

“You’re saying I’ve been walking around with half a soul?”

“I didn’t say I believed them,” You rattled your water bottle in front of his face until he took it. “Stay hydrated.”

He frowned at you, “You don’t believe in soulmates?”

“Of course I do, but it's a little more complicated than that, kid.” You took the water bottle back and played with the cap for a moment while you thought. “Think of it like this. You can have two different puzzles that are cut the same way, right? So all the pieces from one will fit with all the pieces from the other. But that doesn’t mean they belong together, the picture doesn’t come out quite right because even though the pieces fit, they don’t necessarily belong to the same puzzle. Maybe that’s what it was like for your mom, like she couldn’t find the pieces that made up her picture and so she went with the ones that fit at the time.”

“You don’t think my mom and dad were soulmates?”

“I never met your father.”

“But he’s your dad too.”

“He’s my mom’s husband. Maybe my mom and dad are soulmates.” Percy didn’t seem to like that answer. “Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe your mom and my mom each have pieces that fit into your dad's puzzle but neither match his picture, or both. Maybe his picture is a year with your mom and a lifetime with mine and having you. Maybe he needs to collect all those little pieces at the right time when they’re the right shape or he’ll end up with a completely different picture at the end.”

“I kind of understand.” But he gave you a look that said he probably didn’t. “What picture are you making?”

You hid your smile behind the lip of your water bottle, “My soulmates about yay-high, pretty as a magazine cover with dimples and all. I’m collecting my puzzle pieces with you and your mom and this city so that I’ll have half of his picture.”

“If you know who he is, why don’t you just go find him now?”

“Still looking for some pieces, I guess.” You kicked a rock with the toe of your boot. “Souls are fragile. If you go rushing in and trying to jam the pieces in when they’re not shaped right just yet you could damage them.”

“What happens if you do that?”

“It’s probably harder to find each other in the next life. You’ll chip pieces away and your souls won’t fit right.” You shoved your hands into the pockets of your cardigan and pulled out a sandwich, you gave Percy the bigger half.

“Who taught you all this?”

“My mom used to tell me and well, I've thought about it a lot.” You tugged Percy by the back of his shirt so he didn't go stomping through a puddle, he glared. “But anyway, some people think it’s just fate. That you find your soulmate no matter what and it’s a perfect fit either way.”

“It would be easier that way.”

“Sometimes that’s just not how the story goes, kid.”

Percy thought that was the most important thing anyone had ever taught him, but he figured some of the other stuff you taught him came in handy too. You taught him the tricks you learned to work around your dyslexia. You taught him to skip stones and to not throw rocks at seagulls. You taught him to flip off the Empire State Building but only when his mom wasn’t around. You taught him to knit and do a cartwheel and make a good cup of tea to take his mother in the morning. You taught him to chew with his mouth shut and to sword fight with wrapping paper rolls. You taught him to braid hair and throw a punch and say all the swears in Ancient Greek.

And then one day, a Satyr came for Percy Jackson, and there was nothing left for you to teach.

You wrote Sally a brief letter of warning, picked your way through seven years’ worth of belongings and collapsed your life into a backpack. You said goodbye to Clarence and Emily with a brief promise to visit, pushed a final wave of pollution from the waters and thanked the Hudson River Spirit for his hospitality. He gifted you sixteen perfect round pearls and insisted that he never wanted to see you again. You spent the bus ride to Long Island threading them into a necklace made of fishing wire, tying off each pearl with your teeth.

It was a tentative tradition between demigod soulmates to exchange gifts upon their first meeting. So few and far between were the possessions of a half-blood that even the smallest bauble would likely mean the world. The practice had died out some over the centuries as the Gods received fewer offerings from mortals and turned to their children for sacrifices. Gift-giving to your soulmate as a demigod became all but synonymous with spitting at the feet of the divine and loudly proclaiming you would make offerings to your soulmate instead. A pearl necklace would be an excellent final addition to the collection of small gifts you had assembled over the years. Let the Gods weep at your feet and beg for scraps if they needed them so much, you would ignore them just as they had ignored you.

You arrived at Camp far sooner than you might have liked, a few hours past mid-day when hopefully the rest of your ilk would be occupied with meaneal chores and activities. You considered waiting at the crest of the hill for someone to notice you only to find a pine tree planted firmly at its peak where you might have stood. Instead, you make the alarmingly easy trek down to the Big House.

“Chiron!” He had always been your favourite of the two men, currently sat on the porch drinking juice and playing cards.

“Yes, my girl?” He barely spared you a glance as he shuffled his cards between his weathered hands. He stilled for a moment and then tossed his head back in the way a horse might toss its mane. “My dear!”

You raised a hand, halfway between a salute and a wave, “Nice to know I haven’t been totally forgotten.”

“Au contraire.” Mr. D stuck his nose up at you. “Which one are you again?”

“The little one that went missing some seven years ago,” Chiron stood as you climbed the stairs onto the porch. “How are you, my dear? Where have you been?”

“Shouldn’t you be at Yancy Academy?”

Mr. D’s eyes turned sharp in the way that had once made your friends whisper that some days, he was more maniac than man , “And how do you know about that little girl?”

“Percy Jackson is at Yancy,” You smiled at him, all teeth, “How did you think he survived long enough for your baby satyr to find him?”

“You have been protecting young demi-gods?” Chiron asked wearily.

“Percy Jackson is a full-time job, I’m afraid,” You tugged at the strap of your backpack, praying you could keep control of the conversation. You had a lot of time under the river to think and this was one of many things you had spent countless hours mulling over. Weighing and considering what story you would tell them – to tell the truth of both your parentage and put Percy in harm's way or to lie and balance your life on its sharp edge. “I found him in Manhattan, he was like a magnet for mythological activity. By the time I’d had enough of rebelling and wanted to come back to camp, I was protecting him from attacks every other week. He wouldn’t have lasted a month. I came back as soon as I could.”

No matter how many times you played it out in your head, the lies won every time.

“Kids.” Mr. D threw back the last of his juice.

“Perhaps you should settle back into the Hermes Cabin, dear.” Chiron smiled down at you, the corners of his eyes pinched, “You’ve given myself and Mr. D much to talk about. We’ll settle the issue of your paperwork tomorrow.”

“Of course.” You rustled through your bag, digging up a palm sized statuette that you set onto the table. “Before I forget, I brought you a gift Mr. D.”

“A toy,” He snatched it up. “Oh joy.”

“It’s you, as the mortals’ see you. It’s from the gift shop at the Met.”

“How kind of you, my dear.” Chiron softened, and you watched as even Mr. D’s temper seemed to ease, his hands gentle around the gift as he admired it.

An unseeing piece of plastic for the God who served as no more than a silent observer over the affairs of the camp. Let him choke on his ego, you thought as you left the pair to their discussion.

Cabin 11 was blessedly empty when you entered, but your old bunk was not. A pile of clothes was thrown haphazardly across the bedspread. You snatched a sleeping bag and a lumpy pillow from the storage closet and threw them down with your bag. If you could not have the bunk that had been yours at twelve, you would claim the corner that had been yours at five. As you shook out the sleeping bag and pulled out your belongings, you tried not to think of your bed of blankets under the river or Sally Jackson’s couch.

Instead you turned your mind to the Big House and the conversation that was no doubt happening within.

You had constructed a perfect image, if you did say so yourself. Grown in ways Mr. D could not have predicted but Chiron would insist he had foreseen. Still a rebellious young woman in the mortal sense, with your scuffed leather boots and ripped jeans. But the parts that had screamed ‘insubordination’ to the Gods were neatly tucked away. Your twin knives strapped to your forearms under the billowing sleeves of your crocheted top, your vicious tongue caged behind a sweet grin, your once sharp stare softened at the edges.

Once you had fashioned yourself so that the Gods could not paint you as a hero, now you fashioned yourself so that they might forget you were an enemy.

Let Chiron think you were a misunderstood wayward girl scout come home from her self-imposed quest. Let Mr. D think you were a stupid girl who had seen the world beyond the Gods’ protection and finally accepted that you needed them. Let them all think wrong. You had left to protect your brother and returned for one reason only.

“You’re here.”

You turned, and there he was, “Luke Castellan.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it, limbs jerking slightly as if he wasn’t sure whether to move toward you or stay put. He was almost certain you could hear the way his pulse was racing, his heartbeat clanging wildly in his chest as he searched desperately for a suave reply, but everything else seemed lack lustre when you said his name like that.

Your face twisted into something like anger and for a moment he thought he’d messed it all up before your lips curled and you practically spat, “I do like your scar.”

And then he was laughing at you, wild and bewildered and not the least bit contained. Before long you were laughing too, neither of you quite sure what was funny, just so wholly relieved as your chests were flooded with wonder and warmth.

It felt like fireworks and popping candy. Just as he had promised all those years ago. You resisted the urge to throw up on his Converse.

You might have been crying and he might been too but you weren’t exactly sure because one moment you were both laughing at nothing and the next he was on the floor with you. He held you like he had never held a single thing in his life, like he was lost at sea and you were the only solid thing for miles. He tucked your head under his chin and sucked in great forced breaths that you could feel beneath your cheek. Because he was warm and there and real. And that meant the last seven years, the better part of your life, hadn’t been for nothing.

You and Luke make your way to dinner side by side. You had spent the afternoon rambling about your lives, about your meetings with your future selves, about your home under the river, about his responsibilities as a camp counsellor and yours as your brother’s keeper. He told you about Annabeth and Thalia and the rest of his siblings, you told him about your parents and Sally Jackson and your sea friends. You gave him his necklace which he lets you fix in place at the base of his throat – you do not spend a moment too long running your hand up the back of his neck and through his curls.

He had been almost bashful when he gifted you a watch that matched his, inlaid with twin fragments of mother of pearl taken from the same shell – kind of like your soul had been, he had said. You swear you’ve never owned anything as precious. You let him strap it to your wrist as he tells you about spending a summer diving for it in the lake. And then softly, tentatively, he tells you about his quest.

Luke could have cried from the way you were looking at him alone, so very gently, like you could cradle him with your gaze alone. At a loss for words, you simply whispered, “I am so proud of you.”

His grip is iron-clad and you tell your next story with your face pressed into the side of his neck, pretending you can’t feel him shaking softly.

When you make your way to dinner you’re both glowing with the soft exhaustion of emotion. You all but lean against one another as you collect your goblets and fill your plates.

The other campers steer clear of you, content to leave Luke to chauffeuring the new kid around. You count yourself lucky, it was only a matter of time until one of the older campers recognised you.

You were almost to the end of the Hermes table – that perfect spot at the end where you might just have a chance of holding a private conversation after dinner – when Chiron interrupted you.

“Mr. Castellan, I see you’ve acquainted yourself with our newly returned camper.”

“That’s my job, sir.” You tried not to stare at the crooked smile he flashed the centaur.

“Perhaps you ought to show her how to make an offering,” Chiron says pointedly, “She’s been away for a long time, and it’s your responsibility to treat her as you would any other incoming Camper.”

Luke turned to you, his boyish grin still charming but the mirth leaking out of his eyes, “Of course. Do you remember how it’s done?”

“I do. Just not a lot of food to be spared in the mortal world.”

You squinted, the corners of your mouth pulled up in what Chiron would likely mistake for sheepishness. But Luke could see it in your eyes. How your anger had made you pointy in all the places someone your age ought to be soft. He wondered how all the jagged edges of you would feel against all the jagged edges of him. He thought maybe if the two of you were careful, you could make something smooth as sea glass and twice as pretty, together.

You dump a clump of mashed potatoes into the fire with an unconcerned flick of your fork. Luke lops part of his own meal on top of yours, you glare enviously at the reasonable portion he had left on his plate. You hoped the food would burn at the bottom of the braiser.

“Sorry, sir.” You mocked Luke. He stuck his tongue at you once Chiron had turned his back.

You hurried to snag the seat at the end of his table, sliding into place across from each other. You flounder for a moment, wondering whether to draw your legs as far under your seat as they will go or bask in the gentle brush of his knee against his leg. You settle for the latter and try not to evaporate under his gaze, as he stares at you even as you start eating.

Luke realised he’d spent too long staring when you all but groaned, “Don’t tell me I have to sacrifice my dinner to you too.”

He flashed you a grin, then tried to say as nonchalantly as possible,“Is that why you left? So you could enjoy a proper meal every once and a while?”

You stared at him for a long while, “You, future you, told me to leave, to find my brother.”

“Why would I do that? If you had stayed at Camp–”

“That’s almost exactly what I said to you.” You pushed your food around as you stared at a point just beyond his head, he thought for a moment that he could see the neurons firing behind your eyes, like a hundred tiny zaps of lightning, “But I’ve had plenty of time to think about it. And I think you were right to send me away.”

“I don’t think I’ll be hearing that very often.” He dodged the pea you fling at him with a grin.

“I think maybe if I don’t leave, I won’t become this me or do the things I’ve done and maybe that’s important for us or our future or some past you rewrote by telling me to leave.”

“Seems overly complicated.”

“I think it’s supposed to be complicated,” You couldn’t help but admire the quiet skill with which he wielded his cutlery, “If it were easy, we would find each other in every universe.”

He paused, knife aloft, “You don’t want to find each other in every universe?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.” You speared a leaf of spinach onto your fork to hide your scowl behind as you said, “The Gods have made it this way to keep us separated.”

“We’re together now.”

“Which means they lost.”

Luke watched you for a drawn out heartbeat, then leaned over to transfer the perfect squares of meat he’d been cutting onto your plate.

You took a long moment to chew before you said, “So, your plan to send me after Percy worked.”

“I thought it was your plan.”

“I forgot to ask you whose plan it was.”

“I say it’s your plan.” He took a long pull from his goblet that left his lips tinted red.

“It doesn’t matter what you think.” You passed him a napkin before he could ask, “It’s what you will think.”

“Sure, Precious.” He smothers a laugh into the napkin at the way you scrunch your nose at him, “You know, because you're so protective of your food. Like Gollum with the ring.”

“That’s the stupidest explanation for a pet name I’ve ever heard.” But you’re damn near head down on the table as you laughed. “I definitely got the smarter half of our soul.”

“Then it was definitely your plan.”

You’ve still got a hand pressed to your face to conceal your smile when you say, “What about when I meet you? Any words of wisdom?”

“Try not to fall for me. I can tell you’re pretty charmed but it’s really not appropriate. I’m seventeen, and you’re what? Twenty-four?”

You launched your bread roll at him. You’re twice as incensed when he catches it whilst looking directly at you, “Asshole.”

“Smartass. See, two can play that game.”

Luke can’t help but think you’re just as pretty sneering as you are smiling, like no expression no matter how ugly could detract from your beauty. Maybe you’re like him, he scarcely dared to hope. Maybe you’re something better, another part of him whispered. The way you talk about the Gods and turn your nose up at them, and play their game only when it suits you.

You weren’t vengeful in the way he was. You weren’t the spitting vicious thing the Camp had liked to pretend you were when you weren’t around to prove otherwise. You were worse and better and everything he needed. You were a storm on the horizon, a snake coiled tight. You were better than just angry. You were disillusioned. Not a product of juvenile resentment but true wrath born of awareness. Not the wild foaming-at-the-mouth kind that he had imagined when he had first heard your name. But the dark carefully contained kind he had seen in the face you would grow into.

This, Luke thought, you were the start of everything.

It’s some weeks later when you stick your hands through the grating of the bunk above Luke as leverage to lean over him and croon, “Up and at ‘em, Pretty Boy.”

He pushed his face out of his pillow, curls sticking up at odd angles as he looked at you half-asleep, “What?”

“Remember? Training?”

“No,” He scrubbed sleep from his eyes, “What did you call me?”

“Sickly.”

“I don’t think that was it.” He propped his head up on a fist as he smiled at you sleepily.

It was so disgustingly cute that you had to turn your back when you said, “Just meet me there.”

Luke’s freshly showered and holding an apple core when he deigns to join you in the forest. He tossed the apple at you and you caught it without thinking. You fake gag at him as you throw it further into the forest.

You wiped your hands against his shoulder as you say, “I’m not sure if an apple core counts but that was dangerously close to an Ancient Greek proposal, Castellan.”

“I got hungry.” He shrugged. You squared off across the clearing, stretching as you warmed yourselves up for the ensuing sparring match.

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Is this you rejecting me?” He landed an open hand on his chest and staggered backward. “You wound me, Precious!”

“Was that you proposing? Because I’m,” You wiped your hand again for good measure, scrunching your nose up, “Disgusted.”

“You would be honoured if I had just proposed to you.”

“You should be nicer to me.”

“And go easy on you just because you’re my soulmate? Unlikely.”

“Because, asshole, I’m the one who got you out of chores this morning, or have you forgotten already. You seemed rather grateful for your little sleep-in.”

He unsheathed his sword and twirled it round in his hand, “You’re a bad influence.”

“Like you weren’t ready to worship the ground I walk on when I told Chiron you needed to get my training up to speed.”

“Do you want me to tell you, you’re brilliant?” He pointed his sword toward you with that grin that made you want to hold him down just so you could admire it longer. “You’re brilliant.”

“You’re stalling.” You pull your knives out, one from your boot, the other from your belt. You miss your old clothes with their pretty sleeves and their personality, your camp shirt seems a poor trade in comparison.

“Stalling? Me?” Luke scoffed. “Never!”

“Don’t you have a counsellor meeting at half-past?”

“I do, so please don’t feel bad when you lose. I only have half an hour to wrap this up. You understand.”

“Who’s fault is that Mr. Just-five-more-minutes?”

He gasped in mock offence and lunged forward, his sword swinging at you in a great arch. You leapt back, out of his range, then ducked low and rushed toward him. Luke was quick, in a viciously smooth move he swept his sword at you again. You brought your knives together, bracing as the impact ricocheted up your arms. Admittedly, you were at a great disadvantage given that you were reluctant to throw a knife at Luke’s head – even though he’d demonstrated an impressive ability to swipe your wayward throws out of the air – and that he had an additional several feet of reach on you.

Luke feigned to the right, you lashed out at his left side and narrowly avoided his sword as it came down at you. He whistled slowly as both of you backed up to circle each other for a moment.

“You’ve got moves, I’ll give you that.”

And so the dance went on. Luke struck, you parried or slipped out of his blade's path with a flourish. You struck, Luke swung his sword and slipped around your blows. Finally, you found the chink in his precious armour. He fell back to his right foot when he deflected a blow. You jerked forward. You jabbed the knife clutched in your left hand toward him as you moved in with the right. Just as you hooked a foot around the back of his leg, Luke’s sword made contact with your left shoulder slicing through sleeve and skin. Luke fell backward with a sharp hiss, his sword flying to the side.

In the end you had laid him out flat in twenty minutes. Luke Castellan had spent the last seven years fighting to win. You had spent them fighting to survive. You supposed it didn’t hurt that the greatest swordsman to enter Camp Half-Blood in nearly three centuries was reluctant to let anything sharp or pointed anywhere near you. You secretly thought he might have been going easy on you for being his soulmate after all. You collapsed on the forest floor beside him, your chest heaving to draw in oxygen.

“I’m sorry about your shirt,” Luke huffed.

“Orange isn’t really my colour.”

He turned to you with a wink, “Oh but it is.”

You wave your hand through the air.

“I’ve gotten very good at putting broken things back together over the years.” He tried not to look at the line of stitching that ran from the ankle of your jeans to the rips at your knee. You tried not to look at his cheek. Instead you reached out and trailed your hands across his necklace where the pearls sat snuggly at the base of his throat.

“You’re wonderful.” He brushed his knuckles down your shoulder and they came away red. “Even covered in blood you’re the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You groaned, “Sweetness, you can’t just say–”

“You call me Sweetness when you visit me.” He whispered it like it was his greatest secret. You traced up his throat to his cheek and pressed your thumb into his dimpled cheek. “You’re still being wonderful. I can’t think when you’re–”

“Wonderful?”

“Okay, Smartass.” He sighed up at the sky, then pulled the both of you to your feet, “Enough lounging, we need to get that cut checked.”

You let him dust the dirt from you and resheath your knives, one in your boot, the other in your belt. Silently revelling in the gentle way he tugs you this way and that. You were well on your way to the infirmary, shoulders bumping and fingers just barely brushing, before he spoke again.

“Where does it come from? The nickname.”

“Sweetness?”

He looked away from you and squinted off into the distance, as if you were suddenly too bright to look at, “Yeah.”

“My mom used to tell me this story about meeting her soulmate. She probably meant Poseidon, but at the time I thought it was about my dad,” The back of Luke’s hand bumped into yours again, his fingers catching yours, his gaze resolutely ahead but you were definitely holding hands. “She said it felt like swallowing lightning and gorging yourself on popping candy. Like sweetness.”

“You like popping candy?”

“It’s my favourite.” You gave him a queer look as if to say, it’s not yours, you utter heathen?

Luke laughed at you all the way to the Apollo Cabin as he listed all the reasons it was the sub-par candy option. Nonetheless, when you emerge from the infirmary, he unloads a fistful of little packets he’d pinched from the candy bowl when the Apollo kids’ hadn’t been looking.

“Who has sub-par candy options now, Sweetness?” You teased, your mouth crackling merrily.

“Keep calling me that and you can have all the terrible candy you want.”

“Try some,” You shoved a packet toward him, because if he kept saying silly things like that and looking at you the way he was you were liable to do or say something equally as stupid. “You’ve got half my soul, maybe it’s our favourite.”

“I don’t think they had popping candy when we had one soul,” He flicks the packet held between your fingers. “And aren’t you the one who says we’re puzzle pieces not halves?”

“You have been listening to me!”

“Hard not to.”

“Asshole.” You flashed your teeth at him.

“Smartass.” He said, but the bite wasn’t there. He was watching you again, in that way he did sometimes before he said something stupid that made you want to throw yourself in the lake or run back to Manhattan or do something equally as stupid, like kiss him. “You–”

You twisted your hand in the front of his shirt and jerked him toward you, the little sachet crinkling in your fist. For a heartbeat, you were both silent, an inch away and staring as if you could will the other to be the one to press forward. But then he closed his eyes and Luke Castellan was kissing you. Like lightning and popping candy. With all the elegance of two lovestruck teenage fools and all the heat of two people who knew they had all the time in the world but still couldn’t bear to waste a second of it. His hand held you by the chin and then splayed lightly across your cheek and tucked hair softly behind your ear. You were only just reaching for the mess of curls at the back of his head when someone wolf whistles.

“My favourite.” Luke grinned, licked his lips and then turned. Hands stuffed in his pockets and a big stupid grin stretched across his face, as he shouted at you, “Stay out of trouble.”

You flip off the Aphrodite kid who’d whistled at you, and hurried back to the Apollo Cabin. You and Luke Castellan were going to need a lot more popping candy.

You’re in the lake, encased in an air bubble, sprawled out side by side with your backs against the sand, when Luke tells you what he’s done. That mere weeks before your arrival he had done the unthinkable. He had robbed the King of the Gods blind and betrayed half the Pantheon in doing so. You weren't sure whether to laugh or cry.

You had simply laid there, silently, for what had felt like aeons to Luke but maybe that had only been because he had to keep reminding himself not to hold his breath. He wasn’t drowning. You weren’t going to turn him in. He hadn’t just blown his whole plan and his life with his soulmate in one fell swoop. He just had to keep breathing and wait for you to say something. He thinks that maybe your mother had passed on some divine knack for diplomacy as Queen of the Sea with the way you seem to turn the issue of his betrayal over and over in your head.

After a while, you reach your arm toward the bubble and the sky. For a brief, terrifying moment, Luke thinks you’re going to pull the lake down on him. When you don’t Luke spends another infinite second wondering whether he would just let you do it.

He tosses the thought aside and focuses on the coin weaving between your knuckles. Like magic, it appears and disappears around the bends of your fingers but it wasn't real magic, just you fidgeting. He pressed his lips together and tried not to think about you at the bottom of the Hudson River, flipping your coin and turning over the issue of your soulmate and your brother and the camp you’d left behind. What is it you had said? You’d had plenty of time to think about those things.

Maybe that's what you need now – time. He’s about to offer it to you, offer to swim his way back to shore so you can think, even if he'd probably drown on the way. He’d give you all the time in the world if he had it.

But then you finally speak, the golden drachma rolling between your fingers, “If you hurt my brother, soulmate or not, I will kill you.”

“I am your soulmate.” He insisted as the implication made his skin itch.

“You are.” Your smile was so gentle it almost felt sad. “So you understand that my love for him comes before my hatred of the Gods. If you have put him in danger wit–”

“We get married.” He blurted. “We have a future. I woke you, when you visited me. That must mean I win.”

“It means, if that’s the path we’re even on, if those people are even the versions of us that we become… maybe you don’t hurt Percy.”

“I won’t.” He swore and you weren’t sure how to ignore the half of your soul that lies so sweetly. “I wouldn’t.”

“Maybe.” You swallowed like you’d been chewing glass your whole life, and someone had finally offered you something substantial to sink your teeth into. “Maybe if we leave now, there’s a world in which I don’t have to pick between my blood and my soul.”

Luke was quiet for a long moment, “We could recruit him. You said it yourself, he’ll be more powerful than any of us.”

“He’s twelve.”

“He’s the son of Poseidon.”

“He’s twelve.”

“You were twelve when you left to protect him.”

“And look how that turned out,” Your grin was brittle, but he swore you were still the loveliest creature he’d ever laid eyes on. “I’m sat here planning to betray everything I was raised to follow.”

“You’re going to follow me?”

Your eyes traced the shape of his jaw, his nose, his scar. You looked pained, “I fear I would follow you into much worse, Luke Castellan.”

“I’m trying to lead you to something better.” He reached for your hand, took the drachma from your fingers, and pressed a slow, soft kiss to your palm. He smiled and there were dimples in his cheeks and tears in his eyes as he whispered, “We can try for better.”

“Leave Percy.” You pressed your fingers to his cheek, “Let him come to camp, let him join us when he’s ready.”

“You’re sure he’ll join us?”

“He will, I know it. We just need to let him see the Gods’ apathy for himself.” And you sighed. Luke wondered how many lifetimes your souls had seen, how many times you had searched for each other, how many times you had been torn apart. You sound ancient when you say, “You and I have seen more than enough.”

He turned his head and whispered in the scarce distance between you, “What do you propose?”

“We leave. As soon as anyone catches on, we take anyone who agrees with us and flee.” You brought his hand to your mouth and pressed your lips to his knuckles firmly, “We can plot your revenge and plan my new world on the way.”

Luke feels ancient when he promises, “Okay, on the way then.”

But he swears, as you lean forward and kiss him, that no matter how many times you do it this lifetime or in all the lifetimes until this story – of you and Luke Castellan – became ancient, it would still never stop feeling like the first time.

Like lightning and popping candy.

Tag List:

@emelia07 @star611 @7s3ven @kissingyourgrl @myxticmoon @shermanno @moonsficrec @soleilgrec

#luke castellan x reader #soulmate au #luke castellan #pjo luke #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo series #pjo show #percy jackson show #pjo #percy jackson #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan pjo #luke castellan fic #luke castellan fanfiction

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lunarriviera · 1 month ago

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Hi! Hope you're doimg well! I wanted to ask, what do you do when you get stuck when writing? Like, I know I want to go from point A to point B, but I'm stuck at point A and not sure how to get to point B.

nonny i am busting in here all excitedly like the koolaid man at four in the god o’clock of the morning to answer this, because I ACTUALLY KNOW THIS ONE:

the solution to this issue is, in fact, square brackets. like this: [???]

what? you say. how works this? you say. READ ON I WILL TELL YOU

so right now in the scene i’m trying to pull together/make into prose, from tattered drafts/sentences/allcaps/bullet points/etc., i have three things that need to happen: 1) police will search a suspect’s house, 2) one of them has to find something incriminating, 3) the suspect’s son has to burst in and cause a lot of trouble. those are my B points. but right now, i’m stuck at point A: shen yi and he rongyue are sitting in the car talking about feelings when they need to get out and go do their damn jobs. how do i get them to move. why aren’t they moving. why are they still sitting there talking, this isn’t brunch goddammit.

at this point as a writer, you get to make a decision: EITHER a) your idea about what needs to happen in this scene was all wrong, and the reason you’re “stuck” at point A is that maybe point A is actually a very interesting place for your characters to linger inside, and maybe they really need to be there a while longer, in case they have things to say or do. and point B maybe isn’t the point B you thought it was going to be, but it’s going to be something different (maybe shen yi and he rongyue realize they need backup, or they decide they’re going someplace else to do something different, instead).

OR: square brackets. it works like this. (and by the way i learned this from @seperis because she is literally a genius, thank you sep darling you should know saved my whole entire life.) here is some of my draft to illustrate:

[shen yi and he rongyue saying a bunch of words about feelings and things not related to the case they’re supposed to be investigating]

“I wonder,” said Shen Yi thoughtfully, “what would happen if you just asked her to go for a walk with you?”

[TK]

Shen Yi stopped in front of the painting and looked at it, at first out of habit, and then more closely, as he instinctively stepped back the correct distance to see both the whole canvas at once as well as its technique. From the other room, he could hear He Rongyue and [Name of Her Assistant] doing [something something something]. He still had on nitrile gloves, so he came closer again, to touch the varnish, feel along the grooves of the brushwork. He frowned. This wasn’t a reproduction—this was a genuine [name of painter redacted bc it’s a plot point and a surprise].

[TK]

“What the fuck are you people doing in my house?” came an aggrieved voice from the landing. Everyone turned to look up at the young man standing there, keys in one hand, a cup of iced coffee in the other. He was, Shen Yi realized, Huang Wei, and that was neither unexpected nor a particular problem, but the person with him was probably going to be a very particular problem indeed.

you can see how i gestured towards three different parts of this scene, even though i didn’t finish any of them here and have no idea what the connective tissue will be between them. and i did this by skipping huge wads of prose and just tossing in “[TK]” for now. ”TK” by the way is an abbreviation i learned while working for newspapers/magazines; journalists use it to mean “to come,” as in, “something important is missing here so i promise i will make a bunch of phone calls and get that detail/fact shoved in there before we go to press.” We use TK instead of TC because you can word-search TK and that letter combination isn’t in any english words (or at least very few; anyway i can’t think of any).

at some point, of course, you will have to fill in “[TK]” or rather, i will, here with all the stuff that’s missing—dialogue, action, and description, mostly; i tend not to summarize or use exposition much, but usually default to telling a story in-scene (a time-honored tradition in fanfic). but the beauty of TK and above all, the square brackets, is that you don’t bog down. you don’t go down a research rabbit hole because you can’t remember the name of He Rongyue’s assistant (Xiao something? Feng?) and you don’t wind yourself into knots figuring out how to get them out of the car and into the house. you keep moving, like a shark.

so if you’re stuck getting from A to B? stop trying to get from A to B. just SKIP there, skip to where you want to be. throw in “[something goes here]” so you remember to go back and add it later. if you have a general idea of what goes there, put that instead: “[somehow they get out of the car still talking and head inside. oh wait how do they break the door down. is jiang xue with them?]”—like that.

the trick with any piece of fic longer than, say, 7-8k, is NOT to get bogged down. anything with multiple scenes, really—even if you have, say, five scenes planned for your oneshot, you will find one really easy to write and then you’ll stare at the next one, which SHOULD be easy to write, for eleventy hours, sweating like that gif of jordan peele. don’t do that. just put “[this is the scene where chen fei throws a chair and ruan nanzhu says something cutting and walks out, and that’s the moment chen fei knows he actually likes the bastard.]” then skip! skip, skip. skip to the moment where you know the next thing that will happen! write that part instead! “it’s two years later and chen fei is furious, because he has to see that lovesick look on ruan nanzhu’s face whenever he thinks qiushi isn’t paying attention. the worst part is that lin qiushi is genuinely loveable, so chen fei can’t even hate him. he starts hiding in his room.” etc.

the thing about writing ANYTHING is not to lose momentum, not to get stuck in what novelist robert pirsig called “a gumption trap.” or, as alec baldwin’s character says in glengarry glen ross: always be closing. keep moving! don’t sit in one place too long or you really will get stuck. if you find yourself fussing with a paragraph, or adding more to a scene when you didn’t mean to add more instead of stopping and moving on, or pacing around the house irritated with yourself, drink a lot of very cold water and then SKIP.

skip to the part where you know what happens. if you don’t know what happens, either go for a long walk and think about what exactly Han Juwon or Naruto or Bob the Builder or Taylor Swift or Viktor Nikiforov or Wang Meng or whomstthefuckever would do/say in this situation. after about 15-20 minutes i’m usually either turning around to go home and write it down, or giving myself complicate mnemonics based on trees and street signs, so i have a chance of remembering what i just realized absolutely has to happen next in the story.

in conclusion:

1. [TK!] [square brackets are your friends!] [you can use them!] [to skip ahead!] [and leave a stuck spot BYYYYYEEEE hit da bricks] [and just go to a more pleasant spot where there’s a shady tree and some soft green grass to lie on]

2. …and then later when you take another pass through the document, on some day when you’re mentally fresher and maybe you haven’t read it for a couple days, you’ll find yourself adding a few sentences. or one sentence. or some words. it’s fine. it’s all fine. look we can’t all be out here writing a million words a year. some people do, sure. as writer annie dillard says, some people eat cars. but if you want to write something with some bite to it, some texture and grit and heft, you’re gonna endure some tortuous slowness and a lot of [TK]. so best start getting real comfortable with that now. if you wanted an easy hobby i have some difficult news for you, you picked the wrong fucking one.

3. the reward for your patience with yourself and your writing process will be all those times when you’re driving, showering, cooking, and/or DMing with bestie, and suddenly What's About To Happen Next will hit you like a bolt of lightning and nearly scalp you in the process. holy shit, you’ll say to yourself, stunned. i now know exactly who’s coming through the door with huang wei and it’s not at all who i thought it was. (this jolt of electricity is why people are pantsers, by the way. we suffer through our own cluelessness for an eternity, just to have that one shocking moment of godlike clarity. the crash usually sucks but the high is unbelievable.) (and i say this, but i always have an outline. i just usually mostly ignore it, because apparently my continued survival is predicated on the fact that imaginary people talk in my head and i just write down what they say.)

4. finally i have ABSOLUTELY written fics of every length just to get to One Particular Scene which i wrote first. i wrote the ending of my current long wip really early on, and everything leading up to it has just been me trying to figure out: okay, so what’s it going to take to get them there? in the words of george w. bush, whom i am not much given to quoting, you are the decider. you can decide to write your fic backwards if you want to! write C first and then go back and add B and at the very end A! no one will ever know, it’s between you and your drafts. then you can do what i do, and write an excessively long nervous a/n about it all, when you post.

this got long but tldr just remember: [tk]. love you have fun writing!!! <3 <3

#writing advice #just writing survival more like #writing is hard #writer problems #how to write and not suffer TOO much

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four-of-them-showdown · 2 years ago

Text

Miku, Rin, Len, Luka:

No propaganda!

Jay, Cole, Kai, Zane:

"They're my friends, they've been a team for over 10 years now and I've been there that whole time :)"

"Why shouldn't they win? They're little gay skittles. Or they're brothers. You choose"

"JUMP UP KICK BACK WHIP AROUND AND SPIN (sorry i am very passionate about the legos but too tired to form like. real sentences. please imagine something written about how they're cool and fueled my childhood or something)"

"OK SO

They’re the OG members of the ninja team and shipping all four of them together is popular and is very gay it’s called polyninja and it’s amazing and let me break down the dynamics of each of them

Zane x Jay: Technoshipping

Robot x their mechanic trope goes brrrr. Zane is a logical and smart one, and Jay is chaotic and kinda a disaster. Zane is the autism to his adhd and they are very fun <3

Zane x Kai: Oppositeshipping

Ha ha opposites attract trope goes brrr. Again, Zane is logical and smart, whereas Kai is impulsive (and also smart just in a different way). Both of them feel emotions strongly but process them in different ways and I have to end it here before I write an essay about how ZANE was the one who with a single meaningful look and touch to the arm told him it was too late to go back, how Lloyd mentioned KAI to try and restore Zane’s memories when he had amnesia, how- (You get the picture)

Zane x Cole: Glaciershipping

Mom friend x Dad friend. I have realized that his is getting long so I am going to be much briefer now

Jay x Kai: Plasmashipping

Two adhd/add idiots being stupid together <3

Jay x Cole: Bruiseshipping

Best friends to lovers what more could you want (don’t start me on this one they have so much chemistry)

Kai x Cole: Lavashipping

I am bad at words for this one but just trust me they’re a Vibe ok they’re a Vibe

Zane x Jay x Kai x Cole: Polyninja

THEY ARE STUPID, GAY, AND IN LOVE, YOUR HONOR"

#vocaloid #lego ninjago #hatsune miku #kagamine rin #kagamine len #megurine luka #jay walker #cole brookstone #kai smith #zane julien #polls #four of them showdown #round 1 #OBSESSED with the propaganda for this one

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janmisali · 1 year ago

Note

Are you going to do a poll for 3rd/4th place?

this is an inherent structural thing with large single-elimination brackets in general, but the four semifinalists aren't necessarily the four strongest competitors in the bracket. even if you assume bracket performance is both deterministic (not influenced by random factors) and transitive (character A beats character B and character B beats character C implies character A beats character C), any one of the characters beaten by the final champion along the way to the final round theoretically could be the second most-favored character in the bracket.

the polls I did for "characters that the finalists won against" do suggest that the seeding was pretty good in this regard and that the characters that made it further really are more well-liked among the voters of the bracket, but it's not guaranteed that doing well in a free-for-all "pick your favorite out of all of these characters from just their names" is really correlated with how well they'd do head-to-head in a proper poll.

besides, why would I make Daisy and Luigi fight? it's poetic that they got out in the same round, I think

#super mario bracket

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aylacavebear · 2 months ago

Text

Bloodlines & Fate Chapter 19

A/N: So, I passed my last GED test today. I graduate on June 5th. So, ya'll are getting a celebratory chapter posting today. Enjoy. <3

Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.

Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You

Word Count: 4989

Warning: Angst, Fluff, Pack connections/bond, You might need some tissues, Things are still a little overwhelming for the reader, she's got a lot to learn now, Dean being an utter sweetheart.

A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.

A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 19

The days leading up to Sam and Jess’s departure passed in a haze of warmth, laughter, and stolen moments. No one said it outright, but you all felt it—the weight of time slipping through your fingers, the inevitability of goodbye lingering just beneath the surface. So, you stretched every second, holding onto laughter a little longer, hesitating just a beat before saying goodnight, as if you could make it all last.

Mornings were slow and easy, spent lingering over breakfast at Dean’s cabin. The scent of coffee curled through the air, mixing with the fresh pine outside as the four of you fell into an effortless rhythm. Jess perched on the counter, swinging her legs as the two of you debated the best way to make pancakes, while Sam leaned against the table, tossing in his own two cents, mostly just to get a rise out of Jess.

Dean, ever the opportunist, took advantage of the distraction. He slid up behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder, arms bracketing you against the counter as he reached over and stole a handful of chocolate chips straight from your prep bowl.

“You’re gonna regret that,” you warned, elbowing him lightly as he tossed a few into his mouth.

Dean just smirked, chewing slowly, entirely unrepentant. “Worth it.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could swat his hand again, he snagged another pinch and popped them into his mouth with a satisfied hum.

Afternoons were spent outside, the late-summer sun stretching golden light across the land. You hiked the trails winding through both territories, raced each other across the bridge over the river—Dean and Jess always competing too seriously, while you and Sam laughed as you took your time. More than once, you and Jess ended up sprawled in the grass of a clearing, faces turned to the sky, sharing quiet conversations.

“Feels different, doesn’t it?” she murmured one afternoon, her voice soft with something almost wistful.

You turned your head to look at her, finding her already watching you. She didn’t have to elaborate—you knew exactly what she meant.

Before, you had understood pack bonds in theory, seen them in the way others moved around each other, in the easy warmth and unspoken connection they shared. But you had never felt it. Not really. Your mutation had kept you separate, unable to scent, unable to grasp that instinctual tether.

But now? Now, it was different. Dean’s claim had rewired something in you, and since then, you felt it—felt her, as part of you. And just as the bond was beginning to settle into place, she was leaving.

Jess didn’t say anything more, just offered you a small, reassuring smile before turning back to the sky. You watched her for a moment longer, committing her to memory. She had always been a part of your life. Now she was part of you.

It’s not fair.

Evenings were quieter, more intimate. As much as the four of you cherished your time together, you also carved out space for your mates. Sam and Jess took long walks through the trees, their voices carrying through the night air in soft murmurs. And Dean? Dean kept you close, pulling you into slow dances in the kitchen, pressing lazy kisses to the curve of your neck as you swayed to old rock songs filtering through the radio.

“It won’t be the same without them here,” you admitted one night, your voice hushed against the warmth of his chest.

Dean tightened his arms around you, hip lips grazing your temple. “No, but we’ll see ‘em soon. And ‘til then…” His hands slid to your waist, fingers teasing at the hem of your shirt as his breath brushed your ear. “I’ve got plenty of ways to keep you occupied, sweetheart.” The last night before Sam and Jess left, the four of you shared one final dinner together—no distractions, no rush, just the comfort of being together. You cooked, settling effortlessly into your place beside Dean, your mate. You barely had to think about it anymore, how easily you worked together, moving in sync around the kitchen. Jess watched you with a knowing smile, something warm and understanding in her gaze, and you knew she saw it too—the way things had shifted, the way you had settled into this life with Dean, fully, without hesitation.

When morning came, the goodbye was softer than expected, but no less bittersweet. The four of you stood by the car, the warm breeze stirring the trees as Sam shut the trunk, Jess lingering with her arms wrapped tight around you.

“You’re gonna be okay?” Jess murmured, voice quiet but sure.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, nodding. “Yeah. I just… I wish you didn’t have to go.” Jess pulled back, cupping your face, her thumbs brushing away the tears that threatened to spill. “Write your book. Enjoy the alone time with Dean. Focus on him,” she said gently.

Sam stepped in then, tugging you into a solid, reassuring hug, his hand rubbing up and down your back. “We’ll see you in about three weeks,” he promised, pulling away just enough to look into your eyes. “Right before the full moon. The four of us are a pack, and we’re all going to run with you.”

Dean stood beside you, solid and steady. He didn’t say much—he didn’t need to. The warmth of his hand at the small of your back was enough, a silent promise anchoring you in place.

As Sam and Jess finally got in the car, you exhaled slowly, fingers curling into Dean’s shirt as you watched them pull away. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, voice low and sure.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured. “They’ll be back soon. And until then…” He tilted your chin up, his smirk easing the weight in your chest, green eyes glinting with something warm and promising. His fingers traced slow patterns at your hip, voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I get you all to myself.”

The drive back from seeing Jess and Sam off was quiet at first. You stared out the window, watching the trees blur past, the weight of their absence settling over you. But Dean wasn’t having it.

“You thinkin’ too much again?” His voice was warm, teasing, but there was something knowing beneath it.

You glanced at him, already catching the flicker of mischief in his green eyes.

“Maybe,” you admitted.

“Can’t have that.” The next thing you knew, the truck swerved slightly, just enough to jostle you toward him. A sharp gasp left your lips a you grabbed onto the console for balance, shooting him a glare.

“Dean—” “What?” he grinned, completely unapologetic. “It’s my job to keep you outta your own head, sweetheart.” And he did. By the time you pulled up to the clearing, your cheeks ached from laughing, your mind lighter than it had been all morning.

Dean put the truck in park and hopped out, coming around to your side before you could even unbuckle. He opened the door, offering his hand, and when you took it, he pulled you into him, arms wrapping around your waist as he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“C’mon,” he murmured, “got something to show you.” You turned, following his gaze to the stretch of land ahead. It was bustling with movement—both Winter and Winchester pack members working together, clearing ground, stacking supplies. You recognized Bobby speaking with your father near a pile of freshly cut logs, while Ellen barked orders at a group unloading stone.

Dean stayed at your side, letting you take it all in.

“It’s really happening,” you breathed.

“Yeah,” he said, a quiet pride in his voice. “It’s ours, Y/N. The start of it, anyway.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest. The new cabin wasn’t just a place to live—it was home. Built by both packs, for not just you and Dean, but for Sam and Jess as well, for your future.

Dean squeezed your hand, grounding you. “Wanna take a walk? Check it out?”

You nodded, stepping forward with him, leaving the past behind and walking toward what came next. Heads turned as the two of you approached. Some out of curiosity, others out of instinct. For so long, your scent had been utterly unpleasant, even to some of your own pack. But now? Now there was no wrinkle of a nose, no subtle shift away. If anything, there was a quiet acceptance, a recognition that hadn’t been there before.

Bobby was the first to greet you, stepping forward with a nod. He took an exaggerated sniff, rubbing his nose for effect. “Well, look at that. No more burnin’ my nose hairs off.” Dean let out a bark of laughter, his hand slipping to the small of your back. “Guess that means you’ll have to find something else to complain about, old man.” Bobby grunted, but there was a glimmer of approval in his eyes when they landed on you. “Guess I will.” Ellen crossed her arms, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Took you long enough, Winchester.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Just because Bobby claimed you the first week the two of you met doesn’t mean I had to do that with Y/N.”

You giggled quietly at that one, as Dean sounded almost like a grumbling pup. They were kinda cute together, Bobby and Ellen.

Jody stepped up next, giving you a once-over before a warm smile broke across her face. “How do you feel?”

For a moment, you hesitated—not because you didn’t know, but because putting it into words felt almost too big. For so long, you had only known the absence of connection, the muted space between yourself and everyone else. Now, it was different.

“Good,” you said finally. “Like… I’m where I’m supposed to be.” Dean’s fingers flexed at your back, his silent way of telling you he heard every word.

The work continued around you, both packs moving in sync as they cleared land, measured, and prepped materials. Watching them, a warmth bloomed in your chest. Then, another new scent drifted toward you—comforting, steady.

Your dad.

He pulled you into a warm, tender embrace, his arms strong and steady around you. “Being bonded looks good on you,” he murmured against your hair, voice thick with emotion.

Something inside you settled into place, and you blinked rapidly against the sting of tears. “He’s a good alpha,” you whispered.

When he pulled back, his eyes glistened with unshed tears of joy. His thumb brushed over your shoulder, like he was memorising the moment.

“I missed you, too, Dad,” you chuckled. “Care to show us around?”

Your dad started walking, and with a reassuring squeeze of Dean’s hand, you followed. The ground beneath your shoes was uneven, still raw from the work being done, but it felt solid. Real.

“You’re looking at about a nine-month build, give or take,” your dad explained, gesturing toward the open stretch of land. “Longer if the winter’s rough. We’ll get as much done before the first snow as we can.” You nodded, eyes tracing the foundation markings already taking shape. Stakes and string outlined where the walls would stand, and stacks of lumber were neatly piled, ready to be used. You could already see it—your home, standing strong against the backdrop of the trees.

Dean’s thumb stroked slow circles against the back of your hand as your dad kept talking. “Most of the framing should go up before the first freeze. We’ll get the roof and insulation in before the worst of the cold hits.”

Your gaze flickered to the people working, both Winter and Winchester members moving in sync. Laughter and conversation wove through the crisp August air, the scent of sweat and sawdust clinging to the site. For so long, you had felt like an outsider in your own pack. Now, standing here, that weight had lifted.

“You’ll have to make some decisions soon,” your dad continued, rubbing his jaw as he glanced toward you and Dean. “Layout’s mostly settled, but finishes, flooring, fixtures—you two need to talk that over.” Dean chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Jess already made all the notes on that. They’re back at my cabin, in the folder.” Your head snapped up, brow furrowing, but before you could get a word out, Dean cupped your cheek., his touch grounding you.

“Jess is sneaky that way, sweetheart. She knows you,” he murmured, his voice warm with affection. The love in his eyes had tears burning at the edges of yours. ”She said you’d want it simple—warm lighting, natural tones.”

A tear that slipped down your cheek, and he brushed it away before tilting his head to capture your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. You melted into it, the rest of the world fading for just a moment—until your dad cleared his throat.

Both of you broke apart, laughter bubbling up like teenagers caught sneaking a moment alone.

“Sorry, Dad,” you mumbled, cheeks heating.

He chuckled. “I’ll get used to my baby girl all grown up eventually.” His voice was teasing, but when his gaze settled on Dean, there was something deeper there—more than words could express. A silent acknowledgment. A father’s approval.

After a beat, he exhaled. “I’ll send Garth by later to pick up the folder.”

The construction site buzzed with activity as your dad led the two of you through it, the air alive with the sounds of hammers, saws, and the occasional shout of laughter. Even the low rumble of machinery added to the organized chaos, breaking fresh ground and shifting earth for the foundation. Men and women from both packs moved in perfect sync, their efforts blending together like a well-rehearsed dance—strong hands lifting beams, steady voices calling instructions, sweat and determination shaping the future before your eyes.

Dean’s hand tightened around yours, pulling you out of your daydreams of the future. “Ready to go?” he asked, his voice soft, but carrying that familiar warmth that always made you feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

You nodded, looking up at him with a smile. “Yeah. You need to be there for when Garth stops by later.” Dean gave your hand one last squeeze before leading you back to his truck. The ride back to his cabin was quiet, save for the steady hum of the engine mixing with the distant call of birds through the trees. As he pulled up to his cabin, the warm golden sunlight streamed through the canopy, casting a glow across the space.

Dean cut the engine, shifting to look at you with a lazy smirk. “Why don’t we take the rest of the day off?” he suggested, the teasing edge in his voice softened by the sincerity in his eyes. “I think we’ve earned a lazy afternoon.” You grinned, already picturing the comfort of being wrapped up in him for the rest of the day. “You know I’m not going to argue with that.”

Once inside, you immediately set to making lunch, while Dean—at first—just stood there, watching you. His mind wandered, lost in images of a future that these simple, easy moments always stirred in him.

Without looking up as you layered the different meats onto the bread, you smirked. “You just gonna stand there and stare at me?” The teasing lilt in your voice pulled him right back, lips twitching into a smirk of his own before he sauntered over.

His hands settled on your hips, his chin on your shoulder, his warmth seeping through your shirt. “Can’t help it, omega,” he murmured, voice low, content.

You chuckled, a slow smile playing at your lips. “Careful, alpha. I might think you’re up to something,” you purred, matching his playful tone.

Just as you were finishing up, his fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, skimming your skin with a touch that sent a slow, curling heat through you. “Maybe I am,” he murmured against your neck, lips barely ghosting over your skin.

A shiver danced down your spine, but you held firm. “Food first,” you stated, biting back a laugh when he let out an honest-to-god whimper, his hands freezing mid-ascent up your sides.

Dean pulled back just enough to reach around you, grabbing a plate with a grumble. “Such a bossy omega,” he muttered under his breath—but you could hear the fondness laced through it. And if you weren’t mistaken, maybe even a little pride.

You and Dean ended up curled on the couch, plates balanced on your laps as some old western played quietly on the TV. Neither of you was paying much attention to it—too content enjoying the simple comfort of the other’s company. Dean, true to form, kept sneaking chips off your plate, even though you had put twice as many on his.

“Dean,” you warned playfully when he swiped another chip.

He grinned around the stolen chip. “What? I’m a growing alpha,” he said with a wink, making you shake your head and nudge him with your knee.

Before the banter could go any further, a knock sounded at the door. Dean sighed, reluctantly peeling himself off the couch to answer it.

“Garth,” Dean greeted as he opened the door, stepping aside to let the other alpha in.

Garth gave you a small wave as he stepped into the living room, eyes immediately finding the folder sitting on the coffee table. “Your dad said you had the cabin plans,” he said, glancing between you and Dean.

Dean grabbed the folder and handed it over. “Yep. Everything he marked is flagged. If you need me to go over anything—”

“I got it,” Garth interrupted with a smile. “Trust me, I’ll make sure it gets done right. You two enjoy the rest of your day.” He gave you a little knowing smirk before heading back out. Dean shut the door and leaned against it with a groan. “So much for our lazy afternoon.” You chuckled, patting the empty spot beside you. “Doesn’t mean it's ruined.” Dean wasted no time returning to your side, pulling you right back into him as if you belonged there—and truthfully, you did.

The day slipped by easily, quiet and unhurried. After dinner, the two of you cleaned up together, moving around the kitchen in sync—Dean washing, you drying—until everything was put away and the warm glow of the cabin lights made the place feel impossibly cozy.

By the time you both got ready for bed, the exhaustion of the day mixed with the comfort of being there—with him—wrapped around you like a soft blanket. You’d barely pulled back the covers when Dean appeared behind you, hands slipping easily around your waist.

“Hey,” he rumbled, voice lower now, thick with something far more than just tiredness.

You hummed, leaning back into him. “Hey.” His nose brushed along the curve of your neck, inhaling like he couldn’t get enough. “Still gonna tell me ‘food first’ this time?” he teased, the faintest edge of mischief in his voice.

You smirked, heart fluttering at the gentle possessiveness in his touch. Turning in his arms, you tilted your head slightly. “If I was still making us food? Yes, I would.”

He half groaned, half growled at your teasing, loving how you kept up with him. “Sassy tonight, omega,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your shoulder.

“You like me sassy, alpha,” you replied softly, leaning into his touch.

The second those words left your mouth, Dean’s restraint snapped like a worn thread. His mouth was on yours before you could breathe, deep and hungry, but reverent all the same. He handled you like something precious and vital all at once—his hands steady, his touch familiar, but tonight it carried more weight.

Clothes were shed between whispered words and soft laughter, your bodies finding that rhythm that came so naturally when it was just the two of you. Every kiss, every caress, every soft growl against your skin left you gasping—not just from the sensation but from the sheer way Dean worshipped you without even trying.

You met him there, gave him everything, just as he gave himself to you—mind, body, and soul. And when it was all said and done, you found yourself tangled in his arms beneath the blankets, his hand tracing lazy patterns along your back. His heartbeat, strong and steady, thrummed against your ear as you lay against his chest.

“You’re mine,” he whispered—not like he owned you, but like he cherished you.

You hummed against him, eyes heavy with sleep but unable to hide the smile that tugged at your lips. “Always.”

—----------------------

The next morning came too fast.

Breakfast was slow, coffee quieter than usual. You lingered over every detail of Dean’s cabin—the creak beneath the kitchen floorboards, the worn wood of the kitchen table under your fingertips, the way the soft autumn light filtered through the curtains. Everything felt heavier now that you knew you’d be leaving soon.

Dean stayed close without hovering, always a few steps away, always watching. Not in that possessive alpha way, but like he was guarding you from the edges, letting you have the space without ever letting you feel alone.

You slowly repacked, dragging it out. Double-checking things you’d normally toss in without a second thought. Dean slipped in and out of the room under the guise of tidying up or grabbing another coffee, but you caught the way he lingered at the doorway each time. Watching. Waiting..

What you didn’t catch was the quiet addition he made to your bag. Tucked beneath your folded clothes—two of his. His flannel, the one you always stole when mornings got too chilly, and one of his old worn shirts, soft and threadbare, carrying his scent. He didn’t say anything. He just knew. Knew what you’d need when you found yourself back home, alone.

The truck ride back was quiet, but not strained. Dean’s hand found yours on the bench seat, thumb tracing slow circles over your skin. You clung to that small touch more than you let on.

But the second Winter land came into view, it hit you.

The cabins were tucked into the trees just as they always were—but Jess’s Jeep wasn’t there. No laughter spilling from the porch. No familiar scent riding the breeze. It felt… hollow.

Dean parked and didn’t move. His hand tightened gently around yours.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft, steady.

You nodded, but it wasn’t a lie or the truth. “I didn’t think it’d feel so… empty,” you murmured, throat thickening. He didn’t press. Just leaned in, nuzzling his nose gently against your temple. “I’ll be here, with you,” he murmured. “I don’t have to head out for work till the morning.”

You breathed him in, letting those words hold you for just a second longer.

Inside, the ache settled fast. Jess’s absence wasn’t just noticeable—it was everywhere. Memories clung to every corner. Late nights on the porch. Coffee before either of you could form full sentences. Jokes and whispered secrets beneath blankets. You swore you could still hear the echo of her laugh.

Dean helped you carry the bags in without a word. He saw it hit you, but he didn’t interrupt it. He knew you needed it. What mattered was, you weren’t doing it alone.

You stopped just inside the living room. Your chest ached. It wasn’t just Jess missing—it was realizing how much had changed. From being unclaimed, to now, to trying to make sense of things you should’ve learned instinctively. Babies were born into this—they knew how to scent their parents, feel that bond. You? You were only beginning to understand it, fumbling through it like it was foreign because, in so many ways, it was.

Dean took your bags and his small overnight one to your room. A quiet smile tugged at his lips when he set them down. The last time he slept here… you’d claimed him.

God, has it been over a month already? The thought made him chuckle softly to himself before he came back downstairs.

You didn’t even notice. You were too deep in it—memories of Jess, of a life that felt familiar but suddenly strange.

Dean, steady as ever, started making himself useful. Tossing spoiled food, clearing out empty containers, making mental lists as he checked the freezer and cabinets. Not because he expected you to eat tonight, but because he knew you needed him right now in a way you couldn’t express in words.

The rest of the day passed in a quiet haze. Dean didn’t mention the grocery store, didn’t mention that mental list he undoubtedly was still running through in the back of his mind. He stayed. Not hovering, but present—always within reach, always watching.

You tried to busy yourself with small tasks—unpacking, putting away a few things—but it all felt half-hearted, not even getting through your entire bag. Dean filled the gaps without a word, moving through your cabin like he belonged there, like he wasn’t going anywhere until you found steady ground again.

By late afternoon, the quiet started to feel heavy.

Dean, leaning against the counter, tipped his head toward the kitchen. “C’mere,” he said softly. “Let’s get you to eat somethin’, sweetheart.” You hesitated but followed him, letting him gently guide you to sit at the table. He rummaged through your cabinets, making do with what little you had. Eventually, he settled on a can of soup—the kind you and Jess would joke about when neither of you wanted to cook—and got it warming on the stove.

It wasn’t much, but Dean didn’t make a show of it. He simply placed the bowl in front of you, sliding a spoon into your hand. “Ain’t gourmet,” he said with a soft smirk, “but it’ll do the job.”

You managed a few bites, mostly because you knew Dean wouldn’t push, but he also wouldn’t let it go. Just enough to take the edge off the hunger you hadn’t realized was gnawing at you.

After dinner, Dean didn’t rush you. Instead, he led you upstairs with a quiet, “C’mon, let’s get you settled.” You let him pick through your dresser, finding you a pair of sleep shorts and a soft, slightly oversized shirt. He set them on your bed before turning to you, a soft smile on his lips, tenderness in his gaze.

You let him help you change, though it felt like you were only going through the motions. His touch was gentle, steady—but this time, he didn’t let his fingers tease your skin. Not now. Not tonight. You tugged nervously at the hem of your shirt as Dean gathered your discarded clothes and dropped them in the hamper. When he returned, he gave you a once-over and the softest, proudest smile, like you’d just survived something bigger than you realized.

He settled you on the edge of your bed, then knelt behind you without asking, fingers gently untangling your hair as he worked a brush through it. You felt the tension drain from your shoulders with every pass. Dean didn’t speak right away, just let the quiet surround you both.

Finally, you broke. “Dean… how do I make this stop hurting?” Your voice cracked. “It’s like there’s this hole, right here.” You pressed a hand to your chest. “Like it’s supposed to be full, but it’s just… empty.” Dean’s movements slowed but didn’t stop. He leaned in, breath warm against your shoulder. “When pups are little,” he murmured, “and their parents have to step away for a bit, they leave somethin’ behind with their scent. Blankets, shirts, whatever’s close. It helps ‘em settle. Helps ‘em not feel so… lost.” You blinked, eyes stinging. “You think that’ll work?” “I know it will,” he said, voice low and sure. “Your bond with Jess is strong, always will be. Having her scent close—it’ll ease that ache. Won’t make it disappear, but it’ll help.” You nodded slowly, letting the idea sink in.

“I’ll go with you,” Dean added, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “We’ll grab a couple things from her place before it gets too dark. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. You just turned enough to press your cheek to his, closing your eyes as he kept brushing—anchoring you, just like he always did.

That night, you curled against Dean, tucked beneath the blankets, Jess’s throw clutched tightly between your fingers. The soft fabric smelled just like her—fresh, warm, like sunlight and that faint hint of lavender she always carried. The scent filled every breath you took, wrapping around you almost as securely as Dean’s arm.

Dean didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. One arm was draped around you, the other tracing lazy circles over your upper arm, his touch light and rhythmic. It was grounding. Safe.

Your mind shifted back to earlier, when you’d first stepped into Jess’s cabin. The moment you’d opened the door, her scent had hit you like a punch to the gut, sharp and staggering. It had taken everything in you not to crumble right there on the threshold. Dean had been there, steady and sure, his hand finding yours without a word. He’d led you through the space, past familiar furniture and half-read books left on the table, until you reached her room.

It wasn’t much, just a simple little throw folded on the foot of her bed. But the second you’d picked it up, the ache in your chest had eased—just enough to breathe again. Surrounded by her scent, you’d felt it settle, that wild and overwhelming loss, softening into something bearable.

Now, here in the quiet of your room, it helped you hold yourself together. Dean’s steady touch, the soft sound of his breathing beside you, and Jess’s scent weaving through it all.

You weren’t okay, not yet—but you weren’t drowning either.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 20

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