#but is still part of the alliteration because it's the Same Sound!

[alliterationbrainscratch]

Sing those Songs that offend the Censors

///

Pop my Pills from a Pez dispenser

[fresitasmoribund]

Beyond Marginalia

-`♡´- pairing: Remus Lupin x Fem!Reader

-`♡´- summary: Having to borrow a book for Alchemy wasn’t your preferred way to meet someone. But when you begin to have conversations in the margins of a textbook with a stranger, you’re more than intrigued.

-`♡´- contains: does this count as a meet-cute?

-`♡´- warnings: i had to dig deep to sound like a very philosophical alchemist

-`♡´- masterlist

-`♡´- word count: 3.4k

-`♡´- a.n: this turned out longer than I meant it to be

You dreaded having to take Alchemy, but you were desperate for how it would look academically. And you were a little hopeful that you’d at least learn something interesting. You were wrong, for the most part. For such an interesting-sounding course, it was rather… repetitive at times. But you were going to stick through it. All you need is your parchment, trusty quill, and your book – and you’ll be set to pass before you know it.

You lost your book only halfway through the first week of the course.

You scoured through your bag, your dorm, the library, and even consulted with a few paintings. But it had vanished – as if swallowed by the very elements it was meant to explain.

You’d earned a stern scolding from your professor when you sheepishly revealed the status of your book’s location. But what could you do? It was nowhere you could find. The look on your face must have saved you from losing any house points, but she did make sure you knew that you were not to lose any more Alchemy books. Because the class was small and resources limited, she had said, you would have to share a textbook with a student who had a different schedule. You just hoped they weren’t the type to draw anything inappropriate that might somehow get you in trouble.

“Alright, fellow borrower.” You sighed before opening the book. “What wisdom shall you offer me in the form of crude sketches?”

But the person who you shared this book with was quite the opposite of what you had expected. They were already well ahead in the chapters and left some very insightful notes – it was brilliant, really. It made studying much easier – provided they were clever enough. Judging by the meticulous scribbles in the margins, they seemed to be.

Your fellow classmate’s handwriting was immaculate—too immaculate for a typical student. Each and every page they seemed to go over was filled with tidy annotations in deep, almost-too-perfect ink – organized and detailed. There were no random doodles or ramblings – only sharp, precise notes that seemed to outline everything in perfect order.

In the following days that it was your turn with the book, you used the stranger’s notes to your advantage after writing your own. And, more times than not, you shared the same judgement and interpretation of the material.

You were almost catching up with them after setting a goal to surpass them somehow. A little academic competition never harmed anyone, did it?

As you leaf through the worn book one afternoon, skimming over all their highlights and notes, one of them sticks out in a later chapter. Right under the large title, a note was left. One that was unusually snarky for your mystery annotator.

Another whole chapter on transforming lead into gold. Lovely.

A slow smile graces your features as you huff in amusement. They were right, of course. You weren’t sure how many times the subject would be taught.

Your fingers hover over the next page, still trying to absorb the information on metallic transmutations and their metaphysical connections. But your mind keeps wandering back to that note. Whoever it was you shared this book with was getting just as tired as you were – that was a comforting thought.

As you continue your reading, you found more dry comments pointing to your book partner’s growing exasperation.

This is the worst example of alliteration I’ve ever read. Was the author asleep?

And:

Yes, because THAT’S going to come up in the exam.

You were starting to appreciate the break from unnecessary hyperbole that were forcefully crammed together with academic jargon.  

The next time you dive into a section, words were mostly underlined. It isn’t until you reach a particularly dry explanation about the relationship between alchemical substances and human nature that you come across another note. You roll your eyes at the overly complicated metaphor about the “sublime unity of opposites” and “the celestial influence of Jupiter” before reading what your partner had to say about it.

More painfully obvious metaphors. At least pretend to be subtle.

The bluntness of it has you exhaling a laugh through your nose. And, before you can stop yourself, you grab your quill and scratch a quick reply in the margin:

Pretending to be subtle doesn’t sound very subtle to me.

A small part of you is regretting what you just did, and you wonder if it was foolish to write back. After all, you weren’t sure if they would appreciate your retort or if they’d even read it. But then again, you are bored and desperate. The small thrill of talking to a stranger in such an unconventional way follows you even after turning the page.

You were halfway through the next chapter when you stumble upon yet another pretentious phrase. The author had described Principia Alchemica – the title of the book – as “a seminal text in the canon of alchemical studies.” You can’t help it. The more you read, the more the book’s lofty language makes you cringe. You always thought Alchemy was meant to be more practical, but this text made everything feel so abstract – so high minded. That’s why you left another note:

“A seminal text.” Sounds messy.

You weren’t too proud of it, but it made you snort just a little. It was a bit cheeky, but honestly, this whole thing was starting to feel like an unnecessary circus of symbolism. You won’t really wait for a reply, but you wanted to let the stranger know you were up for conversation.

A few days later, you open the coursebook again, flipping idly through the pages. You freeze when you spot it.

Glad to see someone else who knows this text is a bit… much. Good one.

You blink. Had they actually replied to you?

Smiling, you continue with your studying since you didn’t have long with the book tonight.

It doesn’t take much time to reach another chapter so weighed down with metaphor that you start to wonder if the author had forgotten they were writing a textbook and not a bad novel. They had seriously chosen the wrong profession. Every chapter feels like wading through a thick swamp of unnecessary poetic language, the concepts buried under numerous layers of parables that strain even your patience.

You skim over the paragraph for the third time, using all the literary skills you have in order to dissect whatever spiritual connection the author was fabricating. He must have been on drugs, was your final verdict.

The author waxed lyrically about “the juxtaposition between the earthly and the divine” and how it reflected in the journey the human soul must take through sin, suffering, and reaching an eventual enlightenment. By the time you reached the end of the paragraph where you swear the author was just repeating the same sentence differently as a form of manipulation, you felt as if your brain had hopped out of your cranium and hung itself to dry.

You frown, your eyes flicking to the margin where another note was scrawled:

If I have to read the word “juxtaposition” one more time, I’ll scream.

You exhale sharply, nearly laughing out loud in the library. You don’t hesitate to reply.

You’ve just written it, mate. Enjoy screaming.

There was that thrill again at seeing your words next to theirs. Somewhere out there, your mysterious book-sharing partner was going to see that and—well, you don’t know what they’d think. But that was part of the fun, wasn’t it?

The thought lingered with you for the rest of the day.

The next Alchemy period, you crack the book open again, pretending to follow along while your professor drones on. You eagerly look for your last note, hoping for a response. Sure enough, it was there – nestled beneath your note in the same sharp handwriting:

Touché. I suppose I’ll suffer through the screaming for now. Are you trouble?

Your lips twitch as you read it. Trouble? You weren’t sure about that, but this was the most fun you’d had in Alchemy since the term began.

Only when the material calls for it. Should I include your tidbit in my study time, or is that just for me?

You tap the end of your quill against the desk, staring at your reply as you tune back in to your lesson. Somehow, this back-and-forth was making the endless drudgery of Principia Alchemica bearable.

You wondered if they felt the same.

The next few days pass in a haze of classes, coursework, and the usual chaos of Hogwarts life. But you were mostly looking forward to every spare moment with the Alchemy book. The weighty tome, which had once filled you with dread, now seemed a little more stimulating.

You’re slouching in one of the armchairs by a fireplace, trying to power through yet another mind-numbing chapter. You were hardly paying any mind to the information – you were more focused on reading the response awaiting you. Your patience is rewarded after you’re done with the tangent on the “alchemy of the human condition.”

I think the author’s overcompensating here. All he needed to say is that purification is about balance and focus.

You dip your quill into the inkpot and write back immediately:

Harsh, but valid.

While you continue to write notes and highlights further than they seemed to have read, you take the initiative to spark a deeper connection with your enigmatic book partner.

This book is absolutely suffocating, but you’re hilarious, so thanks.

You don’t expect a quick reply, but when you check the coursebook in the morning the next day, there it is – tucked beneath your own words:

 Glad my misery can bring you joy. Cheers. – R

“R?” Did you know an R? You stare at the initial, tilting your head as if that might reveal their identity. The only people you knew whose names began with R were… well, not many, actually. A few names sift through your mind, but none of them feel right. Still, it was exciting to know the mystery stranger was willing to play along.

From there, conversations and replies were passed through the book more than actual annotations. You used a certain ink for your quill, so you don’t find it necessary to include your initial like they do. Or maybe you liked dragging out the revelation on your end?

You brace yourself for more of the author’s overly philosophical musings, telling yourself that the notes would be worth the metaphorical fluff. There was something about some kind of dance of opposing elements in an existential struggle of mankind that you almost skipped to read something left on the page’s margin.

This chapter is making me question my life choices. You? – R

Earning a sharp glance from Madam Pince for snickering, you scribble back:

 I question mine constantly.

You were past the point of caring about what the punishment would be for vandalism. Using the dusty textbook as some sort of communication device was far too fun to pass up. As the days rolled by, the notes were less about the material.

You’re far too quick to suggest fire as a solution. Are you a Gryffindor? – R

 Who knows. Are you this judgy about everything?

The following conversation came after a philosopher – Steel Pineneedle – was being referenced for his metaphor of the banquet and the Alchemist’s pursuit of the Magnum Opus. Replying came naturally now.

 Or just how not to throw a party.

Their response had been:

 Big fan of Pineneedle, are you? – R

The material quickly became background noise. It’s the notes – the exchanges – that keep you coming back. R’s latest message sat in front of you, and you’re struck by how different it is. They’d been teasing you about your studying habits, saying something along the lines of how you’re far too easily distracted. And as much as you roll your eyes at the fact that they’re probably right, you scribble back:

What kind of girl do you take me for?

Your quill lingers in the air, hovering for a moment as you realize the words may have come across a bit… flirtatious. You didn’t intend it to sound like that, but something about it has you smiling to yourself as you shut the book.

When you go back to the margins during your turn with the book again, you freeze.

There was a note with a line through it – but you could still make it out:

 A proper fit one, I hope.

You stare at the crossed-out note, your heart skipping a beat. The handwriting wasn’t R’s, you realize. It’s messier, slanted at an angle – a more rushed penmanship. A message under that one – with a scrawling you could recognize – says:

Promise I didn’t write that – R

You breathe a little easier, though your face still heats up. If not them, who had it been? You hadn’t seen anyone else writing on the margins. A friend? The implication of R talking about you to their friends causes your thoughts to scatter. Oddly, you feel pleased.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, gazing at the text again and trying to read it in a different light. But the mystery deepens. With a sigh, you close the book – knowing it’s time for another round of waiting.

Having been buried under a particularly long Potions essay for a few days, you’d been neglecting the Alchemy book—and, more importantly, the notes. You feel a little bad reading over them. They had piled up in the margins, their familiar scrawl weaving through sections you hadn’t touched yet.

Your breath hitches when you stumble upon one:

It’s a good thing I’m patient, considering how distracting you’ve been. Did you finally get through that section, or am I still waiting for a reply? – R

They’ve been waiting for a reply? That’s… oddly sweet. And annoying – though the sweetness outweighs the annoyance. You bite your lip, trying to figure out how to respond.

 My life extends beyond our little chats. Glad to know you missed me though.

Something about what followed your comment had you feeling like you were anticipating an outcome. Now, you didn’t have the gift of foresight – your performance in Divination was a testament to this – but your intuition was screaming at you.

You’re a terrible influence. What would our professor say? – R

Nothing you should be concerned about. Let’s worry about the trouble you’re having connecting the human spirit with mercurial fluidity and sulfuric heat.

This is starting to sound like a self-help book. – R

  Tell me about it. I think I need a drink to get through the chapter.

  You’re very quick to resort to alcohol. Might be an issue. – R

  I can read past your jealousy. I’m sure you’d crack first.

   Is that a challenge? – R

You find yourself replaying the idle moments as the days blur together. Each sharp-witted note you uncover, you follow like a thread leading you closer to someone whose identity remains vexingly out of reach. And then, after a few weeks of this strange and captivating camaraderie – it changes. A message greets you that’s unlike the others.

 Care to meet me in the library? Tuesday, 5 PM. – R

The words seem to leap off the page, and you simply stare at them. Your heart picks up an uneasy rhythm as you read it over and over again. You’re sure you’re imagining it.

This person—this stranger who has been leaving pieces of themselves in the margins of your book—has asked to meet you. In person. Face to face. All the banter, the teasing, the sense of connection that has grown between you, they want to bring it into the real world.

The library is quiet, save for the occasional rustling of pages and the soft murmurs of the students studying in isolated corners. It was a typical afternoon in Hogwarts, the kind where the lights filter through the large windows and cast long shadows. The familiar scent of books and dust soothe your nerves enough to keep you from hanging your head low. You didn’t want to miss your stranger. You walk between the shelves, the weight of the textbook feeling heavier than it usually does.

You pause for a moment, looking around the library. You weren’t sure who you were looking for, and that made you feel a little silly. Another detail should have been disclosed to make this easier – but you were here now. That’s what mattered. Anxiety settles in your chest as you scan every soul in your vicinity.

You swear on your life that you felt an electrical shock when you made eye contact with him.

Well, you weren’t 100 percent certain it was him – but something about those eyes of his made your head feel lighter somehow. The connection was instantaneous. As you approach the table, your heart beats in tandem with your hurried steps.

“Right,” he says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, “so we’re off to burn the book, then go for drinks, yes?”

You blink at him, unsure if you heard him correctly. But then, as your brain computes the twinkle in his eyes and curve of his lips, you can’t help but laugh.

“Burn the book?” you ask.

“Only the bits where I feel like my soul is being drained,” he replies, now smiling wider. “You know, the usual alchemy stuff—‘the eternal balance of elements’ and ‘the metaphysical connection between human spirit and…’ well, whatever they go on about.”

He waves his hand dismissively, as though the words are already forgotten.

The tension in your shoulders eases. Maybe you were expecting a more awkward exchange. After all, you spent nearly a month swapping books and notes without ever knowing who he was. And now here he sat – in the flesh—someone whose personality had captivated you in the margins of a book.

“That sounds like a perfectly reasonable idea.” You smile to match his. “Will you be crying out Incendio? Shall I? Both of us at the same time?”

“Two’s better than one, I suppose. I’m Remus. Lupin.”

You tell him your name.

 Sitting across from him, a quiet thud comes from the book as you drop it onto the table. There is a moment of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable – more like the pause between two people who had known each other longer than the two of you have. You glance down at the book, the one that had sparked all these bizarre, random, and unexpectedly enjoyable conversations.

“Burning it might be a bit dramatic,” he admits, tapping the side of his finger on the edge of the table. “But I think we could do better than just analyzing it. We could always talk about something else.”

You cock your head, intrigued. “Like what?”

“Like…” He pauses. “Anything that doesn’t involve alchemy specifically. We’ve already done enough of that.”

You lean back in your chair. “What else do you have in mind?”

“Well,” he begins, shifting forward in his seat, “we could always talk about how you’re planning on surviving the rest of the term. Because, trust me, I’m not sure alchemy will be the thing that gets you through.”

“Survival,” you repeat, “that’s dramatic.”

“Ah, but it’s fitting, isn’t it? Given the state of our coursework.”

The two of you shared a laugh, and for a while, the world beyond the table felt distant.

You weren’t sure what to say, so you decide to change the subject, asking, “So, what now? You’ve been quite the mystery for weeks.”

“Now?” His voice is quieter. “Now, we figure out how much trouble we’re really in for. Marginalia on a textbook not owned by either of us is still a form of vandalism, so…”

You raise an eyebrow, about to respond with a sharp retort when he holds up a hand, cutting you off.

“Only kidding.” He smirks. “But really, you’ve been a great distraction. I suppose we ought to talk about something else before we get caught talking about it.”

The two of you share another glance, the silence stretching out comfortably between you again. You want to ask more—who he was, what he was really like—but the words didn’t quite come out. Instead, you simply smile back at him.

“I guess we’ll have to wait for our next round of punishment,” you say, your voice lighter than you expected. “But in the meantime, drinks?”

[twistedtummies2]

The sound of rollin’ dice to me Is music in the air! ‘Cause I’m a Gamblin’ Boogieman, Although I don’t play fair!

It’s much more fun, I must confess, When lives are on the line! Not mine, of course, But yours, old boy! ow that’d be just fine…

"Oogie Boogie's Song," Ken Page

—-----------------------------------------------------------

The long, LONG delayed final image in my “OCs & Inspirations” series, at least for now. This was originally intended to be part of a bunch of pics commemorating Disney’s 100th Anniversary, but the artist was facing some difficulties, so it took much longer than expected. I don’t mind in the least, however, because this was more than worth the wait…and hey, Valentine’s Day may not be the most obvious holiday of choice to release this, but a holiday is still a holiday. And with these two, it felt right to post their pic on such an occasion. Oh, on that note, before I go on: the image was made by @hooter-n-company, who also did my image for Nakoda and Kaa for the series a while back. I can’t honestly decide which of them I like more, between this image and that one; they’re both absolutely breathtaking. Her work always is. Thank you, Hoots. <3 ANYWAY…Reno was the first character I specifically created as a sort of “correction” to an old pred crush of mine. Nako and Billy being more “appealing” versions of their source inspirations (for me) was just sort of a welcome bonus. But with Reno, I deliberately created him with the idea of taking a character I used to have an interest in “that way,” but no longer do, and then creating someone I could “kinkify” more easily via the power of Twisted Wonderland’s universe. When I was a kid, I used to have a bit of a crush on Oogie Boogie from “The Nightmare Before Christmas.” I even had some rather…VIVID dreams, involving this big bag of bugs, which I shall always remember. However, over time, my interests and ideals with such things changed, and as they did, my love for Oogie dwindled. Reno was my way of trying to do something more “me” with the character.

The name “Reno” comes from Reno, Nevada. It was suggested by my friend, @belliesandburps. Since Reno is just a big a gambler as Oogie, it seemed fitting to use the name of a city known for gambling - and in the same state as arguably the gambler paradise of the world, Las Vegas - for his name. “Rovar” comes from a Hungarian word meaning “insect,” which of course fit perfectly. Combined, the two have a similar sort of “bounce” and syllabic structur to “Oogie Boogie,” and the alliteration was amusing to me. In terms of personality, Reno, in a way, is Oogie…but with a sort of soft side. Like, his source material, he is crass, crude, loud, rowdy, mischievous, a bit sadistic, and constantly thinks with his stomach. HOWEVER, for all his jagged edges, Reno isn’t someone who does bad things just for the sheer sake of it, unlike Oogie. Reno still has the capacity to care about people, and even some of the more “evil” things he’s done were usually out of a sort of bitter desire to get back at people he felt were more fortunate, while also helping himself and those he cared about in the process. He’s not the easiest person to get along with, but he’s not a literal monster.

I decided to sort of reverse things in terms of the way Oogie’s true self is revealed in the film, for Reno. In the movie, Oogie glows green in blacklight, but his actual appearance is a much duller beige hue. And of course, when you strip away the bag, he’s a collection of creepy crawlies underneath. So, with Reno, his human form has dull colors, with a sweater that resembles Oogie’s burlap, but his true form - a sort of “demi bug” - is colored in shades of vibrant green. His Overblot form, meanwhile - which Hoots helped IMMENSELY with working out - has a sort of neon appearance, inspired by the look of Oogie’s lair, and is a collection of different elements from different arthropods.

In this case, I think the different colors help the pair stand in good contrast to each other. ;)

[brilla-brilla-estrellita]

An ask game for writers to procrastinate working on you WIP(s)

Whoaaaa thank you for the tags @shrekgogurt, @bookish-bogwitch, @thewholelemon, @cutestkilla, @monbons, @drowninginships, and @blackberrysummerblog! I'm pretty sure that's everyone! I love being tagged in shit.

1. 🦈Tell us the name of your/ one of your WIP(s): So you just like... have names for them? Before you post them?

I will say that for once, a name did come to me, so one of them is tentatively titled Fettuccine and Foreplay, but I might change it because Foreplay is misleading. I'm sorry to say that it is not smutty, and the events are questionably even foreplay. But the alliteration. And Fettuccine and Flirting just doesn't have the same ring to it.

2. 🍄Describe your WIP/one of your WIP(s) in the format of “___ + ___ =___” God, why am I so bad at this?

Nevermore Academy + Penny = offensive assumptions, defensive students, and a magical breakthrough waiting to happen

3. 🌍What tags or warnings will one of your WIP(s) need if you intend to share it? uhhhhhh. I don't usually think about tags until I'm ready to post, so I am not prepared for this question... I can't really think of anything. Which makes me feel like my stories are hella boring.

Update after finishing and rediscovering an old wip: fluff! yay fluff.

4. 🧭An alternative title to one of your WIP(s)? Alternative titles??? So not only do you have titles, you also have extras laying about????

I guess I already talked about it in #1, but Fettuccine and Flirting. I do not like it.

5. ⚠️Which WIP you're most likely to finish or update next? Probably the Fettuccine one. It's a one-shot and a good portion done (almost ready for a beta, I think?). I like to write the whole story before I start posting, so the Wednesday x CO crossover is going to take a goooooood while. Idk how many chapters it is yet, I just know it's more than 3.

6. 💾What is your document of your WIP/ a WIP called? (not the stories actual title but what you’ve saved it as) I think my most interesting one is called Sundays With Gran. It's more of a drabble that I might work into a story at some point than it is an actual WIP though. But my actual WIPs have uninteresting names.

7. 🖍Post Any sentence(s) from your WIP.

It’s especially hard to believe in this reality when there’s a glow, a sparkle, a buzz around even the most mundane of sights when Simon is involved.

That's not even from a WIP I've already mentioned. I rediscovered this one while looking at document titles for this post!

8. ♻️A scrapped idea for your current WIP. I have one fic, the one from #7, where I originally wanted musings from each of the main 4, which each describing what's happening through focusing on a different sense or set of senses. Like Simon would be taste or touch, Penny would be sound, Baz would be sight, and Shep would be touch or smell. But that felt too restrictive. Senses are still a big part of it, of course, and there may still be strong affinities for one sense over another for each character, but they'll experience with the most appropriate sense for the moment.

9. 🤔What’s a story you’d love to write but haven’t even started yet? I really want to write more CO x Heartstopper (which we're calling Snowstopper because we're so clever) fics, but I'm making good progress on these other two and I'm afraid I'll lose the momentum if I start on the next Snowstopper idea. So I'll leave that for Kat to start in the meantime.

10. 🤡How many WIPS are you actively working on? At the beginning of this post, 2. As of #7, 3!

11. 🛠Is there a scene or anything in the WIP you are struggling with right now? So many! I think I need to rewrite much of what started the Wednesday x CO fic. The entire first two chapters don't feel quite in character for Penny.

And then most of this rediscovered fic, for now called Tiny Dots. (Hey look! A title!) Like I said before, it's character musings, and I'm not sure how to string them together in a way that feels cohesive.

12. ❤️Not a question, just a second Kudos to send.

I feel like I procrastinated on this procrastination game for so long that everyone else has already done it! I'm sorry if you've already been tagged 100 times, and especially if you've already done it and I missed it, buuuuut: @onepintobean @martsonmars @facewithoutheart umm... if you haven't been tagged, but want to be tagged, consider yourself tagged (or tell me and I'll update this post with your tag and no one has to know).

[outlanderanatomy]

2024 SiWC – Diana Gabaldon “Endings”

Hallo the house!!! 😉

Greetings Diana fans! 🤗

Friday, October 26, was the first day of 2024 Surrey International Writers’ Conference (SiWC) in British Columbia. This is a wonderful gathering of seasoned writers and budding authors.

This is my fourth SiWC over the years. I attend to report on the events and see Diana. I do not plan on becoming a professional writer.

This post is about Diana’s SiWC workshop on Oct. 25, titled “Endings.”

Now, no need to panic. Diana’s presentation was not about the end of the Outlander book series –  not yet, anyway!!! 😱  

It was about how to write endings to all aspects of story telling including those of sentences, paragraphs, conversations, chapters, books, etc.

I found it extremely informative and I wager most in the room felt the same. Diana remains a fountain of imagination and information. 🤩

Diana entered the room with her favorite beverage in hand! 😄

Understand, these workshops are 1.5 hours long wherein she is the only speaker.  I suspect this wee “pick-me-up” helps her stand (mostly) still, essentially immobile and focussed while being pummeled with attendees’ queries! 😎

Unfortunately, I had some technical difficulties with this video recording so it is divided into three segments. 🙄

The first video is the introduction. She tells attendees that she is not going to teach the mechanics of how to write their stories but rather how to write about what happens in a way that keeps readers turning the page. 📖

She began by telling us she recently reread James Clavell’s 1975 book, Shogun. She selected this book because Clavell is a highly regarded author.

Upon opening the book, she immediately read both the first and the last sentences! She didn’t do this to spoil the book but for a scholarly reason: she is now writing what she expects will be the final Outlander book and she is putting serious thought into that last sentence of her epic book series. She is researching good examples. Hankies out! 😥

In the next segment, she talks more about Shogun. She considers its last sentence to be an excellent ending to this classic novel so listen to her read it.

In this third and final video segment, she talks about Shakespeare’s tragedy, “Romeo and Juliette.” Starting to weep, she explains that this story was not about crime or political power but about “Juliette and her Romeo. It is about love.” 🥰

She points out and explains that there are four types of book and chapter endings:

Resolution of conflict

Food for thought

Cliff hangers

Echos (e.g. epilogues)

She encourages writers to include pauses in their sentences, to use short sharp sentences in conversations, and try not to shake people out of the story with anything that might distract from the tale.

If your work presents a question, answer it rather quickly to keep readers engaged. (Now, I could make an issue here because upon occasion, Outlander readers have to wait 10 years and two or more books to get answers, but I won’t!) 😂

Question: Are your characters ever influenced by the show’s characters or do you keep them separate? Do you like the show’s characters better? No, she never confuses the two sets of characters and she likes hers best because she writes better dialogue. 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

Question: How do you decide what your characters will say? Her answer is she never tells her characters anything – they tell her what they will say, think, and do.

Question: Are you conscious of alliteration when you write? She said she was when first writing but incorporates it automatically now. Sometimes she goes back and grooms the alliteration if needed (alliteration is the occurrence of the same letter or sound at the beginning of adjacent or closely connected words – e.g. the sweet birds sang softly).

This video segment stops when she begins reading an excerpt from book 10. It is an intimate exchange between Jamie and William! ❣️

She asked me specifically to remove this part before posting, so I have. I am very sorry that I cannot share it because it is tender, moving and poignant.😢

I feel sure she will share this as daily lines when she is ready. 💙

I hope you enjoyed Diana’s one person workshop. These are always worthwhile and I considerate it a privilege to attend them. 

The deeply grateful,

Outlander Anatomist

[nonbeas]

So I'm Asexual

Tuesday October 8th 2024

My name is Beatrice Banis, and I hate my name. It's an alliteration, which is only cool if you're a huge nerd and care about that kind of thing. My last name is baltic, which is only cool if you like tracing your family history, like my mom. But we don't live in Europe, so no one even cares about that. The part I actually hate is my first name. My dad named me after one of his college friends, which would only be cool if her name was more interesting. I always thought it was a really basic name, and my life would be exactly the same if it was something equally basic, like Emily or Ashley. None of those would work instead because I was never really in love with the idea of being perceived as a girl. In the end, I never thought it fit me as a person. None of the nicknames fit either. When I was a small child my family called me Trixie. I accepted it for a long time, but once I actually gained consciousness in middle school, I began to vehemently oppose it. My friends tried to call me "Trix," no "-ie," instead, and it still felt wrong. For a long time I refused to have a nickname at all, and insisted people only call me by my full name, "Beatrice," not "Trixie," not "Trix" not "Beaty" or whatever else. Now that I'm older, I'm trying to get people to just call me "Bea." I like it because it just sounds like the first letter of my name, like people are just calling me "B." In the end, my name is Bea Banis, which is still an alliteration, and still isn't cool unless you're a huge nerd and care about that kind of thing.

I used to care about that kind of thing. My friend and I used to have a crush on the same person in high school. Their name was an alliteration too. After that, I realized it was very cliche and kind of embarrassing to point that kind of thing out to people. In the end, they don't really care and you're just dumping pointless information at them.

I have a hard time telling the difference between a conversation and info-dumping.

I have crushes on people sometimes. The ones that I knew were a crush were always boys. Those would be the ones that I would experience the fullness of limerence, the obsessive thoughts and attention would stay on this one person for a very, very long time. It could go up to a year. Occasionally these people liked me back and would do things, like sit with me on the bus, give me hugs, and express lots of other kinds of physical affection. The thing was, whenever they would do that, the limerence would instantly disappear, and then I would just feel bad.

I don't remember the first time I learned the word "asexual," and I don't remember exactly when I decided I identified as one. But in retrospect, it was a really good call.

I don't think any of my crushes were typical. For one, they would go away as soon as it became real. It was like, I liked the idea of being in a relationship. But the real life pressures of actually being in one turned the idea into something so sickly sweet it made me nauseas, and then I would feel trapped, and then I would feel like I wasn't myself, and then I would get really scared and depressed. Then whatever feelings I used to have for the person would disappear, and then I would have anxiety because now I was with someone I didn't actually like, and what's the point of a relationship on paper if you didn't actually like them? Additionally, it always felt like I was leading them on from that point on, and that made me feel evil.

The one my friend and I both liked, I think I was obsessed with him for, like, the whole school year. I don't even know why I liked him... he was kind of mean. But... he was really good at the trombone, and he really liked to read. My friend had convinced him to ask me to go to the homecoming dance. We hardly danced together, and he left early because his family was going on holiday the next morning. Then, he never texted me again. I think he didn't really like me all that much. He did convince me to do jazz band, and I stayed in that band until my senior year, even though I didn't like him anymore.

The next one was someone who liked me first. He asked me to go to homecoming my sophomore year. I said yes. I decided I liked him because he was really smart, and liked being a mastermind. He asked me to homecoming by having me decode a message using the piano. He was okay at playing drums, and he was really into philosophy. After homecoming he tried to ask me to be his girlfriend, but I tried to explain that I don't think I was ready to be in a relationship. I don't know why I was so scared... I still really liked him at the time. I continued to like them for another year, hoping they would maybe try to ask me again, and that maybe I would have the guts to say yes.

The next guy was someone who I hardly knew. He also liked me first. He got my number at a band competition and we started texting before he asked me out. I think I tried to say no but it was like he convinced me to try it. I wouldn't really call this guy a crush. I think I tricked myself into liking him because it was what I was supposed to do. We only dated for three months.

My senior year, I developed a crush on an underclassmen because I knew he liked me. He was also really good a the trombone, but he wasn't that great at school. He had anger issues and we argued a lot. I stayed in that relationship longer than I should have, because I was scared. But I don't think I actually liked him for longer than three months, either. In fact, it was one of those cases where the feelings pretty much went away as soon as he asked me out. But I actually said yes that time, because maybe that was normal? I mean, it kept happening, and maybe that's just what happens to everyone else, and you're supposed to just deal with it.

I simultaneously kind of had a thing with someone at another school, right before me and the underclassmen started dating. Except for that one, I think I might have liked him first. Or, at least, I didn't know if he liked me or not before I started having feelings. I met him on a school trip, and they were really funny, really smart, played the piano and the trumpet. The sad thing is, nothing actually happened there. In fact, we went to prom as friends, and he told me way later that he actually really liked me at the time, but then I started dating the underclassmen from my school, so he had to get over it.

So no matter what, at the end of the day, I felt bad anyway.

I started to notice a pattern. I would only actually date people who liked me first. When we would start dating, my feelings would disappear. The relationship would drag on for longer than I would've liked because I didn't want to hurt their feelings.

Oddly, I never had any crushes on girls. Or at least, I wouldn't like girls the same way I would obsess over the boys I liked. I might've liked girls if I had the pressure to like girls.

I've since learned the term compulsory heteronormativity.

So I'm definitely asexual. I'm probably not aromantic. But I don't know if I only like boys, or if I don't actually like boys but just felt pressured to like boys, considering none of them actually ever really worked out.

The thing is, if what I really want is a partner who is my best friend, and my really close, someone codependent best friends were always girls, what does that mean?

[dreamsinmytotebag]

Battle of the Songs and the Sonnets- Introduction

From “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” to “It’s a cruel summer, with you”, poetry has evolved over time. The domain of poetry has expanded towards the domain of songs and lyricism, many of which can be found in the contemporary music genres, including pop. However, both of them have co-existed since decades and are known to share similar characteristics. To create and understand a distinction, we can pick apart their formats, their uses, the different time periods in which they were written and the person who wrote them as well.

Poetry is one of the many forms of literature and literary art that relies on the aesthetic value of words to convey a message, rather than expressing something in a straightforward manner.

Poetry has often relied on various euphemisms and metaphors in its expressions. Poets are known to use various poetic devices, such as assonance, alliteration, euphony and cacophony, onomatopoeia and many more.

Shakespeare’s work is known to use alliteration. This can be acutely found in Romeo and Juliet but in his poems as well.

“Sonnet 5” by William Shakespeare, the "b" sound in beauty, bareness and bereft set a romantic tone. In the last line, the "s" substance and sweet provides a soothing rhythm.

“Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where:

Then were not summer's distillation left,

A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,

Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,

Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:

But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,

Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.”

Other examples of poetic devices, such as onomatopoeia can be found in Edgar Allan Poe’s work, “The Bells”

“How they clang, and clash, and roar”

Poe's poetry is always filled with sensory detail, quite often unsettling and frightening. And by using poetic devices such as onomatopoeia, where words mimic the actual sounds we hear, his work stands true to its reputation.

Furthermore, poetry is also know to follow a rhythmic pattern, which we often call, a “rhyming scheme”. Most of the poems follow a typical rhyming scheme of, “a b a b”, but it varies from poem to poem. However, there are many poems out there which do not follow any rhyming scheme, so in that case we tend to refer to that piece as a “free verse”.

Now this particular rhyming feature overlaps with the domain of lyricism and songs. Therefore, to create a distinction, emerges one stark contrast, which is, that lyrics are solely created for a musical purpose, and once we delve into this characteristic we can find more dissimilarities and even similarities.

Lyrics, in simple terms are words that make up a song. While poetry is made up of lines and stanzas; lyrics form the verses and the chorus of a song.

Therefore, in order to be considered as a song, lyrics must be sung while being supported by a musical instrument or a vocal accompaniment. However, in modern times, many poets use a background instrumental music while reciting their pieces at a show, open mic, etc., to make their recital more dramatic and emphatic. But then again, reciting is different than singing.

Moreover, poetry has no standard or universal structure, but lyrics are composed to fit specific parts of a musical piece. Furthermore, poetry often relies on an indirect approach to convey a message which poets tend to do through complex metaphors, euphemisms and vivid imagery. This also makes poetry a little hard to understand and a casual reader may not see through the poet’s vision. However, this is not the case for lyrics as songs and music are something that appeal to anyone and everyone. They do not necessarily, require a complete sense of literacy for understanding and comprehension. This is primarily because lyrics use a direct approach in conveying their message. At the same time, what cannot be denied is the fact that there are many lyrics which carry a hint of poetic devices in them and many artists are known for their metaphorical songwriting techniques.

In Taylor Swift’s, “Cruel Summer”:

“And it's new, the shape of your body

It's blue, the feeling I've got

And it's ooh, whoa, oh

It's a cruel summer”

metaphors like “It’s a cruel summer” suggest that the summer is emotionally harsh and difficult, highlighting the intensity of the relationship’s challenges.

Traces of symbolism can also be found in the song.

“Devils roll the dice, angels roll their eyes

What doesn't kill me makes me want you more”

This represents the unpredictable nature of the relationship and the judgement from others.

So whether it’s Sonnet 5 or Cruel Summer, at the end of the day, both poems and lyrics are means used to convey a message to the reader or the listener and as someone who understands and enjoys both, I love to draw a comparison between the two while consuming these different forms of art.

References:

[elmaxlys]

Vol 1 "Tango" - Chapter 4 (2/2)

Suzuki's reaction to Sugiki's complaining

2015: T'arrêtes pas de me casser du sucre sur le dos !

2020: Arrête un peu de râler pour un oui ou pour un non !

First things first, 2015 uses an expression that means "badmouth someone in their absence". Problem: Sugiki is badmouthing him right in his face lol. 2020 fixed that and I'm glad.

Mistakes we teach 3rd graders not to make (2015)

Votre valse et digne d'un vrai goujat (et = and / est = is)

Je commencerez (-ez is the terminaison for 2nd person plural and very much not for the 1st person singular)

Vous devez à tout prix gagnez la prochaine aussi (-ez is the terminaison for the 2nd person plural and VERY MUCH NOT for the infinitive)

🤮

(all fixed in 2020)

Sugiki uses "tu" 😱 once in 2015. Scandalous. And fixed in 2020 lol

Suzuki saying Princesses have a thing for bad boys:

2015: Mais les princesses, elles résistent pas aux types un peu rudes ! (But princesses can't resist guys that are a bit rough!)

2020: Mais les princesses, elles préfèrent pas justement les "bad boys" ? (But princesses.... don't they prefer "bad boys", anyway?)

Interjection change

2015: Ho !

2020: Non mais !

They basically mean the same thing but I like the variety 2020 brings because in 2015, Suzuki is always saying "ho" lol (which is often changed to "hé" in 2020)

Omitted part of negation

2015: Ne me mets pas en position !

2020: Me mets pas en position !

Negation in French is composed of two elements : "ne" and, most of the time, "pas" and they surround the verb: For example: Je ne veux pas (I don't want to). In spoken language, we have the tendency to omit the first pas, "ne", as we still understand a negation solely by the second part, "pas" -> Je veux pas. This is what is happening here.

2015 put the negation in full while 2020 omitted the "ne", hence 2020 Suzuki comes off as more familiar than 2015 Suzuki. They tend to omit the first part of the negation every time he speaks in both versions, but not this time for some reason.

(fun fact, omitting the second part of the negation makes it still understandable as a negation as well but on the contrary comes off as very formal and from people high up in society. No one talks like that)

Dancing terms

2015: throughaway

2020: throwaway

I'm taking from the wiggly red lines that 2015 has the wrong term lol

Suzuki going on E

2015: estrogène

2020: œstrogène

both spellings are correct but l'Académie only recognizes the 2020 one lol

Sugiki apologizing to Urashima

2015: Je l'ai égaré par mégarde

2020: Je l'ai égaré par erreur

They mean the same thing. There's just very neat sounds coming from both and the alliteration is a bit different in both cases but they're both making my brain go !!!!!!!!!

2015: repetition of -égar-

2020: alliteration in R and assonance in é

smooching the translator

[presumenothing]

assorted translation notes on the novel opening sprinkled with peanut gallery comments (or possibly vice versa, idk):

yes that is a cluedo reference in the case title i couldn't stop myself and i'm not sorry

"…of the sixth month": not july, because this is in lunar calendar

"lucky pattern lotus parlour": ok i spent like at least One Whole Minute considering whether or not to talk myself out of this one. still didn't, still not sorry, alliteration funny

"bingshan town": could also be pingshan, flip a coin

anyway li lianhua arriving in their main street with his wholeass house like. it's Free Real Estate

"town god/local shrine": original term here is 土地庙 for the record. anyway who's gonna write the crackfic where li lianhua wakes up one morning in some random town to find that the locals have set up an entire shrine offering right outside complete with massive incense burner and all

wait hang on li lianhua was spring cleaning for TEN DAYS STRAIGHT??

"surname Li, named Lianhua": if anyone has come up with a better way of rendering 姓李，叫莲花 please tell me because i haven't

pov you're swiping through tinder when suddenly one of the profiles is just like Jianghu's #1 Most Very Mystery every biodata field is We Just Don't Know, Man and the pic is a badly circled cryptid sighting (idk i don't use tinder)

(li lianhua voice) "excuse you i didn't do two things i just did the same thing twice. technically speaking"

"lifelong learner": well Actually what the results for 皓首穷经 kept insisting on giving me was "hoary head" but i didn't go with that, so there but for the grace of me goeth you, shi wenjue

im sorry but the true utter crack au where he picked 李乌龟 instead (because yknow. turtle. house and all) and we are forced to live with the consequences

yunhe my dude you should've just bought a roomba instead of wasting your money on that incense and letter paper

"precious softwood": specifically nanmu, which (to collective unsurprise) was also used for shipbuilding, among other things

just........ the sheer over-the-top hercule poirot short story energy of this entire intro part, really

"king of hell": none other than 阎罗王 ofc

"a sound of dismay": he straight up "aiya"s here. i just could not figure out how to work it in for the life of me

"dust and sawdust": curse this stupid language that made both of these words contain dust this sounds So Awful

it has been 0 days since li lianhua last said "ah" (the counter never moves past zero)

toss em eggs, bystanders, we believe in you

(cheng yunhe walking in) you live like this??

"could only work with what he had, dead or otherwise": the original actually invokes 死马当活马医 (a saying which Literally means "treat a dead horse as a live one"), blast the english language for not having an equivalent

fang duobing's intro paragraphs? 10/10 sheer hilarity no notes

....why is "commit robbery"" up there on the list next to "plant crops"

"melancholic young master": 多愁公子 (he's got 99 worries and somehow li lianhua is all 100 of them)

how HAS fang duobing known li lianhua for literally just as long as he's been in the jianghu tho

ok three crackfic proposals in one post is a bit much even for me but. the one where li lianhua keeps accidentally digging up non-dead people/lost treasure/unmentionable secrets when actually he just wanted to borrow some onions for tonight's soup. honest

(this may possibly just be canon)

aaaand fifty taels, welp

[lampmanliveblogs]

You ever get so spooked by a little bird that your eyes just loose all their color?

Anyways, the Golden Guard has decided to be vulnerable and open up about his backstory a bit here. Some very interesting stuff for sure.

First off and the biggest thing that stands out to me is that he says that ”Belos found him.” That makes it sound like the two might not be related at all, and Belos more so adopted GG. Of course, GG might be smudging the details there a bit. He sounds sincere, but if Bria from last episode taught me anything it’s that sometimes seeming sincerity shrouds secrets. I love alliteration.

The point is, he could just be lying or simply obfuscating the true relationship between him and Belos. After all, it might not be the best idea to to tell the known troublemaker and associate of (formerly) wanted criminal and anarchist that the Emperor’s favorite nephew is sitting right there, powerless without his stick.

It’s not just that he called Belos uncle though, but also the wording Belos used when talking to him. He said specifically that ”wild magic destroyed our family.” Not your family or our families. Our family. Unless that’s meant to be like a really broad term, like they’re the same family of witch, a deme with a low affinity for magic of something and wild magic wiped them out.

For now, I’m gonna continue operating under assumption that the two are related.

Supposedly, the Titan had big plans for GG. By now, you should all know that I am highly skeptical of this whole ”Titan’s will” thing Belos has got going.

GG mentioned that a lot of his ancestors didn’t have any magic. The real interesting part though is that he says his staff contains ”artificial magic.” Which sounds weird. It’s pretty much all but confirmed that magic comes directly from the Titan. I think I speculated it was its life force or soul living on, but the particulars of that don’t matter too much. The interesting part is how exactly one makes ”artificial magic.” Unless it just means the staff acts as a battery that GG can use. That’d make sense, since Luz was able to use it too.

The Golden Guard also said that Luz could decide her own future. The implication in that line being the GG isn’t all happy about the future planned for him by Belos (or the Titan).

Having bonded over reading the same book, being without natural magical talent, and being uncertain/unhappy at their futures, Luz decides to give GG back his staff.

”I know the beginnings of a redemption arc when I see it.” -Luz, probably

”Y-you know, redemption is something you have to work towards and I realize it might be difficult to, uh… take that first step. Right now, you’re feeling confused and emotional so, um… tell you what, I have this friend in the Human Realm, his name is Steven, he ’s really good with this stuff. Why don’t you talk to him and I’ll, ah… be on my way?” -Luz, probably

(Check out Old Gem, Young Owl by 616mcu for some quality Luz and Steven being friends btw)

His name is Hunter.

…is sure a revelation that would’ve been a lot more impactful if I didn’t already know it. I hope you people appreciate my strength in resisting all of the quality puns I could’ve made throughout this episode.

No, no, this is still interesting. I can talk about it.

Every time we’ve seen him up until this episode, he’s been wearing his mask. Hiding his face. Going by the title of the Golden Guard, in some sense, hiding away who he is inside. Once he lost his mask, we started seeing who this unapproachable guardian of the empire was inside. And he’s a guy with insecurities and regrets.

I mentioned before that Luz and GG have some things in common. They both can’t use magic, they read the same book on wild magic… and here he is, sharing a closely guarded secret with her. His name is Hunter.

”Teleports behind you. It’s personal, Kiki.” -Hunter, probably

(see, it’s funny, because i used that same meme for the golden guard back in episode one so it’s like it came full circle)

[note-boom]

All right. I'm bored and feel like doing this here, so I'm gonna rate some of the ability names (English version, at least) for fun/no absolute reason

(For the record, as of the day writing this post, I've only read snatches of the manga, none of the LNs, and have just watched the anime)

Let's GOOOO

Armed Detective Agency

All Men Are Equal (Fukuzawa) - 7/10 good, fits the ability, but it doesn't blow me away. Honestly makes me think of the American Declaration of Independence and I feel slightly bad for that

Thou Shalt Not Die (Yosano) - 9/10 seriously cool. I love that it's phrased like a command...it's both desperation and a demand i love it.

Super/Ultra Deduction (Ranpo) - 4/10 sorry Ranpo but this sounds like an adaptation of superstrength or super smarts for deduction. IDK maybe Fukuzawa made it up on the spot for Ranpo?

No Longer Human (Dazai) - 8/10 very fitting...captures Dazai's personality and has fun implications about abilities being part of someone's humanity even though that's probably not intended. Just an author work's ref but still a cool name anyway

Doppo/The Matchless Poet (Kunikida) - 8/10 but ONLY for the Matchless Poet (or Lone Poet) because it's so Kunikida and really conjures the image of that whole paragon archetype. Doppo Poet? Really english dub??

Light Snow (Tanizaki) - 6/10 but may get higher depending on tanizaki's arc. Such an inoffensive ability name, cute, understates what a terrifying ability it could be...a bit like the boy himself. Maybe 7 or 8 out of 10, hmm...

Beast Beneath the Moonlight/Byakko (Atsushi) - 6/10 sorry my boy, but its such a literal name (like Yosano's but descriptive instead of imperative). I'm not sure where Byakko comes from but you should have stuck with that as it's a solid 10/10 name.

Undefeated by the Rain (Kenji) - 8/10 i love the image it draws. Standing strong even though the rain is pouring WHILE it's pouring. Love you, Kenji

Demon Snow (Kyouka) - 7/10 tbh it doesnt make too much sense if you think about it too hard but it sure is a cool name regardless. And it's fun to say so my bias is leaking....

Port Mafia

Falling Camellia (Hirotsu) - 9/10 old man your ability name is PRETTY for an ability that's literally just pushing. But the words kinda fit the vibe and make the ability sound cool

Vita Sexualis (Mori) - 5/10 this is latin for sex power and im sure if you've read my tags I have petty beef against sex and romance (it's mostly as a joke but I'm still gonna let it color all my opinions). Sorry Elise...you're cool but the ability name is honestly sus. However, points for the language consistency (dead languages make anything sound cool)

Golden Demon (Kouyou) - 6/10 sorry Kouyou, but like Atsushi's, it's too literal and descriptive. But at least it sticks to the original title's name

Lemonade/Lemon Bomb (Kajii) - ???/10 i honestly dont know what i feel about this one. Kajii is the reason I look at the whole "abilities are an expression of your soul" thing with utter bemusement. I do LOVE his ability cause it's so unnecessarily random but the name? Idk...maybe 5/10? References the title but also feels slightly too literal?

For the Tainted Sorrow (Chuuya) - 10/10 im sorry but the way it sounds in English appeals to me personally. It's both the title and starring line of IRL Nakahara's poem and I honestly love that so much. Such gravity in those lines (wait....??)

Rashoumon (Akutagawa) - 10/10 it just gets points for its name staying the same in all languages. See, Atsushi? This is what you could have had with Byakko

Midwinter Memento (Tachihara) - 8/10 could be higher honestly because I love the alliteration and the phrase just has nice vibes. Don't know how well it fits the metalbending but it sure fits Tachihara and the way the past haunts him ya know? It makes me wonder if his ability is passed down or gets stronger with remembered trauma or whatever?

Dogra Magra (Q) - 9/10 no clue what this means and google isn't helping. But again with the language consistency...and it also just sounds cool and rhyme-y and slightly horrory. Its the vibes

Flawless (Odasaku) - 8/10 i like the name and all the things it connotes. You have to get real philosophical to parse the connection between his ability and its name, though. But that's why I love it

The Madness of the Jewel King (Ace) - 6/10 a cool name but the existence of Ace confuses me. Wiki says something about Alan Bennet or a character from Dostoy. Im here wondering why another foreign (it seems) dude is working so high up in the PM. Mori and his western loving tendencies, i guess? Anyway. The name also kinda feels more descriptive, but it gets points for drama

[lucy-frostblades]

aight so here's the thing

episode six, "the sound of her wings" is important to me for three reasons. one i've just thought of and is comic related so i'll get to that later.

FIRST!

its portrayal of death. not only is she a black woman, she is also endlessly kind. in most media, death is portrayed as either evil or resentful. always coming to take us away in our prime, or hating us for making them do their job, face all these upset people. and here's the thing -- Death of the Endless had a phase like that. she talks about it in e6. she says that she used to think she had the hardest job of all of them (being the endless), and that she was always so upset by it. she felt forever alone, like she had to do her job all on her own. but then she came to a realisation -- one that most portrayals of death are never seen reaching.

she realised that not only is her duty inevitable, she can also make it beautiful. they are so afraid to enter the sunless realms, she says, and she isn't there to make it worse. in the end, all we need is a kind smile and an outstretched hand. neither of them (death or the dead) are alone.

SECOND!

god. just. hob gadling's whole thing. disregarding the dreamling, his entire storyline is amazing. he's a human being gifted immortality. what could go wrong?

the first time they meet up, in 1489, you have expectations -- the same ones dream has. you expect hob to be begging for death, because that's what's been shown to us. every piece of media that shows someone being given immortality has them inevitable on their knees begging to be taken to the sunless lands. so that's what you expect of hob.

but when dream asks him what he thinks of the world, of his extended life, what does hob say?

"it's fucking brilliant!" he's amazed by how far they've come in so little time. he's so madly in love with the world around him. (also, the way the sCORE PICKS UP WHEN HE SAYS IT IS FUCKING WICKED)

the next time we see him, in 1589, he's a bit of a prick. he's rich and he's mean and he wants dream's attention -- attention that he doesn't get. not much to say about this one except that it's where hob's eternal hatred of william shakespeare began.

but 1689. oooh boy. golly gee. my oh my. i have SO MUCH TO SAY about this one.

in 1689, hob gadling comes crawling into the white horse tavern, starving, having hated every moment of the last eighty years. he is at his lowest -- lower than he was when he started out. do you know how hungry you can get? when you can't eat but you can't die?

and dream, so sure of himself, so sure he'll prove his sister wrong, asks this starving, dirty, 300 year old man in so much pain if he wishes to die, yet.

and what does hob say?

"are you crazy? death is a mug's game. i've got so much left to live for!"

and. oh my god. i cried when i got to this part today. because. there is a reason why such a popular headcanon for him is as hope of the endless (forgiving the lack of alliteration).

he has been beaten and bloody and starving. he's lost everyone he's ever known. his wife and unborn child at the same time. his son.

dream is offering him escape. he's giving him a way out of it all.

but hob still hopes. he still finds joy. he still knows that things can change on the head of a pin. he still wants to live.

theres 200 more years but honestly i just wanted to talk about 1689

also in 1889 he tells dream he doesnt think he'll ever want to die which is like. HHHHHHHHH YES

point is, e6 (and death and hob's storyline beyond that) breaks down two very prominent media tropes - evil death and begging for death. it's important to me.

and THIRDLY

in the comics, dream is the one narrating death's bit of e6 and he marks down every time she takes a soul to the sunless lands as "the sound of her wings" and its SO GOOD because it doesn't focus on anything except the transportation. he doesn't hear the pleading or sobbing or cursing. he comments on the sound of his sister doing her job as best she can and nothing else. something special about that to me

GOD YES I LOVE THIS

[honey-hippie-harper]

In-Laws Being In-Laws (Re-upload)

 Hiii!

So, this is basically an old fic, which I deleted from my other account ( @dawniebb ) and was requested to be uploaded again.

This feels like a lifetime ago afgshjka, but I remember it was written for a Renegades content swap event, and it was for @healing-winston-pratt (hello, wifey!). The prompt was, basically, Nova and one of the Renegays being in-laws, and it was super fun to write! <3

If anyone’s reading this: Hi, you’re a beautiful human being, and I love you <3

In-Laws Being In-Laws

Dear Dread Warden,

I am not quite sure you will get this message because it is been a while since I last used my communicator but, in case you do: I  hope you are having a nice morning. 

The reason I am writing you this is that, as you must already be aware, right now Sketch and his teammates are taking part in the Annual Renegade Convention as special guests to be awarded for their heroic participation in the Second Battle for Gatlon. Hence, they are out of town. Due to my temporary resignation from the team, I declined the offer to attend the event and, for instance, to receive an award. This means that, unlike theirs, my routine remains the same as usual.

Unfortunately, I must see my therapist for my weekly appointment in two hours, and after that I will have to go to the supermarket to pick up some groceries and essential items. Under normal circumstances, given the nature of my relationship with Sketch, he would have driven me to the supermarket and then back to my apartment, as it happens to be located sort of far from the store and it could be pretty difficult for me to walk while carrying all those bags. However, as mentioned before, these are not normal circumstances and Sketch is not currently available.

I reach out to you with no intention to cause trouble; for instance, if I happen to be asking too much or disrupting your schedule (As I am conscious you are a busy person) and you consider you will not be able to help me, I assure you I completely understand. But: Could you pick me up from my therapist's office and take me to the supermarket afterwards?

I apologize for the inconvenience and I promise I will make sure this does not happen again. In addition, I also apologize for the alliteration in the greeting at the beginning of this message. I did not know whether you wanted to be acknowledged by your real name or your alias.

Sincerely,

Insomnia.

-.-

Hi, Insomnia!!!

So nice to see you!... Or should I say read you! Ha! It's been so long, it almost feels like an eternity! I hope therapy is going great! (We're all really proud of you!)

It doesn't bother me at all, sweetheart; of course I'll help you with that. Could you share the location of your therapist's office, please?

Oh, and also: What time do you want me to be there? (Not that I have anything to do today, I just want to be on time).  

I'm excited to see you! Can I take you to eat something afterwards? How does that sound?

Take care!

(Agh. I forgot these things don't actually allow you to write your real  name).

-S i m o n.

(Better).

-.-

He spotted Nova way before parking. She was sitting on a bench outside the building, staring anxiously at her phone. The body language of a nervous person.

Simon stopped the car right in front of where she was, and when she realized he was already here, Nova jumped out of her seat as if it had burned her skin, before jogging in an awkward manner towards the car.

Once she was inside, Simon couldn't help but feel a twinge in his stomach. He wasn't lying when he told her he was excited to see her. In fact, he was more than excited, and he had to hold himself back pretty hard to avoid hugging her, because it was evident she didn't want to be hugged right now, for she just directed a tiny smile at him and said:

"Hi."

She was the same Nova he had met some time ago, but at the same time she was different; she was wearing sneakers, skinny jeans and a basic white v-neck shirt; her hair was a little longer, too, to the point she could tie it in a cute little ponytail; Simon could tell she wasn’t wearing any makeup, but still her face looked healthier than before; less tired, with smaller under-eye dark circles and lips covered in chapstick. Finally.

She looked alive. More than before.

“Hi.” He finally responded.

Watching people get better was always satisfactory, but watching Nova get better was different. He had grown to appreciate her, since the very first moment he saw her with Adrian; since the very first moment he spoke to her and saw nothing but utter heartbreak in her eyes. Nova was hurting, and any sensitive person would’ve noticed that. So, watching her get better was a touching experience for him.

“You look so…”

Nova interrupted him almost immediately.

“I know. I...I barely had time to fix my hair. Gosh. It’s so uncomfortable and I want to cut it but I haven’t had time. I…”

“Oh, no, no, no! Your hair looks gorgeous! “ He chuckled, although he was confused by her reaction. “I was gonna say you look really good. Really, really good. The ponytail looks great on you.”

Nova gulped as she adjusted said ponytail.

“Oh.” She muttered in a hoarse voice. “...Well...Thank you. I thought…”

“No, no.” Simon waved his hand. “You look great. How.... how are you?”

She seemed to be processing the question, even though it was not that difficult.

“I’m…” Nova cleared her throat. “I’m doing great. How are you? How’s ...life going?”

“Absolutely great!” Simon smiled, clapping his hands together. “Things at home are great. You know, Hugh’s not currently here due to the Annual Renegade Convention. Adrian’s not here either (for sure, you already know about that) and Max…”

“Max went too, yeah.” Nova smiled. Her eyes seemed to brighten to the mention of Max’s name. Adrian had mentioned this fact about her a couple of times: Nova was fond of children. And even if she wasn’t, she had a tendency to protect and care about them. Since she had this type of strong personality, Hugh refused to recognize that as a truth, but Simon had no trouble believing it.

It was adorable.

“He called me when he got the invitation. He was eager to go.” She continued. “Which doesn’t surprise me. I...It’s his first time travelling, right?”

“Oh, yeah.” Responded Simon. “We’re planning to go on vacation this year. Because, you know, the convention’s being held not too far away from Gatlon and sadly he’s probably gonna get bored.”

“Bored?” Nova shifted herself in the seat, awkwardly. “Why?”

“Well...those conventions are...well, conventions.” Simon shrugged, smiling at her. “There are a lot of speeches, one after the other and, sure, the guests that represent Gatlon can skip some of them, but others are mandatory and they’re like 2 hours long and it’s so boring and…”

Nova hissed, grimacing, to which Simon nodded in agreement.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to go.” He admitted. “Though I do wanted to be there when Adrian and Max received their award. Too sad.”

Nova tried to speak a couple of times, until she finally had found the correct words to said her thoughts out loud.

“Why...why didn’t you go, then?”

“About that.” Simon chuckled. “Tamaya is going to be there too, as a speaker. And she’s also receiving an award. So...somebody had to take care of the Headquarters and Kasumi and I were left with that responsibility. However, it’s been pretty peaceful, as you may have noticed.”

“I have.” Nova nodded. “Not that I...go out very much, but yeah. Things have been calm.”

“People are behaving for once. And it’s awesome.” he sighed.

Then they stayed in silence. For a while.

Nova stared out the window, avoiding eye contact, while Simon whistled as he tapped his fingers on the wheel.

Not a word. No small talk.

Nothing.

“Sooooo…” Said Simon. “Shall we go?”

“Perhaps we should.” Nova said, immediately, as a flash of relief crossed her face.

So Simon smiled at her once again as he turned on the engine, while Nova put on her seatbelt next to him.

-.-

It took her so little time to come back Simon confirmed she was one of those people who would strategically write their shopping list so they wouldn’t be going back and forth through the aisles. It also surprised him that, being a person so young, she was so...focused on everything.

She really had only bought groceries and essential items. No junk food. No silly things she swore she would need and then she didn’t. Not even candy from the checkout area.

Simon hurried himself out of the car to help her put the bags in the trunk, but once she saw him and guessed his intentions, she quickly said:

“It’s okay. I can do it.”

“I know you can.” He clarified. Because, well, she indeed was a strong person. “But maybe you could use some help. That’s...a couple of bags.”

“Yeah. I know.” Nova nodded, already carrying the first two of the bags. “But I can do it. Please. I’m already causing you too much trouble.”

Simon was yet again confused by her reaction, and he tried to talk to her about it. But just like Nova looked like she didn’t want to be hugged right now, she also looked like she didn’t want to talk about it right now.

So he just opened the trunk for her and held it in case it would go down by its own. It had never happened, but just to be sure. Sometimes Simon’s anxiety made him overanalyze some situations.

Less than 10 minutes had passed by the time Nova finished putting all her stuff in the car, Simon figured she was still training, since she was as agile and fast as she was the day she notified them she would be taking some time off from the team and the Renegades in general.

They got in the car again, and before the silence could get as uncomfortable as the previous one, Simon took the initiative to speak.

“I think...you forgot to answer a part of my message.” He said, carefully. “You know...the part where I told you that maybe we could...go to a restaurant or something?”

Nova’s face, ears and neck turned so red she became a human-shaped cherry, and although in other circumstances he would’ve considered it adorable, this time he couldn’t help but feel sympathy for her. He had been there and done that many times; the messages Nova had sent were peak odd. The type of messages one would overthink over and over again because they had to be perfect. And if something, anything sounded off after you sent it, your world would be in shambles.

So he just smiled to assure it was okay. That he didn’t mind. That those messages didn’t have to be so formal in the first place.

And that, obviously, didn’t work.

For his experience, it never did.

“I...I...Yeah.” Nova scratched her brow. “Pretty much I...I...can recall not knowing how to word that so I just left it blank and I...must’ve forgotten to…”

“Nova.” Simon said, softly. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“Did I...offend you or something?”

“Absolutely no!” He said. “Why would you think that? It’s just a slip. I know it wasn’t your intention and to be honest I still want to take you to eat something so...yeah, there’s no reason to get weird about this. There’s no need to worry.”

Nova took a deep, hasty breath. She was flustered, son Simon tried to keep her calm; to make her feel like she was in a safe environment.

Why wouldn’t she be, in the first place?

She was his son’s girlfriend.

Why would he want to hurt her or make her feel bad?

“Nova, darling.” He said again. “Do you have something on your mind?”

“I do.” Nova cleared her throat, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t really...can eat out right now. I barely manage to afford my groceries, you know? It’s been…”

“But you’re not gonna pay your own bill. I mean, why would you do that?” Simon raised an eyebrow at her, genuinely confused, but still laughing nervously. Sweet rot, who had hurt this child so much? “ I’m the one who’s taking you to eat. You wouldn’t have to…”

“You don’t have to either!” She snapped. Not mad, but rather distressed, while breathing heavily.

Simon went still, afraid he would make it worse. Still, he couldn’t leave it like that, so he gulped and, once he reunited enough courage, he dared to speak again.

“What’s really on your mind, Nova?” He asked, this time in a more soothing voice. Nova’s whole being went red again, but the shadow of confusion in her expression was noticeable and hard to ignore. For this reason, Simon decided to provide some kind of scaffolding.

“For example: Why would you write a message that is directed to me in such a formal way?” He asked, patiently. “Why would you ask me to pick you up as if you were asking me to help you commit a crime? Why would you act so uncomfortable around me when it’s not the first time that we’ve met? Why would you…?”

“Because it’s you.” Nova answered, avoiding eye contact.

And he expected that answer, yes. But, at the same time, he expected to understand the statement once it slipped out of her mouth.

However, he didn’t.

“Can you elaborate?” He requested.

Nova clicked her tongue as she rubbed her neck, staring at the dash right in front of her.

“...I can disappear if you want me to. Would that make you feel more comfortable?”

“No. No, no.” Nova nodded, waving her hands, finally looking at him. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Then...would you tell me what’s wrong?”

Nova thought about it. She squirmed in her seat. Gulped. Coughed. Squirmed again.

Then, playing with her own hands, she spoke.

“...I’m ashamed.”

“Ashamed of what…?” Simon tilted his head to the side. “Ashamed of who…? What exactly are you ashamed of? ...Dating Adrian?”

Nova flinched.

“I would never.”

A spark of pride illuminated his thoughts and his insides in general, but Simon tried to pay little attention to it.

“I’m just...ashamed. Of everything.” Nova said, sighing. “I…”

And she cut herself in the middle of the phrase, realizing that once again she wouldn’t be able to finish it.

Simon didn’t realize he was frowning until he felt the muscles of his face slowly giving in. He understood.

And he knew that anything that had happened during the Second Battle for Gatlon had been her fault. She might have contributed in some way but, at the end of the day, she was just a child.

A very confused and manipulated child who just needed someone to listen without twisting her words as they pleased.

“...I just think that...if I were you I wouldn’t like me either.” She wasn’t crying, nor did she sound like she was about to any time soon. There was so much resignation in her voice that her words weighted as much as a giant rock. “Hugh gave me his blessing to...you know, date Adrian…”

“I can recall giving you my blessing too.”

Nova tripped on her own words.

“I mean, you did. You both did.” She said. “But still… It’s because… because you want him to be happy. And I get it. I really do. And I understand because, like I said, I wouldn’t like me either...I know I am loved. I know I matter for some people...but I also know I did...bad things, and I carry this sort of cursed last name…”

She stopped and breathed for a second before continuing.

“And I…” She finally looked at him. “I get it. You don’t have to pretend you like me, after all that happened. After I stole stuff from your house; infiltrated into your system; caused a terrorist attack...You really don’t have to pretend.”

Simon blinked, and if it wasn’t for her specific and controlled body language, he would’ve thought she was making excuses or even joking.

But Nova was telling the truth.

And it was heartbreaking.

“Perhaps you should think outside the box and picture a scenario in which you realize we’re not pretending.” That’s the only thing he said.

“Perhaps you should realize that we love you and you matter to us.” He reached for her hand and softly touched her knuckles. Her hands were shaking. “And that, yes, we want Adrian to be happy, but we also want you to be happy.”

Nova’s eyes seemed to be covered in crystals, but she remained in silence.

“You’re part of this family now, Nova.” He smiled. “And I’m sorry, but you’ll have to deal with that.”

Nova sniffed, swallowing, while lacing her hand into Simon’s.

“Artino and everything?” She muttered.

“Artino it’s not what defines you.” Simon chuckled. “You’re Nova. Just Nova... And we’re really proud of you. Not ashamed.”

She smiled back at him, wordless, and Simon gave her a quick handshake before putting his hands around the wheel.

Because even now, that her walls were crumbling right before her eyes, she didn’t look like someone who wanted to be hugged at the moment, and he accepted and respected that.

“I was planning to take you to my favorite restaurant, but maybe we can prepare a homemade meal instead?” He suggested. “You know? In-laws being in-laws? … Not to brag, but I make the best lemon pie in the world.”

Nova chuckled. Relaxed.

Happy.

“Sounds great.” She said, nodding.

“Excellent.” Simon turned on the engine.

“Let’s go home.”

[spine-buster]

peaceful easy feeling ft. b.boeser | two

A/N: Thank you guys for all the positive feedback on Part One!  I’m so happy you guys are enjoying the series thus far.

CONTENT WARNING: parents with disease/sickness (Parkinson’s); swearing; sex; alcohol use; lots of emotions.

                                                                  *     *     *     *     *

Brock Boeser was intoxicated by the feel of Grace’s lips.  It was all he could think about and all he could feel every time he was alone and closed his eyes.  Well, that was a lie – that wasn’t all he felt.  Sometimes he could feel the weight of Grace’s body on his lap, like when they would make out like teenagers on each other’s couches after hanging out or before hanging out or during hanging out – any time, really.  Sometimes he could feel her long hair sprawled across his chest from when they lay in bed together.  Sometimes he could hear her giggle or see her smile or hear her voice being the kindest, most polite and gentle person on planet Earth to everyone and anyone she’d meet.  

For what it was worth, Grace Gillespie was intoxicated by the feel of Brock’s body.  It was all she could think about every time she was alone, and she found herself dreaming about the next time she’d be able to feel it.  His strong arms with his toned biceps; his abs, defined by a work schedule and sport that took up most of his time; his thick thighs…but what she loved most had to be his back.  It was weird for her to say, but it was.  It was the definition – she could see every muscle.  She could trace every bump with her fingertips and make him shiver.  The entirety, all of him, was just so…beautiful.  

It was Grace who had inadvertently given it away, so to speak – them seeing each other – when she uploaded a story of herself at the Canucks season opener.  The rumours started in no time.  The story was screen-recorded and posted on every blog imaginable because Brock Boeser was, well, Brock Boeser.  He was hot, and nice, and sweet, and every girl in Vancouver with even just a passing interest in hockey wanted to hook up with him.  It was also compounded by the fact that in the 90s the Gillespie’s put in a bid to own the Canucks.  Grace just tuned it all out.  Brock Boeser Dating a Billionaire’s Daughter!  Those who loved alliteration must have loved the headlines.  In any case, there were more important things to worry about, and more important things to dedicate her time to.  

Grace was at work when she got a call from Brock.  That meant the team flight had landed and he was probably still at the airport or had just gotten into his apartment.  She liked how her heart skipped a beat whenever he called.  “D’you want to meet some of my friends?”

That question took her for a loop.  “Who?”

“My friend Elias, but we call him Petey.”

“You mean Elias Pettersson?” she clarified.  

“Yeah,” he giggled slightly.  “He’s been fancying himself a chef lately.  He lives with his best friend Svea.  He wants us over for dinner.”

“Is he making Swedish food?”

“Don’t know.  I’ll confirm with him.  But is that a yes?”

“Well, if he’s cooking…”

***

“You told her what?”

“Petey—”

“Boes, I can’t fucking cook!” Elias exclaimed once it dawned on him what Brock had just done.  “Why would you invite her here?!”

“I wasn’t thinking—”

“Clearly not!”

“What’s all the commotion?” Svea asked as she emerged from “her side” of the apartment, hearing the screaming between the two men.  It wasn’t exactly new, to hear Brock and Elias screaming at each other, but it was usually over video games.  This sounded like something different.  

“Brock just invited his new girlfriend over to our place for dinner,” Elias huffed.

Svea furrowed her brows.  “What’s wrong with that?  We’ve been wanting to meet her for a long time, Elias.”

“Brock said I’d be cooking,” Elias deadpanned.

Svea turned to Brock with an emotionless look on her face.  “Are you dumb?!” she exclaimed.

“Sveeeeeeaaaaaaaa,” Brock pleaded, his hands clasped together, about to get on his hands and knees in front of her.  

“You need to fix this Svea.  I can’t – I can’t – I can barely even boil an egg!  What made you think I’d be able to cook a dinner to impress a girl I’m not even trying to impress?!” Elias demanded.

“Shut it, the both of you,” Svea said sternly, raising her hands slightly.  “When is she coming here?”

“Saturday night, after our game against Toronto.”

She took a deep breath.  “I’m going to make sausage stroganoff.  You better bring me a good bottle of wine,” she glared at Brock, “and you better go to the Swedish bakery to get the good Swedish sausage,” she directed towards Elias.

Brock fell down to his knees.  “Thank you Svea.  Thank you thank you thank you.”

“Yeah yeah,” she waved them off.  “Now if you’re going to play video games, keep your voices down.  I’m studying.”

When he heard her shut the door to the den, Brock looked at Elias.  “When are you gonna marry her?”

Elias huffed.  “She’s my best friend, Brock.”

***

“So they’re best friends from Sweden,” Grace wanted to make sure she got everything right before she met Elias Pettersson and Svea Nilsson for the first time.  “But you’re saying they’re in love with one another and don’t know it?”

“Exactly,” Brock nodded his head.  “You’ll see it within, like, a minute of meeting them.  They’re just…I don’t know, dumb.”

Grace giggled slightly as Brock pressed the number for Elias’s floor in the elevator.  The doors shut and soon they were speeding up.  “Does anyone else on your team know about us?”

“Some of the guys I’m closer with do,” Brock said.  “Troy, Thatcher, Marky…they all know about you.  Do your friends know about me?”

Grace snorted.  “I told them about you after that first night at Starbucks.”

Brock laughed, leaning down to give her a quick kiss.  “That eager, eh?”

“When you know, you know,” Grace said.  “You know, don’t you?”

Brock nodded.  “I know.”

That was the beauty of what they had going.  They just fell in to everything.  There was Starbucks, then there was exchanging of their numbers, then there were texts back and forth, and phone conversations, and the rush of everything else.  It was quick but it was organic.  Nothing was rushed.  They were going at the pace they wanted to go.  There wasn’t even a heart-to-heart sit down or discussion about “where they stand relationship-wise” or “Am I into this more than you?”.  It was just…understood.  They knew.  They were exclusive.  Neither was seeing anybody else.  Neither wanted to see anybody else.  It was what Grace knew a healthy relationship should blossom into.  It was what Brock knew he wanted from another person.  

Elias opened the door to the apartment, greeting Grace sweetly before walking them in to the kitchen and dining room, where the table had already been set – no doubt done by Svea, too.  Grace noticed that Svea, the roommate, was the one cooking instead of Elias, and she was absolutely mortified.  She made sure to make her way into the kitchen once Brock punched Elias in the gut about something.  

“Hi I’m Svea,” Svea introduced herself sweetly as she was whisking a sauce in a deep saucepan.  She had on an apron and everything.  “It’s really nice to meet you.  I’m sorry that I look like a mess right now.”

“I’m so sorry – Brock said Elias was cooking tonight because he fancied himself a chef – I didn’t want to put any pressure on you—”

“Oh no no no!  Don’t worry!” Svea waved her off.  “God, are you kidding?  I wouldn’t want Elias to make you anything.  He might give you food poisoning.”

Grace giggled.  “So what’s on the menu tonight, anyway?”

“Sausage stronganoff,” Svea replied.  “It’s a Swedish dish.  Elias’s favourite, actually.  I thought I should make you Swedish food.  You’re not vegetarian, are you?”

“No,” Grace said, smiling from ear to ear.  “Sounds delicious.”

***

“They’re definitely in love,” Grace said once she and Brock walked out of the front doors of Elias’s condo building.  Brock turned towards her dramatically, his eyebrows raised, about to throw his arms up in the air.  “It’s so obvious.  So obvious.”

“I told you!” he exclaimed.  

“Why aren’t they dating yet?” she asked.

“Beats the shit out of me,” Brock said, shaking his head.  “But they’re meant to be together.  It’ll happen eventually.  I just don’t want to wait until I’m, like, forty to see it.”

Grace smiled, and there was a moment of silence between the two as they walked along the street.  “Can I ask you a question?  About things happening eventually?”

“Sure…”

“D’you want to meet my dad?”

The words hung in the air as Brock considered the magnitude of what Grace was asking him.  “You want me to meet your dad?”

Grace nodded.  “I think he’ll really like you,” she began.  “And my dad always, always wants to meet my boyfriends.”

“So you’ve had loads of other boyfriends?” he quipped.

Grace went to punch him in the gut, much like Elias did just hours earlier, but Brock dodged her easily and ended up grabbing her hand instead.  “Of course I’ll meet your dad,” he said, softer this time, as he stepped into her personal space and wrapped his other arm around her body.  “I’d love to.”

“Listen, I know I don’t have to warn you about what you’re gonna see when you get into the house, but—”

“Shhhh…” Brock cooed, bringing a finger up to her lips before leaning down to kiss her.  “When you want me there?”

“How does Sunday Night Football sound?”

***

Brock had never seen such a beautiful modern mansion so big in his life.  He’d trekked up to North Vancouver, to the address Grace gave him, and came face to face with a mansion overlooking the water.  It was stunning.  Fit for a billionaire, Brock thought.  He wondered if Grace grew up in this house or if it was new.  It looked new.  And judging by its style –a bungalow – it was fit for someone who needed access to everything they needed on the same floor.  Someone living with Parkinson’s, of course.  

He rang the doorbell.  After about a minute, the door opened and an unfamiliar face greeted him.  “You must be Brock?” the woman asked, the door still only half-open.

“Yes ma’am.”

She opened the door fully.  “I’m Angeline.  I’m one of Mr. Gillespie’s caregivers,” she informed him, stepping aside so he could step into the massive foyer.  Brock could hear the TV on in the distance and the clinking of some dishes in a faraway kitchen.  “You’ll also meet Dana and Michelle, Mr. Gillespie’s others.  He’s been expecting you.  He’s been very excited to meet you.”

Brock slipped off his shoes, making sure not to drop the bottle of wine he brought (for reasons unknown; it wasn’t like Hamish could drink – it was just that him mom taught him never to show up to someone’s house empty-handed).  “Oh, really?” he asked.

Angeline nodded her head.  “He hasn’t been quiet about it since Grace said it to him.  Plus, he’s a big Canucks fan.  Let me bring you to him.”

Brock followed Angeline through the house until they got to the family room.  It was massive, like everything else in the house, with lots of space.  When he walked in, he saw Grace and Hamish.  Their backs were to him, so he was able to observe them before they saw him.  Grace was sitting right beside him in his chair, holding his hand as they paid attention to the football game just about to start on the screen.  Grace was making some comment about the teams.  Brock could see Hamish turn his head slowly to look at his daughter and nod.  Everything about the set-up – Grace, Hamish, their positions, what was on TV, everything – reminded him of he and his dad.  Even the handholding.  Brock didn’t think he even held his dad’s hand as much when he was a kid out in public than he had the last few months – few years, really.  Duke was really into the handholding.  Brock could never, would never deny him.

Brock was soon snapped out of his trance by the sound of footsteps.  One of the other caregivers walked right past him holding a plate of puréed food, bringing it to Grace.  It was only then that Brock noticed the TV dinner table beside her.  “She likes to feed him whenever she’s here,” Angeline said, noticing Brock’s staring.  “If you need any help you can always call.  We will be somewhere in the house,” she said before walking away.

Brock took a deep breath and walked towards Grace and Hamish.  Upon hearing his footsteps, Grace looked his way.  The smile on her face widened ten times over when she saw it was him.  “Hi Brock,” she said softly, getting up from her seat quickly to greet him.  She kissed him quickly behind her father’s back (quite literally) before moving and settling back into her chair.  “Dad, Brock is here to meet you.”

Brock stepped into Hamish’s line of vision.  So that he wouldn’t have to strain his neck to look up, Brock bent down on his knees.  “Hi Hamish,” he held out his hand for a handshake.  Slowly, Hamish’s hand came up to shake it.  “It’s very nice to meet you.  Grace has told me so much about you.”

“It’s…nice to…meet you…too,” he said, his words coming out slowly but surely.  “You…like football?”

Brock smiled.  “I love football.”

“Minnesota?”

“Minnesota.”

A smile crept onto Hamish’s face.  “Good.”

***

Hamish wanted ice cream, so Grace got up and went to the kitchen, leaving him with Brock as they watched the football game together.  Minnesota was winning, which made her dad pretty happy.  And despite everything, she could tell he liked Brock.  She knew he would – everybody liked Brock, he was the sweetest – but it made her happy knowing that he liked him.  There were some ex-boyfriends of hers that he didn’t like.  Some ex-boyfriends he straight-up disapproved of.  Hamish had strong opinions and vocalized them always, and the Parkinson’s didn’t stop that.  He didn’t create a three-billion-dollar company by being quiet.

When she finished putting the ice cream in the bowl, she began to head back to the family room.  Dana stopped her momentarily to tell her that her dad’s bed was ready, whenever he was tired and needed to change into his pajamas.  Grace thanked her, and before she could even step foot into the family room, she heard Brock’s voice.  “Back straight, Mr. Gillespie.  And let me get the straw.”

She stopped in her tracks so neither could see her.  She watched from the side as Brock took the glass of water her dad had been drinking with dinner and brought it up to his lips, steadying the straw so it faced him.  “Take your time, Mr. Gillespie.  It’s alright.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Mr. Gillespie.  I’m used to this.  I’m not sure if Grace told you but my dad has Parkinson’s as well,” Brock said.

Hamish seemingly forgot about the water and straw.  “He does?”

“Yes sir.  And I help take care of him too, in the off-season.  Just like Grace helps take care of you.”

Hamish brought a hand up slowly and placed it on Brock’s arm that was resting on the arm rest.  “Does your father…ever speak…of his body…betraying him?”

Grace watched as Brock took a deep breath in.  “All the time,” he nodded.  “Ever since he got diagnosed.”

Hamish nodded slowly.  “You and Grace…” he began, “taking care…of your parents.  You’ll…you’ll look after one another.”

Brock nodded again, more assertively this time.  “We will,” he said, bringing the water and straw closer to Hamish.  He pursed his lips to start drinking, and Brock brought his other hand up to steady Hamish’s head and make sure it was as upright as possible.  Hamish’s hand didn’t leave Brock’s forearm.

[avaritia-apotheosis]

Phantom Children Ch. 6

Hi guys! I'm back <3 (also, I'm currently looking for alpha/beta readers for Phantom Children, so if you're interested, feel free to shoot me a message!)

In Which: Danny Attempts to get Answers, Bruce Learns, and Dick Finally Learns What's Inside the Door that Doesn't Exist

AO3 | Prologue | 5 | [ 6 ] | 7

DANNY IS KNOCKED DOWN three, four, eight times on the ice. Each time made his back ache, his bones bruised and tired, and his mind burning with embarrassment and a drive to lash out. But each time he gets back up. Each time he lasts a little bit longer against Talia.

The ice still shifts, cracks and rumbles with every wrong move. Danny learned to roll with it. Move on light feet but attack with a firm stance, gauge which parts of the ice are stable and which should be avoided. Multi-tasking has never been Danny’s strong suit, but he’s good at learning and learning quickly.

Talia corrected his form as much as she beat him down. Exploited every one of his openings until he learned to defend them and praised him whenever he managed to pull one over her. The League’s martial arts was the holy amalgamation between almost every single fighting style there is, mashed and refined to perfection to become almost unpredictable to the untrained. A vast improvement to Danny’s previous ‘fuck around and see what works’ brawling and had the added benefit of meshing together with his spontaneity.

“You are doing well, Daniel,” Talia said as she sheathed her sword, hand resting just above her hip. “You have improved greatly in such a short time, as I have expected.”

It takes every ounce of Danny’s superhuman energy to not collapse to his knees, his every breath a ragged shudder as he tries to get his breathing under control. “Still can’t beat you, though.”

“Very few can boast that feat.”

“I’m not exactly sure if that’s supposed to make me feel any better or not. Do I get my prize at least?”

Tahlia tossed her braid over one shoulder with a laugh. “Come, then, let us rest in the caves. The sun is to set soon and we must make camp before we freeze to death.”

“Hypothermia is so last season. I’m way too cool for that.”

He didn’t know whether to be disappointed that Tahlia didn’t react to his pun. It was pretty clever, in his opinion.

('Puns are the lowest form of comedy,' said mind-Jazz.

Says the one who named the Box Ghost the ‘Crate Creep.’

'That’s alliteration, not a pun.')

It was kind of pathetic that even his mind-version of Jazz was smarter than him.

“What would you like to know first?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sarcasm dripped from Danny’s voice. He sheathed his sword and let it hang loose at his side. “Maybe how old this mysterious brother of mine is?” Ancients, his life was weird enough already, it wasn’t supposed to sound like the B-plot to a bad soap opera.

“Damian is younger than you by a little over four years. He will turn eleven this year.”

“Huh. Never been an older brother before.”

“Perhaps you might have been, if circumstances had been different.”

Cryptic. Great. Danny stepped over a particularly large crack in the ice and scampered over to solid ground. “You gotta give me more than that. What’s he like?”

“Prideful,” she said. “But skilled enough to warrant it. He was raised like a prince—as how you should have been.”

“And he lives with…our dad?”

“Yes. In America.” The cave was deep enough to shield them from the worst of the eventual mountain winds. Tahlia had already started building a campfire with equipment from her knapsack, embers eating away and growing into a steady flame. He sat down, legs crossed, beside the fire, hands tucked beneath his armpits.

He bit his lip, a question forming in his mind. “Do…do we have the same dad?”

Tahlia looked up at him. “Of course. Only your father has had the privilege of being called my beloved, and only he is worthy enough to have sired my children.”

Once night fell, it fell quickly. Blanketing as far as Danny could see from the mouth of the cave in a thick darkness. Snow fell from the skies in thick tufts and covered their footsteps.

“Does he—do they know about me?”

“No, they do not.”

“And you probably aren’t going to tell them anything about me, if you could help it.”

“That is very perceptive of you, habeebi.”

“You won’t tell me anything more about them, will you?”

“In due time, I will.”

Danny blew part of his fringe away from his face. Figures.

Despite the ever-present niggling at the back of his mind, Bruce had yet to see what was in the flash drive. The weeks since his strange meeting with Vlad Masters suddenly exploded with criminal activity with the recent breakout in Arkham and the brewings of another gang war in the shadows of Gotham’s paved streets. It was all hands-on deck. And Bruce, whether as Batman or Wayne, had always prioritized Gotham and its citizens over anything else.

The flash drive remained on his person despite the crisis, tucked away in one of the sturdier compartments of his utility belt to prevent the data inside from becoming damaged. Sometimes he found his hands gravitating towards it, fingers brushing against the button that would release the mystery from its confines before he realized what he was doing and steeled himself. Hands fisted to his side and attention forcibly directed elsewhere.

Eventually, the rogues were placed back into Arkham, and Gotham let out a shuddered breath of relief as it remained standing for another day.

Most of the family were out on a light patrol, cleaning up the remains of the breakout and helping where they can. Jason and Dick bickering over the comms whilst Barbara laughed in her clocktower.

(“It’s not that bad.”

"‘It’s not that bad’—shut the fuck up.” Jason spat. Bruce could hear him revving his bike. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that? Certified Grade A idiot. B’s gonna kill you.”

He could hear Dick roll his eyes. “Sure, pile it all on, Jaybird. Blame the victim.”

"It was your fault.”

“It’s not my fault I didn’t see it there!”

"You tripped and got a concussion. From a stick. A. Stick.”

“Can we please just leave that out of the report?” Dick groaned. Barbara laughed. “Oh god.”

“Richard motherfucking John Grayson. I swear if you vomit on me then—”

“I’m not gonna vomit on you! You just turned the corner a little too fast. It’s nice to see you care though.”

"Fuck no, I just don’t wanna smell like regurgitated cereal.”)

Damian was benched from a patrol. Their last conflict with Poison Ivy ended with Damian sticking a bad landing and twisting his ankle. He dealt with it with as much grace as can be expected. Meaning that he spent the last few days sulking as he caught up on his missed schoolwork and shooting daggers at everyone else who came back from patrol.

Bruce flicked the flash drive open and plugged it into the computer. The flash drive contained only a single folder dated six months ago.

He clicked it, and a news headline popped up.

LOCAL TEEN DIES AFTER DRIVING OFF CLIFF

Beneath it, a picture. Blue eyes. Black hair. A familiar face.

Blood pounded in Bruce’s ears. He could hear nothing except a sharp gasp from Damian behind him.

When Dick and Jason arrived at the batcave, it was to an eerie silence. Not that it was usually loud, only that Bruce spent most of his free time down in the cave and Dick had come to expect hearing some signs of him around. Typing on keys, the clicking of a mouse, the heavy thuds of a fist meeting a punching bag or a training dummy, etcetera, etcetera. Or maybe even Alfred cleaning up around the cave, feeding the bats, or restocking their med bay.

(Dick, it turned out, didn’t have a concussion. Probably. Not a severe one anyway. What mattered most was that he managed to convince Jason to have dinner at the Manor. Alfred was making a tarte tatin for dessert tonight and those were absolutely to die for. )

One of Tim’s cases took him to the other side of Gotham. The only person in the cave was Damian, who was staring agape at the batcomputer.

“Why the hell is the demon spawn looking at old pictures of Bruce? We get it. They look alike.

“Uh, Dami? What’s up?”

Damian snapped his mouth shut. “I believe it might be best if you asked father that, Grayson.” Despite his clipped tone, there seemed to be little anger in his voice. His proud shoulders were hunched over on the chair, eyes trained on his lap.

He looked so small.

Damian clucked his tongue. “He’s upstairs, if you need him. So is Pennyworth.”

Dick shot a glance at Jason who raised his hands in mock surrender. “You’re up golden boy. Whatever the fuck the old man’s problem is this time, I’m not dealing with it.”

Dick sighed. “Fine.”

There was a door in Wayne Manor that didn’t exist.

When Dick was a child and recently adopted by Bruce Wayne, one of the first things he did was explore the manor. It’s the prerogative of every child that somehow found themselves in a large mansion—even more so given the castle-like exteriors of Wayne Manor. All castles have secret passages, and if the Batcave lay in the subterranean depths below, then surely the manor proper must have its own secrets.

Dick would tumble and cartwheel along the hallways, opening any and every single door he came across. A lot of them were just empty bedrooms or unused parlors and sitting rooms; the furniture covered by white sheets to keep the dust away. Alfred was probably magic, but even he can’t keep the entirety of the manor dust free.

The majority of the unused rooms were unlocked.

Except for one.

It was a room in the west wing, on the second floor. A couple doors down from where Bruce’s and Dick’s were. Why it was locked, Dick never found out. But he was curious since it was the only room on that floor that remained shut.

When he asked Alfred about it, the old butler only said that it was an unused storage room they preferred to keep locked just in case. When he asked Bruce about it, he’d be quick to change the subject. Usually something Batman related. Which, well, always worked, because it was Batman related. And Dick, young and spry and itching to fly under Batman’s wings, would quickly forget about that curious little mystery in favor of punching bad guys in the face and flipping over rooftops.

At some point that locked door quietly disappeared, leaving a blank expanse of wallpaper and a decorative vase where it once stood. It was never brought up again. And Dick slowly forgot that it was ever there in the first place.

Until now.

The wooden table and vase were shoved off to the side. Wallpaper sliced away to reveal the lines of a doorway. The door, covered in its faint damask wallpaper, was kicked open, the wood around the bolt splintered and cracked. He could hear voices—Alfred’s and Bruce’s—speaking softly on the other side.

He pressed his back against the wall and kept his breathing quiet.

“Three times, Alfred.” Bruce’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Three times she’s done this to me.”

“Master Bruce…”

“I don’t—I don’t understand why—” Bruce choked, swallowing a shuddered breath. “Damian, I can understand. Jason, I can too. But…This? I—” Bruce suddenly quieted. Dick knew the jig was up.

He unlatched himself from the wall and slowly slid through the once-hidden-door, a hand kept on the frame. “Um. Hi, Bruce? Alfred?” The words fell flat, stilted. Dick winced as he said them. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but, uh…” He trailed off the second he registered what was in the room.

It was large, as so many rooms in the manor were. The room was covered in peeling green wallpaper with faded pictures of baby deer and owls and other woodland creatures prancing about. There was a dresser on one wall. A shelf filled with little picture books and stuffed animals on the other. A brown teddy bear had fallen on its face on one of the shelves.

In the middle—where Bruce was hunched over—was a crib. The wood streaked and aged with time, the beddings within pristine and untouched, if not dusty. Hanging overhead was a mobile with little animals dangling on a string.

“Worry not Master Dick. It is good that you are here since it will inevitably involve the rest of the family at some point.”

Dick nodded absentmindedly, trying to lock eyes with his guardian. “B? What’s—what’s going on?” Dick took one step deeper into the room. “The pictures in the cave. I thought they were you since they were too old to be Damian—” Bruce’s hands on the crib’s railing flinched.

Dick’s breath hitched.

“They’re…not your photos, are they.”

Bruce took a deep breath in, the lines of his shoulders tense. “No. They’re not.”

In their line of work, the answer could have been anything. Clones, magical doppelgangers, alternate universe counterparts, hell, even just someone’s genetic code being coincidentally similar to another person. But…this room, this nursery, pointed towards only one conclusion.

“Who is he, Bruce?”

Bruce angled his head towards Dick, unshed tears glimmering in his eyes. “He’s my son, Dick.

“He’s my son.”

[everlarkficexchange]

On the Hunt

Author: @hutchhitched

Prompt 39: Katniss has been bumping into the same stranger (Peeta) for months. When they get stuck in an unfortunate situation together, she decides to be the first to say hello. [submitted by @eiramrelyat / @taylerwrites]

Ratings/Warnings: T

The first time Katniss sees him, he takes her breath away. It’s from afar. He probably doesn’t even catch a glimpse of her, but her whole world tilts off its axis.

She’s not sure why he stands out to her. There’s nothing particularly unique about him. He’s not short or tall or big or small. He’s not drop-dead gorgeous or ugly like a troll. He doesn’t move like an athlete or sparkle with the magic of a performer. He appears normal in every sense of the word, but that doesn’t mean she can’t see how special he really is. At least she thinks he might be—if she had a chance to actually speak to him.

That doesn’t happen, though. She’s too far away when she sees him picking up a loaf of bread, and she can’t seem to move once he’s left her line of sight. She stays frozen in the freezer section (the irony!) for several minutes. Hopefully, everyone else thinks she’s considering her options in breakfast burritos, but she’s actually involved in an out of body experience that follows the young man from the back of the store to the registers, out the door, and into the parking lot where he must load his groceries into his car and drive away. His life is no different, but hers will never be the same.

It has to be because she’s lonely. It’s been a very long time since she’s been in a relationship. In fact, it’s been so long since she’s kissed a man, she kind of wonders if she’s forgotten how to do it. Katniss has never been that popular, but she’s enjoyed her fair share of attention. She tries really hard not to spiral out in the freezer section, but Christ on a cracker! Something about that specimen of manhood has made her question her life’s choices. Why hasn’t she run into him before now? Clearly, she’s been living wrong.

Except, she hasn’t. She’s done absolutely everything she knows to do to be a good person. She supports her little sister and sends money to her mother who needs every speck of help she can get. She has a best friend who’s been by her side since they both lost their fathers when they were barely teenagers. She helps out at a shelter and donates money to the food bank because she knows way too well how hunger can impact a person’s life. In other words, there’s no reason her weekly grocery trip should result in an upheaval to her world. It’s simply not fair, and she plans to file a complaint to who it is that runs fate and destiny. She has a bone to pick.

Somehow, she finds everything on her list and heads to the front of the store. When she gets there, she unloads her groceries and watches as the cashier scans each item. Digging into her wallet, she’s stunned to find she only has a twenty and the total keeps rising. Mortified, she watches as the number climbs to $34.15.

“I don’t have… I mean, can you take off the…”

Trying to figure out what she can live without until her next paycheck, she surveys the food and toiletries. Almost in tears, she stammers for a few seconds before the cashier speaks.

“Don’t worry. Another patron paid it forward. He left a twenty and asked that I use it if anyone needed help. Looks like you could use some.”

“I— I couldn’t. It’s not right.”

“The guy seemed pretty adamant that I only offer it to someone who could use a break. It seems like that could be you today.”

Katniss nodded slowly. “Do you have any idea who it is? I’d like to thank them.”

The cashier shook her head. “Young guy. Stocky, medium height, ashy blonde hair, blue eyes. Very polite. Named Peter, I think. Something like that.”

It’s got to be him. The description’s too similar to be a coincidence. It seems the guy that froze her in place with his looks is as kind and compassionate as he is special. Now, he’s even more intimidating.

She nods her thanks and takes the change and her purchases. The five in her pocket gives her a little joy, but the feeling of not having money still bothers her. Maybe it’s time to get a credit card. She’s been warned off them for so long that she never applied for one, but now, it might be something she should do. Maybe. It makes her nervous to think she could get in financial trouble with it. She’s been poor her entire life. It might be too tempting to resist.

When she makes it back to her apartment, her attempt to unpack her groceries is interrupted frequently by long pauses in which she fantasizes about finding the guy who’s rocked her world and given her daydreams about all the ways she needs to thank him (appropriately and not so much) for the rest of her life. It’s not unrealistic at all. Totally doable, she decides. After all, how hard can it be to find him again? They live in the same town.

****

The answer to that question is that it’s very hard. Difficult isn’t even the word to describe the problem she has in trying to find the Boy With the Bread, which is what she calls him even though he’s definitely an adult. The person she saw from afar was all man if the stretch of his shirt across broad shoulders was any indication. Still, the alliteration makes her smile, so she continues to refer to him as such.

It shouldn’t take so long, but it does. Months pass, and she wonders if she’s made it all up and imagined the creature that changed her life. She keeps her eyes open in public, scans the local news and social media sites, and seriously considers setting up an online dating site just to see if he’s looking for someone. She’s getting desperate, but then fate smiles on her again.

She’s sitting in a coffee shop, something she hardly ever does, when he walks in the door. She doesn’t normally have time for such a mundane, normal activity that other people her age seem to enjoy all the time. She’s usually working during the day, and she has no desire to consume copious amounts of caffeine after 5 pm when she gets off work. Today, though, she has time. She’s taken a half day to run errands and go to the dentist, and she needs the jolt the espresso will give her to survive her reduced shift.

He ducks through the doorway just as she’s taken a sip of her hot beverage, and she almost chokes on the liquid. He shakes the umbrella he’s holding just outside the door and shoves a riot of blonde curls off his forehead that have shrunken up and frizzed from the rain. It’s adorable.

He’s wearing an emerald Henley and faded jeans that hug all the right places. The sight of him freezes her in place, but that doesn’t stop her from tracking him as moves past her. She’s close enough to see his eyes are blue before he marches across the café and approaches a man sitting alone in the corner. They clasp hands and grin at each other, and the vision in green heads to the counter to order.

She’s dumbfounded. Here he is again after so long, and she can’t think of a single thing to say to him or how in the world to actually approach him without making her look absolutely insane. She racks her brain trying to think of an intelligent topic, but she’s jolted from that when the barista walks to the end of the bar and calls a name.

“Peeta! Chai Latte.”

That’s his name, she realizes, and it’s like the sun’s broken through thick, heavy clouds. It’s just unusual enough to fit him and still feel familiar. He smiles at the woman behind the bar and takes the cup from her. He ordered chai, and she files that information away for future reference. He might not like coffee, which seems important.

She’s pondering a trip to the bathroom just so she has an excuse to pass by him when she suddenly understands that he’s leaving. He and his friend are talking as they walk to the door, and she catches the sound of his voice.

“—we can change that, the numbers will—”

His words are swallowed by the rush of traffic outside, but that silky tone she hardly had a chance to listen to has already taken up residence in the part of her brain that creates unrealistic fantasies. She daydreams for longer than she should. In fact, it’s only the vibration of her phone against the table that reminds her she has to get to her job. What a chance encounter, but now she has a name to go with that face.

****

She’s tried to find him again. She’s googled and returned to the coffee shop when she’s had a spare minute or two. She’s asked around and continues to check dating sites. Nothing. She’s found absolutely nothing. Without a last name, she has very little idea how to find out anything else. Frustrated, she goes about her daily life with a weight on her shoulders that shouldn’t be there. He’s a stranger she’s glimpsed only a couple of times.

Frustrated and full of pent-up energy, she joins a gym. There’s nothing quite like working up a good sweat to ease tension and kickstart her brain, so she spends her free time running the track, lifting, and participating in every hot yoga class the establishment offers. After a month, she’s leaner and stronger than ever, but she hasn’t managed to come up with any ideas that might help her find the guy she desperately wants to thank for saving her when she wasn’t sure how she’d eat for a week.

She’s two laps into her normal ten when she glances down from the elevated track and spots a pickup game of three on three basketball on the far court. Three blonde men face off against three with dark hair, one of whom looks remarkably like her best friend Gale Hawthorne, who she hasn’t seen since he left town for a job almost a year ago. As she jogs closer to the court, she realizes it is him teamed up with his brothers. The blonde men look like siblings, too, but she doesn’t spare them much of a glance. She’s got more laps to go, and she doesn’t want to draw any attention to herself. Gale didn’t bother to tell her that he’s in town, and she’s a little miffed by that.

It’s another three passes by the court before it hits her that the blonde men look familiar. She puts on a burst of speed to get back to where she can see the men closeup and almost trips over her own feet when she spies him. It’s the guy. THE guy. The cashier had said Peter, and the barista had called him Peeta. She stops in her tracks and grabs the railing when someone bumps into her from behind.

“Watch it!” he yells as the jogger passes her. “You’re not supposed to stop on the track!”

She dismisses him with a wave and sprints to the nearest stairwell. If she can just catch them… She bounds down the stairs, three at a time, and bursts into a bustling walkway. She dodges and shoves her way free and streaks around the corner to find—

“Catnip! What are you doing here?”

“Gale!” Sweat drips down her forehead and stings her eyes. Cringing, she swipes her hand across her face and tries not to cry. “Where are—? I thought you were playing basketball.”

He throws her a bewildered look and nods like she’s lost it a little. “We were.”

“You’re done?”

“Yeah? We’d been at it for a while. Are you… Have you been watching me?”

Katniss rolls her eyes, although that’s not really very fair. She had noticed him. It’s not like that’s not the case. “Who were you playing with? I saw Vic and Rory, but the blonde guys… Who, er, who were they?”

The expression on his face would be priceless if she weren’t so desperate to find out the information. He looks like he’s swallowed something very, very distasteful, and she tries hard not to snort with laughter.

“Why?”

She takes in his narrowed eyes and realizes she’s going to have to lie to get what she wants. Part of the reason they haven’t been as close since he left town is due to his sudden confessions of feelings toward her. She’d let him down easy, but things have been strained since then. There’s no need to rub that in his face when all she wants is to find out about Peeta. With a straight face and innocent eyes, she explains, “I think one of them door dinged my car a couple of weeks ago. The gym won’t give out membership information, but if you know who they are… Well, I’d be really grateful, Gale.”

He falls for it when she bats her eyelashes at him. She should feel terrible, but all’s fair in love and basketball. Of all people, Gale should want her to be happy, no matter if that means she’s interested in someone else or not. She’s no damsel in distress, unless she can’t pay for her groceries or something. However, her simpering works, and that’s really what she needs.

“Mellark is the last name. They all have bread names. It’s weird.”

She rolls the name around in her head for a bit. Peeta Mellark. It’s a nice solid name, and now she has more information to help her figure out how to find him. Almost giddy with victory, she stretches up on her tiptoes and kisses Gale’s cheek in gratitude. Backing away before he can reciprocate, she hears him as the distance widens between them.

“Do you want to grab dinner sometime? Maybe?”

“Sorry, Gale! Got to go. Really good to see you!”

With that, she turns her back and slips down the hall to the women’s locker room. She doesn’t bother to shower before grabbing her bag and heading to her car. She’s barely closed the door before she’s on her phone and typing in the name Peeta Mellark. She has a thank you to deliver.

****

Surprisingly, it’s not much easier to find him now that she knows his full name. She unveils a lot of information about his family, but not him. Apparently, they own a few local bakeries that she tries out and loves. Still, Peeta’s family is not the same thing as Peeta, who is remarkably absent from social media and with no online presence. She’s willing to admit, she got cocky, and now she can’t figure out how to recover from it.

“Where the hell is he?” she mutters as she comes up empty. Again.

Frustrated, she runs over all the data she’s gathered about him. He’s kind, compassionate, and thoughtful; all of those qualities were on display at the grocery store. He drinks tea and has a very good-looking friend who he talks to about numbers; that she learned at the coffee shop. He’s athletic and has two brothers he likes well enough to exercise with them; that information, and his last name, came from the gym. It should be enough to go on. It’s not.

She’s at home on her couch and paying bills when it suddenly hits her that she may never see this guy again. Peeta Mellark seems to be a figment of her imagination for all the good it’s done to try to find him. That and the small number in her bank account are both so unpleasant that she decides she’s going to have to break down and do something she’s been avoiding and delaying for a very long time. She’s going to have to open a line of credit. She’ll only use it for emergencies, but she can’t rely on the kindness of strangers to bail her out the next time she doesn’t have money for groceries, let alone car maintenance or an unforeseen medical crisis. It’s been months since Peeta saved her, but the humiliation of not being able to take care of herself still hasn’t faded. Before she can change her mind, she grabs her purse and heads to the bank. The time is now.

“Can I help you?” A bubbly blonde teller named Delly asks, and Katniss takes a deep breath to fortify herself.

“I’d like to open a line of credit. Can I talk to someone about that?”

“Sure!” she practically squeals. “Let me just call someone to help you.”

She’s led down the hallway and past a few desks to a small office. Once ushered inside, she sits and raises her eyes to view the person across from her.

“Oh…”

The man before her is stunning—green eyes, bronze hair, a swimmer’s build. It’s the guy’s—Peeta’s—friend, the one he was with at the coffee shop.

“Ms. Everdeen. I’m Finnick Odair. Want some sugar?” he asks and nudges a candy bowl toward her.

“No, I’m fi—.”

“Hey, Finn. Can you— Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were with a customer.”

She jerks at the sound of his voice. Peeta Mellark is standing in the doorway, and her heart is in her throat. She has a sudden flashback of the coffee shop, when the two of them walked past her discussing numbers… Now, it all makes sense. They work at a bank together. Of course they do. Peeta turns to leave, and she calls out.

“Wait! Stay with me.”

She claps her hands over her mouth and wills herself not to blush, but it’s no use. She’s just asked a perfect stranger to stay with her, and her invitation sounds much more intimate than she means it to. He must think she’s insane. Maybe she actually is. She pushes down a sudden urge to flee the situation and escape to the safety of her apartment.

This is out of her wheelhouse. Shy, introverted, and intensely private, Katniss worries the end of her braid and bites her lip. Every instinct she has tells her to run, but the temptation of him before her is too great. Rising, she crosses to him and holds out her hand.

“Hi. My name is Katniss. You saved my life once, and I’ve been on the hunt to find you for months. Thank you.”

Peeta and his friend exchange looks, and she fights the urge to shrivel back into herself. Finally, he looks directly at her and takes her palm in his. With a smile so disarming she nearly faints, he answers.

“Peeta Mellark. It’s nice to meet you.”

The touch of his hand on hers melts her insides. She dreads when she finally has to let go, but maybe she won’t have to. With a shy smile, she cocks out her hip and looks up at him through long lashes. Her flirting may be a disaster, but it’s all she’s got.

“It’s so nice to meet you, too.”

The flicker in his eyes makes her knees weak. An hour later, she’s left the bank with a line of credit, a phone number, and a dinner date. The hunt is finally over.