#destroy something bea

[asianfork]

SHE KNOWS

[graysoncritic]

A (Negative) Analysis of Tom Taylor's Nightwing Run - Introduction

Introduction Who is Dick Grayson? What Went Wrong? Dick's Characterization What Went Wrong? Barbara Gordon What Went Wrong? Bludhaven (Part 1, Part 2) What Went Wrong? Melinda Lin Grayson What Went Wrong? Bea Bennett What Went Wrong? Villains Conclusion Bibliography

I want to start this essay by admitting I’m actually embarrassed by its length. Why did I spend so much time on something I dislike? The truth is, I did not begin this with the intention of creating such an extensive, formal study of the Tom Taylor and Bruno Redondo’s Nightwing run and how it reflects the wider problems with DC’s handling of one of their most iconic characters. I was just trying to organize the thoughts that came up during discussions with other Dick Grayson fans. Before I knew it, I had enough material, enough desire to challenge myself, and enough frustrations to vent to properly create this monstrosity.

I did not begin this Nightwing run determined to hate it. In fact, I was ready to love it. As Taylor promoted the run before the first issue was officially released, I was so excited for it. As I read short interviews where he discussed Heartless, I could not wait to have a new, incredible villain. Foolishly, I believed Taylor when he said he loved Dick Grayson. 

Needless to say, I was disappointed. Then frustrated. Then angry. The beginning of any story is a period where writer and reader form an indirect bond, and as the story progresses, so do the highs and the lows of said relationship. As such, a reader’s tolerance for negative factors will either increase or decrease depending on their experience up until that point.

In other words, if the writer fails to earn the reader’s trust and instead takes their attention for granted, even seemingly insignificant details become irritating in a way they would not be if presented in a better story. In such scenarios, the reader can no longer overlook those minor moments because there’s little good to balance them out with. It is a death by a thousand cuts. 

In the case of Taylor and Redondo’s run, along with those thousand cuts are also broken bones, internal bleeding, head trauma, and severed limbs. A weak plot, simplistic morality that undermines the story’s stated themes, and, most importantly, a careless disregard for Dick Grayson and everything he stands for utterly destroyed my enjoyment of this series. 

It is still too early to tell what sort of impact Taylor’s (as of time of writing, still unfinished) run will have on Dick Grayson’s future portrayals. But just because we cannot predict its long term significance, it does not mean we cannot critique it. Currently, we simply lack the benefit of hindsight. 

If this essay were to have a thesis, then it is this: Tom Taylor and Bruno Redondo’s Nightwing not only fails to tell a compelling Nightwing story, but it also exemplifies a cynical, self-serving, and shallow approach to storytelling that prioritizes creating hollow viral moments to boost the creators’ own online popularity over crafting a good story, honoring the character in their care, and respecting his fans – fans who have, historically, often been women, queer folk, and other individuals who felt othered by a cisheteronormative patriarchal society. Taylor and Redondo’s thoughtless and superficial narrative not only undermine the socially progressive ideals they supposedly care for by propagating a cisheteronormative patriarchal worldview, but they also demonstrate a lack of love and understanding for the character in their care. At best, Taylor and Redondo have no interest in getting to know Dick Grayson, nor any respect for their predecessor and their contributions to this character. At worst, they despise Dick so much that they wish to reinvent him into something completely different, tossing away everything that was special to his fans in order to appeal to a readership that never cared about Dick Grayson. 

I structured this essay so that, hopefully, each part will build on the ones that came prior. Naturally, because all aspects of a story are interlaced, there will be overlaps between each of the sections. As it may have become obvious from this introduction, I’ll be focusing primarily on the writing of this run. That is not to say that I will not address the art, but writing is the field I know most about, and so it feels only fair to focus my critique on that. 

I hope that by the end of this essay, I will have successfully proved that this run’s mishandling of different narrative elements betray a cynical appropriation of progressive ideology and a disregard and disinterest in what makes Dick Grayson so special to so many people. This is an attitude that is present within DC Comics’ current ethos as a whole.

Now, who is this essay for? Honestly, it’s probably not for Tom Taylor fans. I do not believe I’ll be persuading anyone with my writing, and, to be quite honest, neither would I say I wish to do so. Taylor and Redondo’s run has won numerous awards and has many dedicated fans who adore it for what it is. If that is you, then I’m glad. I wish I could be among your numbers. I wish more than anything that I could love this story. But I do not, and I know many others agree with me, and it is to them, I think, that I’m speaking to. As Taylor’s run is praised to heaven and back, I needed a safe space to voice my thoughts. This essay became this safe space. And to others who also feel unseen by the constant praise this run is getting, I think this could speak to you, as well. To be cliche and cringe, this will hopefully let you know that you are not alone. 

Finally, I want to acknowledge some people whose thoughts greatly contributed to the creation of this essay. For around three years now I’ve been having wonderful interactions with other Dick Grayson’s fans, and those discussions were not only incredibly fun and cathartic, but also provided great insight into what needed to be included in this essay. My best friend especially gave me a space to vent when I got frustrated, and my original outline borrowed a lot from the messages I sent her, as well as notes I took for our discussions.  

I’ll also be directly quoting four different Dick Grayson fans (identified as Dick Grayson Fans A, B, and C in order to allow them to keep their anonymity). Their analyses were so critical to the formation of my thesis and for a lot of what will be addressed in this essay that I actually feel like they deserve co-credit in this essay. Dick Grayson Fan B especially deserves a shoutout in helping me track down a couple of pages used as supporting evidence, as I knew what pages I was looking for but was having a hard time remembering in which issue they were located. I’m quoting them with permission, and crediting their ideas and contributions whenever relevant. 

Now, without any further ado, let’s get started. 

[vigilskeep]

[ID: reply from @thornfield13713 saying “'coming back a little different' - oh, boy, we are really In It now, tell me everything”]

as one of my most popular posts implies, i like to mess around with the inquisitor having spent a little longer in the bad timeline than the game implies, but even if they weren’t, i don’t think in hushed whispers is the kind of experience anyone comes back the same from

the bea they know is a shy young woman who flusters with praise, quick to follow orders and eager to please people like cassandra, looking around at the world with bright, curious eyes. the one who comes back is... not quite that. she’s seen the world destroyed because she, personally, was not there to stop it. she’s seen exactly what happens if she doesn’t step up.

she’s still bea, but something changes. lots of people find it hard to put their finger on exactly what. she’s a better leader, certainly. more confident. no longer so startled by the unknown. the kind of person who could ally with the mages, for example. you could say a girl goes into that rift and an inquisitor steps out

it’s probably for the best, all round. but i don’t think blackwall or cassandra—or perhaps even solas, for his general involvement—ever quite shake a feeling of responsibility. whatever happened, they let it happen

[shallyouobeyme]

Dream

Yandere!/Dark!Wanda Maximoff/Scarlet Witch x reader

Summary: Left alone with nightmares and pictures of your loved ones dying when you close your eyes, you're trying your best to leave the woman you had secretly loved and who had turned into an evil witch and died behind you, but maybe - just maybe - she doesn't want to let you...

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT Warning: Dark content, mentions of previous murders, MoM Spoilers(?), Blood (Mentioned), Yandere, _This is all just fiction, I do not condone this!

Bea: Okay, so this is loosely based on a scene from a fanfiction I abandoned when I was like 15. It was honestly a giant cringe-fest, but this one scene never left my mind for long so I decided to recycle it into something my current messed-up self will enjoy. This is also day one of my writetober so check it out. Enjoy.

Falling asleep had become a chore for you. Every time you closed your eyes you saw death. Either the death of Pietro back in Sokovia, the death of Vision and of so many other Avengers. Rrecently the death of the only person you had ever truly loved had joined the list. Wanda was gone and a part of you knew that it was better this way, that everything she had done to Stephen, to the people of the other universe, after what she had tried to do to America, you were well aware that she hadn’t been the woman you’d secretly been in love with for years now anymore. But that part was frighteningly tiny. Most of you still felt agonizing grief. You had decided to stay with Stephen and America, after all, they were the only ones who had been with you when you had seen that other universe. The only one on your trip that you had been sad to leave behind. A universe where you and Wanda had been happy together. In love. Married.

A universe that you had wished for for many years. One that Wanda destroyed in her attempt to get to America. You had seen with your own eyes how she had taken ahold of that Universes Wanda and ripped the heart right out of your universe-equivalent chest when she tried to talk some sense into who she thought to be her wive. That was probably the death that hunted you the most. Not because you had seen yourself die, but because you had realized then and there that this woman wasn’t Wanda anymore, that this woman was the Scarlet Witch and that she seemingly had no emotions left for the friendship you had once shared. America had known immediately what you were thinking because she took your hand and shook her head as if to tell you that it Wanda anymore, that it wasn’t Wanda who was trying to - who actually kind of had killed you. This understanding only increased when you finally opened up to her about your feelings for the witch, she encouraged Stephen to let you stay with them and did her very best to cheer you up every single day to get you to crawl out of the dark hole you had found yourself stuck in.

That doesn’t help with the sleeping issue though. Lately, you had resorted to letting Wong put a light sleeping spell on you that would keep you from experiencing any dream-like state and basically made you just fall asleep and immediately wake up about six hours later. Which is why you were especially confused when you woke up in a sunflower field. You immediately knew that you must be dreaming because this wasn’t just some random sunflower field, as you looked around you could see the little cabin beside a lake, the mountain range opposite it and the tree with the swing. Obviously, there were some biological reasons why this couldn’t exist in real life, but the more obvious factor was that you had seen this from a different perspective a hundred times. Every single time you had walked into your room in the Compley you had seen this landscape on your wall. Wanda and you had been lazily hanging out in your room one weekend back when everything was still okay (or as okay as it had ever been) when you had told her that you had been thinking of painting something on the wall to make the space more personal and she had immediately loved the idea. Two days (and 500$ of Tony’s money) later there was a definitely amature made, but exceptionally beautiful in your eyes with Wanda and your name intertwined in the corner. You had joked that one day you’d live in a cabin there and the people in the town nearby would think the two of you were an old married couple. Just that you hadn’t really joked, you had hoped. You had dreamt of it often back in the day, but ever since Thanos, it had turned into a nightmare sooner or later, the flowers rotting, the cabin burning, the lake filling with blood, etc. This is why you were doing your best to try and wake yourself up again, not mentally stable enough to live through another nightmare like that. Just that none of the tactics were working. You had to try something else, or at least you were planning to do so, but when you stood up to look around, suddenly something changed. You looked down at yourself where before there was your pyjamas, but now there was the exact outfit you had worn on a night out years ago before you had known Wanda and Vision had a thing going on where you had planned to confess your feelings to her but had chickened out. “Hello, Darling,” a voice called out from behind you. A voice you’d recognize anywhere. You turned around and saw her. She looked exactly as you remember, wearing that beautiful maroon dress that she had already worn that night. For a second it was like nothing had ever happened, but then reality caught up to you. This was a dream. She was dead.

Since you knew that this had to be a dream you tried to use whatever lucid dreaming tips you had heard in your life and clenched your eyes shut, repeating “This is all a Dream” again and again. “Love-” you hadn’t heard her coming closer, obviously, it was a dream no logic had to apply, but the hand that cupped your cheeks still startled you, “-please look at me.” Against all reasoning you obliged her and when you looked into her beautiful eyes you couldn’t help but want to kiss her, just to have one last sweet memory of her left. As if reading your mind she leaned forward and put her lips on yours. She pulled you towards her and stole your breath. You were melting into her and it felt so, so, very real that the fact that all of it was a dream became hazy. At least until you saw her kissing Vision in your head in what seemed to be a last-ditch attempt of your brain to make you wake up. You pulled away and shook your head frantically. “No, no, this isn’t right, you’re with vision, just because I love you doesn’t mean you love me too… Or loved me, I guess because you’re dead, I saw it-” “You’re wrong.” “-with my own eyes. You died and you didn’t love me.” “Princessa, you’re wrong,” Wanda raised her voice slightly and you turned to her automatically. “I saw you die, Wanda, you’re dead.” “That’s not the thing you’re wrong about,” she sighed and came closer to you again, you wanted to step back, but found yourself unable to. It was like your feet were cemented onto the earth below you, “I might have died, but I loved you, I always did, I just didn’t realize until I saw that woman in that parallel universe, their version of me married to their version of you, living the life I wanted, not only having my children but also the spouse of my dreams. It wasn’t vision, vision was what I thought I deserved because you were always so pure, so fantastic, too good for me. But that fake-me made me realize that it’s not about what I deserve, it’s about what you need, you need someone to properly love and protect you. You need me, so how fortunate that you love me already.” Not quite able to process what she was saying you tried your waking-up tactics again before this turned even more nightmarish. You were distracted though when Wanda took you into a dancing position, putting your head against her and your body suddenly started dancing in sync with her without any input of your own. “Too bad that Stephen was already after me, I knew that he wouldn’t let me keep you safe in peace. He was a threat. But he would stop as soon as he thought he’d been victorious. He had to think I died and so I did. For a while at least-” you would have grown stiff in shock and fear if your body had still been listening to you, instead, you kept slightly swinging through the flower field with Wanda, “-It cost me a lot of Magic, but it was worth it. I’ll recover and then I’ll be able to get you into an actual little cabin at a lake, just like we always talked about, until then I’ll still be able to be with you in your dreams, where it’s just us two. Maybe we can start on making you actually believe that I love you, hmm, once we manage that we can move on to helping you accept me as your protector, okay? For now, I’ll just keep the bad dreams away, just you and me and the sunflowers.” Your body stopped swinging and even though you felt the control returning to your limbs you wouldn’t be able to do anything, frozen in shock. Wanda kissed you one more time before you suddenly shot up in bed, drenched in cold sweat. It took you a few minutes to calm down your heart from the excessive fear that was still lingering. You decided not to go back to sleep and made a note to ask Wong if he had an idea why his spell didn’t work as you made your way into the library where you assumed Stephen was wasting the night away over books, trying to ignore the fact that you could still feel the kiss on your lip, feel the stiffness in your joints that you had only ever felt in the afterwards of Wanda controlling you and the fact that you still felt her presence in your subconscious.

[thecousinsdangereux]

if i'm falling wrong [1/1]

notes: over on Twitter, moonyriot has been working on a multi-part journal from Ava's POV covering her time in Switzerland and beyond. She asked me if I wanted to join in on the fun and write a short one-shot to cover some of the events in part 6. (If you haven't seen any of her posts, here's the first one. They are incredible so definitely check them out.)

—

“The integrity of the upright guides them,” Ava reads, taking care to enunciate each word, “but the crookedness of the treacherous destroys them. That’s Proverbs 11:3, Beatrice.” 

Beatrice definitely knows, which is — Ava thinks — what makes it so funny. Or. Funny to her, at least. Maybe not so much for Beatrice, whose lips have flattened into a thin line that hides almost all of their pretty pink hue (a color Ava has taken a liking to in a way that definitely relates to how often she finds herself staring at Beatrice’s mouth). 

“It is better to promise nothing than to promise something and not be able to do it,” Ava continues, because she’s never been any good at knowing when to stop. “That’s Ecclesiastes. And — ooh, this is a good one — A person who promises a gift but doesn’t give it is like clouds and wind that bring no rain. That’s — ”

“Proverbs again, yes, thank you, Bible.com.” 

“It’s actually Biblereasons.com.” She shows off the screen of her phone, the one that she’s definitely supposed to be using sparingly (and never does). “But sure, I can go to your bible website of choice. Whatever you want. Pretty sure I’m still going to find the same answer, though. Honestly, I would’ve thought a nun would know that lying is bad. Not to brag, or anything, but I learned that one when I was like five, or something.” 

For reasons unknown, this pries Beatrice’s lips wide, dragging them out into a full smile, pink mouth and small indent at the corner appearing just as quickly as Ava’s pulse picks up, heart slamming up against the poor, battered walls of her chest. 

“How odd,” Beatrice begins, in a low drawl that means Ava’s in trouble (in so many ways). “Because I seem to recall you telling Hans, just yesterday morning, that you were allergic to apples. As a result, he traded pastries with you, leaving you with the chocolate eclair you’d been all but salivating over since you first noticed it in the break room. Given that I know that you were perfectly able to consume a slice of apple pie that the neighbors brought up last week, I am forced to conclude that — ”

“Okay, okay! Jesus. Pump the brakes, Miss Marple. I’m allowed to lie; I’m a dirty sinner or whatever. But you hold yourself to a higher standard, right?” (Unfortunately, Ava adds, but only mentally, because yeah.) “So when you said ‘Ava, if you’re able to best me in a mighty trial of combat, I will bequeath to you a single portrait wherein my lips are upturned in joyous felicitations’ or whatever, I took that as an oath, Bea. A serious, serious oath.” 

“One, I don’t sound like that. Two, no English person alive sounds like that. Why do you default to the Regency era when you’re trying to mock my accent?” 

By now, Beatrice’s smile has really started to crack open, showing off the slightest sliver of white behind those lips. It’d be unfair to say that this (the moment where Beatrice’s eyes crinkle with a laughter she most likely won’t release) is always Ava’s goal in any conversation she has with Beatrice, but maybe it is always an intended stop along the way, whatever the actual destination might be. 

(Other pitstops of note include: the cute scrunch of her nose whenever she’s focused on Ava alone, the half-tilt of her head whenever she’s considering something Ava’s said, the almost absentminded brush of her fingers along Ava’s forearm whenever she wants her to pay especially close attention. There’s a common theme here, but Ava’s well-aware of her own preoccupation, so it’s fine. Probably.)  

“Uh, because I’m paying you a huge compliment? Ungrateful much? Mr. Darcy is like… the hottest the British have ever been. Not that that’s hard because otherwise they kind of really suck, but I’m trying here, Bea, and you’re giving me nothing but attitude. And lies.”

Beatrice sighs. It’s cute enough that Ava nearly sighs too, longing bubbling up behind her lips.

“I told you I would smile for one of your pictures if you pinned me during training. It was implied you would do so without cheating.” 

With a tsk that doesn’t sound anything like the one Beatrice sometimes uses (a low sound from the back of her throat that always did very little to help Ava concentrate), Ava takes a half-step closer so that she might properly waggle a finger in Beatrice’s face. 

“I’m only doing what you taught me, Bea I thought I was supposed to use all the resources at my disposal?” 

Beatrice promptly bats the finger away. But that’s sort of the point. (Sometimes, it’s a little pathetic, the lengths Ava will go to make sure Beatrice is touching her at literally every possible opportunity, but Ava’s never really minded being a little pathetic for a good cause. And Beatrice is honestly never hard to bait, at least in this particular way.) 

“Ava, you bit me.” 

“Which was using all the resources at my disposal! Come on! If I’d been in a real fight, you would’ve called that innovative!” 

“Perhaps if you hadn’t used your — ” Delightfully, Beatrice takes a small, steadying breath before her next word, which, to Ava (who’s spent months studying Beatrice with the rigor of a staunch academic) is as much of a giveaway as one of her cute little blushes. “ — tongue.”

“I think the element of surprise would still work just fine,” she insists, but then Beatrice gives her a look, one that she knows won’t allow for any debate over the merits of licking her enemies, and she gives in nearly instantly. (Ava’s really only interested in using any part of her mouth on one person alone, anyway.) “But fine. Okay. Good note, teach.”

Winter has begun to fade from the air and, as they walk back towards their apartment in the meandering pace that has become their custom, Ava is pleased by this for two reasons. One: their neighbors — who bake enough that Ava’s convinced they’re working up to competing on one of those bafflingly polite baking shows — now leave their windows open, filling the air with the most delicious smells, noticeable even a block away from their home. And Two: Beatrice has taken to wearing short-sleeves again, which means that when she nudges Ava now (with a charmed little roll of her eyes), it’s bare skin against bare skin. 

In training, this is both a pleasure and a problem, because then it’s Beatrice’s shorts and Ava’s shirt being pushed up as Ava gets pinned to the ground and it’s the skin of Beatrice’s inner thigh against the skin of Ava’s hip and that’s a lot more than the casual brushes she’s gotten used to. Ava had long ago realized that any and all logical thought flies out the fucking window when faced with a muscular thigh, so really, it hadn’t been all that much of a surprise when it’d resulted in Ava doing something completely insane. 

Like taking Beatrice’s thumb into her mouth. And biting it. And maybe sucking a little. Honestly, it’s all a bit of a haze, because Beatrice had then made a noise that would most certainly be featured in Ava’s dreams for the next week or month or year, in the most mortifying (and sexy) way possible. 

And to be fair, it had worked in getting Ava out of the chokehold she otherwise would’ve probably happily died in. 

So there’s that.

“Something with chocolate today,” Beatrice comments, and Ava short-circuits for a second, thinking about chocolate and fingers and skin and the really incredible potential combination of the three, before she remembers the neighbors and the smell and the baking and feels her cheeks burn.

“Uh — yeah. Maybe they’ll have extra to share.” The windows on the first floor apartment are (of course) open as they approach, and Ava raises her voice just enough for it to carry through. She catches the intertwined laughter of the neighbors that results, and shoots Beatrice a wink that dispels some of the heat building within her, an emergency vent that she’s learned to rely on. 

“You’re shameless,” Beatrice says, in the exact way she always does whenever she doesn’t mean it (lips quirking at the corners). 

“And you’re welcome, when we end up getting brownies, or whatever they’re making.” 

The door to their building never unlocks easily, but it’s gotten worse as the temperatures have started to rise; Beatrice shoulders it open, muscles bunching in her back, and Ava does absolutely nothing to help, watching the flex of her shoulder blades under the tight, gray fabric. 

“You know me,” Beatrice says lightly, knocking the side of her sneakers against the bottom of the stairs before heading up (and Ava does know her, enough to wait patiently for her to complete this small ritual). “I’m always craving sweets.” 

“You are sometimes! Whenever you come home from a night shift, you break into my stash! And since you have a lot of those coming up, on account of you losing our bet…” 

Beatrice laughs, a soft huff that turns into an adorable little squeak when Ava shoves past her on the staircase and snatches the keys from her fingers, bursting through their apartment door with far less effort than Beatrice had needed below. 

“You’re not letting this one go, are you?” 

It’s probably response enough when she snatches her camera off of the kitchen table and points it at Beatrice as soon as she steps across the threshold, but even this (pretty impressive!) sneak attack fails. Beatrice is quick enough to throw a hand up before the snap, lowering it only when Ava does the same with the camera. She continues to eye her warily as she bends down to untie her shoes, only abating to cast a significant look in Ava’s direction, which persists until Ava kicks hers off far less elegantly.

“It’s one photo, Bea!” she grumbles, watching as Beatrice arranges their sneakers in a perfect little line. “Just… one smile. Let’s just get it out of the way, you know? Look up and … ”

Beatrice does look up. 

Ava has to give her that.

It’s the only warning she gets before Beatrice is standing and her fingers are wrapping around Ava’s wrist and she’s pressed flush against Ava’s front and well. Sure. That’s one way to get Ava to shut up. Probably the only way. Ava knows this about herself, but really can’t find any regret when it’s led her right here. 

“You cheated,” Beatrice murmurs lowly. “Why would I reward that?” 

Ava has a lot of thoughts around the concept of Beatrice rewarding her, and absolutely none of them are good. (Or, rather, they’re all extremely good. Very good. Far too good for her to be able to say out loud, those curling, irreverent thoughts that stick her tongue to the roof of her mouth and keep her up at night.) So it’s really out of mercy that she phases then — slipping out of Beatrice’s grip the only way she knows how that doesn’t involve cheap tricks — stepping back and lifting her camera again. 

What follows transpires a bit too quickly for Ava to track. 

She’s seen Beatrice fight in all sorts of situations — at full speed in back alley brawls and at half-tempo when leading her through a new form — but Ava’s pretty sure she’ll never see enough to lose the surprise that comes from being on the end of one of Beatrice’s first strikes. She’s in front of Ava and then she’s not; it’s really as simple (and terrifying) (and hot) as that. One moment, Ava has her camera ready, and then she’s facing a different direction entirely, her hand twisted behind her back, her camera falling from her grasp. Beatrice is fast here too, swooping down to catch it before it hits the floor, but this allows Ava to throw an elbow backwards, a hit that surely would have broken something in Beatrice’s face had it landed (but which Ava knows by now never will). 

“Double or nothing?” Ava pants, stumbling forward and twisting back around to face Beatrice, who’s gently placed the camera on the floor, carefully out of the way. 

“Two photos if you win and you take my night shifts for two weeks when you lose?” 

“Wait, I don’t like the if/when placement in that senten — ”

She barely ducks out of Beatrice’s grapple, cutting herself off mid-word to manage it, a little breathless already. It occurs to her that she’s definitely made a mistake here, looking up and finding Beatrice serious and focused, strands of her hair slipping out of the low bun that’s already started to loosen. Even in the warm light filtering through their apartment windows, Beatrice’s eyes look dark, and Ava spends a second too long suppressing a shiver at the sight. Which means, of course, she’s unable to avoid the next hit: a full tackle to the floor. Either Beatrice really doesn’t want Ava to take this photo or she really wants to get out of her night shifts, because she’s not going about this in the calm, measured way Ava is used to. (There’s a third option and it’s one Ava likes best; maybe Beatrice just really wants to pin Ava to the floor, to feel Ava underneath her, to feel Ava squirm against her front, fighting to get out of the hold. This is the option Ava relates to best and maybe it’s the one driving her now, putting her at a disadvantage just as significant as all the other ones.) 

Ava hits the ground hard, enough to knock air out of her lungs, but she’s saved, partially, by starting on a twist mid-air, mindful of how dangerous it’ll be if Beatrice gets her flat on her back. Not that Ava is opposed to this idea. Not on a normal day. Not even today, if only Beatrice would — 

“Good,” Beatrice says, breaking through Ava’s thoughts, though not in a way that is helpful at all. Beatrice most certainly notices the jerk of Ava’s hips the single word causes, but almost equally as certainly dismisses it as part of Ava’s attempts to break free. “But you over-rotated. Just slightly. See how I can use that to put you on your stomach?”

Always the instructor, Beatrice explains precisely how she’s going to best Ava before she actually does it; if Ava were better at this (if Beatrice were worse) this might actually be of some help in countering Beatrice’s efforts. Sadly, she’s not, so it isn’t. 

“Fuck,” Ava grunts, face pressed directly into the carpet of their bedroom. It’s honestly painful, the way Beatrice’s knee presses into the center of her back, but it’s a sort of pain that Ava’s come to find — over their months together — that she doesn’t especially mind or maybe even likes and maybe gets a fair amount of pleasure from and maybe thinks about it from time to time whenever she gets a moment alone and — yeah. Fuck is really the only word for it. 

“What now, Ava?” Finally, there’s a hint of the breathlessness in Beatrice’s voice: when she locks one of Ava’s arms behind her back, and Ava attempts to land some kind of backwards headbutt, pushing herself up off the floor with her free hand. “What’s your best option?” 

Beg you to have your way with me, doesn’t really seem like the response Beatrice is looking for, but Christ a girl can only take so much. And right about then, Ava knows she’s going to cheat (because it’s either cheat or blurt out something that will inevitably be extremely horny) but is it really cheating if there hadn’t been any rules put forth in the first place? 

She’s gotten better about controlling the Halo, so it barely gives off any light before she lifts onto one knee and throws herself backwards, phasing neatly through Beatrice’s front. The effort Beatrice had been using to hold her down works against her now, effectively swapping their positions as she falls forward, and Ava’s quick to use that momentum, reaching around to grab the front of Beatrice’s shirt so she’s flipped with the motion. Another (gentle) Halo blast lands Beatrice on her back, Ava straddling her hips and pinning both of her hands on either side of her head. 

“You didn’t say no Halo,” Ava says in a rush, as though the victory will be taken away instantly, as though she cares at all about some stupid bet instead of being on top of Beatrice whose eyes are wide and lovely, whose lips are parted and pink, whose chest is — not something Ava is looking at, thank you very much. Because she’s respectful, she can be respectful, she has to try to be respectful. 

“I didn’t,” Beatrice says finally and then fucking licks her lips, like God Himself has decided that Ava needs to be punched directly in the face with attractiveness or whatever and holy shit. 

Holy shit. 

“Then I — that means — uh — ” She releases one of Beatrice’s wrists like it’s burning, very much aware of the intensity of the gaze resting on her, and blindly roots around on the floor behind her until she finds the camera, resting just where Beatrice had left it. “I get to do this.” 

Her fumbling with the camera is hardly graceful, but honestly, the fact that she’s able to produce words at all is nothing short of a miracle, so she’ll take it. Her right hand is still wrapped around Beatrice’s left, fingers circling her wrist as she pins it to the floor, and she takes a picture of this first, holding her breath all the while. 

“For — uh — proof?” she offers, a little weakly, and Beatrice’s stare finally breaks, intensity replaced by something much softer, something that seeps into the corner of her eyes and mouth in equal measure. Ava’s struck by the sight as much as she is by anything else, and her grip relaxes enough that Beatrice can slip out of the hold, both hands drifting down until they come to rest just alongside either one of Ava’s knees. 

“Proof for who?” 

“What do you — proof for literally everyone, Bea; Hans, Camila, Lilith, Mother Superion, Jillian, the regulars at the bar, our neighbors, the lady who runs the bakery down the street, any random person I walk past for the next month. Hell, I might take out an ad in The Guardian, or something, are you kidding?” 

Beatrice laughs and it’s like a crack in the universe, or something equally and unequivocally earth-shattering. Lungs empty, air knocked fully out, Ava lifts her camera almost instinctively, only to find her view devastatingly obstructed, Beatrice’s arms flung over her face (the grin, still wide with laughter, barely peeking out from underneath). 

“Beatrice,” she groans (or maybe pouts).

“I’m sorry!” And she sounds it too, even through the smile, the half-giggles now petering out. “Truly. I’m not used to being photographed. I can’t think of a time it happened before you took up this hobby, not outside of unpleasant family photoshoots and the like.”

Ava’s heart flips painfully in her chest, but Beatrice is quick to soothe, fingers falling back down to brush against the outside of Ava’s leg, as though Ava’s the one in need of comfort.

“I’m not protesting, Ava. Just tell me what to do.” 

Photographs are meant to reproduce moments, memories, emotions, but Ava’s not sure the best photographer in the world, with hundreds of thousands of euros in equipment, would ever be able to fully capture Beatrice as she is now, fondness bleeding from the tips of her fingers, affection lighting the brown of her eyes, and love — or something an awful lot like it — bending her mouth, a bow pulled taut with an arrow that might be Ava herself, as inconceivable as the notion is. 

“Pretend the camera isn’t here,” Ava rasps, her breath hot (heated by all the things boiling inside of her now). “Just look at me.” 

Beatrice looks at her. 

Ava stops breathing. 

She takes the picture. The camera lowers. And Ava forgets about it entirely, object permanence completely obliterated by a force far stronger than something as trivial as human development.

Underneath her, seemingly content to be straddled, Beatrice looks calm, which isn’t unusual, because she almost always looks calm, so maybe it’s that she feels calm too. Like all the things Ava can always sense running through her at speeds only known to light have slowed down or disappeared entirely. The mission, her duties, her vows, her expectations, these things have washed away (temporarily but completely) until it’s only Beatrice left, staring at her lips. And Ava had thought she’d experienced wanting Beatrice in every way, but this one is new.

(She wants Beatrice like this: exactly herself, without anything else getting in the way.)

“Beatrice,” she says, a hitch in her voice breaking the name into three, distinct syllables. “I’m — ”

Cursed. Saved. Ruined. Blessed. Fucked. 

Ava’s not sure which word applies when the smoke alarm goes off downstairs.

It is not especially loud, or piercing, but it goes off and all of the easy calm flees from Beatrice’s eyes as she jerks upwards, back lifting off the floor until she’s close, closer than before, so close and it’s too much, maybe, or maybe Ava’s instincts are working against her (or for her?) because she falls back as soon as Beatrice completes the motion, balance disastrously (helpfully?) disrupted. 

Oh well, Ava thinks, as she lets herself fall back. Maybe a bit of brain damage would do her some good. 

Except that, of course, Beatrice catches her, a simple slip of her hand around Ava’s back, palm pressing to the middle of the Halo, shocks spreading out from the point of impact. 

“You’re what?” Beatrice asks, terribly quiet, as though she feels the air rearranging around them, molecules shifting back and forth between possibilities and outcomes. 

And if Beatrice were still calm, if everything else were still pushed away, if Beatrice was just Beatrice in that moment — just as she’d been so briefly before — it would not be a choice, what Ava did next. And maybe it isn’t one now either, but it’s in the opposite direction: pulling away rather than pushing forward (creating space rather than closing it). 

“I’m — just — I’m done. With the photos.” Decision made, breath returning, she shrugs, a little bashful now, the steady beep of the alarm and the laughter of their neighbors drifting up from below. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Beatrice’s head tilts, a small crease forming in between her eyebrows. Some people want money or power or peace or the answers to the universe, but Ava thinks she would be content, if only she could know what Beatrice is thinking right now.

“No,” she murmurs. “Not so bad at all.”

[simplykorra]

Beatrice makes a mental note to text Camila. She has to text her and tell her she was right. She has to text her and tell her to start setting up the arrangements for her funeral.

Because Ava is going to kill her. Ava’s mouth and her fingers and her little bag of goodies are going to absolutely destroy her.

The entire time she’s known her, Beatrice has constantly been blown away at how good Ava is at her job. Whether it’s watching her dance or having her play up their relationship. The way she deals with people and how she’s managed to help Beatrice deal with her family - Ava has been incredible.

So it really shouldn't surprise her that the sexual aspect of Ava’s job is on that same level.

Because Ava is amazing in bed and Beatrice is pretty sure her brain is starting to melt.

They have only been back in her parents home for twenty minutes before Ava is between her legs. They’ve been having sex almost every chance they get since that night they spent together in front of the fire. It unleashed something in Beatrice she didn’t even know was there.

For the first time in her life, she fully understands what sexual chemistry feels like. It’s addicting and Beatrice is lost under the spell.

“Ava, please…please I’m…”

Ava is setting a frantic pace, she knows tricks and moves with her mouth and tongue that Beatrice can't even fully comprehend. She can manipulate her, pace her pleasure and make her teeter so close to the edge for as long as she needs her there.

“Hold on, Bea, just hold on and don’t come yet.”

Suddenly, she’s falling back onto the bed and her jeans are being pulled the rest of the way off. Ava tosses them on the floor, then pushes Beatrice's legs together and lifts them so her heels are pointed at the ceiling.

[quietblueriver]

Ava is fine. As fine as she can be given that she just got told she’ll be killing herself, and someone else, to save humanity, anyway. So maybe not like, fine, fine but it’s all relative. She just...

“I just need a minute, Bea. Can you...?”

The request is out before she can really even process it herself, because Bea is there waiting, and at some point over the past few months, she has come to trust that Bea will have her back and to be okay with it. She still trusts it, even though Bea broke her heart just a few hours ago. And like, given that she almost punched a guy for having the nerve to save her from literally drowning in a swimming pool not even six months ago, that feels like kind of a big fucking deal.

Not for the first time, Ava thinks of who she might be, where she might be, without Beatrice, and feels a gratitude so big it hums through her whole body.

Beatrice immediately jumps to action, because of course she does, grabbing Vincent much more roughly than necessary (not that Ava is going to intervene) and beginning to move everyone toward the door.

“Yes, of course.”

Apparently determined to be the most at all times, Michael instead starts toward the bed.

“Ava, what…”

But he hardly takes a step before Dora has an arm around his elbow, guiding him away. Ava is super fucking grateful, because she really does need a minute and honestly, if she wanted to be around anyone right now, it certainly wouldn’t be him. Like, not surprisingly at all, it would actually be the woman whose eyes are fixed so hard on him that she might melt him, Divinium bomb and all, if he takes one more step toward Ava. Bea’s still got Vincent securely and painfully in her grip but Ava can see the way she’s holding herself, tight as a bow, to keep from doing something that would absolutely not go well for Michael.

“She said that she needs a minute.”

Bea’s voice is a knife and Michael, because he is an idiot, doesn’t seem to notice as she puts it to his throat. Because Dora is not an idiot, her eyes flitting between Bea and the oblivious boy beside her, and because Dora is a sister warrior, it’s one quick twist of Michael’s arm and he’s back in reality. He finally takes note of Beatrice, shoulders slumping a bit, but he doesn’t turn from Ava.

“Right. I just wanted to...”

Bea’s eyes flash and, yep, she’s going to destroy him right there, sorry Jillian and RIP to your idiot son. And to humanity, I guess. At least Ava will get a little more time with Bea as everything burns. Vincent, who is bearing the brunt of Beatrice’s current anger, clears his throat and tries to shift slightly in Bea’s grasp. Beatrice must be ready to murder Michael, or just absolutely lay him out, because she lets him, lets Vincent, move in her hold, even if it’s only like two inches. Bea adjusts her grip and shifts just slightly in the blonde’s direction.

“Was she not clear?”

Ava recognizes that tone. It is the tone reserved for bar patrons who get handsy with Ava and that one absolute creep at the farmer’s market who was so rude that Bea had intervened with an ice cold, “She said she wasn’t interested.” When he tried to snap a picture of her tits as she was bending over to evaluate a tomato, Bea broke his phone and his finger so quickly that they were halfway to the flower stall before he could even figure out what had happened. (“What happened to discreet, Sister Beatrice?” She had asked, delighted, as she tucked a flower behind Bea’s ear and tucked herself into Bea’s side, kissing her cheek and dragging her to the stall with those fruit pastries Bea loved but would only get if Ava asked for them.)

Not looking good for Michael, then. On the plus side, Ava’s a big fan of protective Bea in these low-stakes situations—no risk of real danger for Bea, and Beatrice letting herself be big, take up space, glint sharp like the knives she has tucked in her boots. It’s very hot. She should maybe intervene but like, Ava’s about to die, and not in a melodramatic, my-god-Bea-is-so-hot-it’s-going-to-kill-me way but in a very literal, Jesus-y this-is-my-body-which-is-given-for-you way, so she’s absolutely going to enjoy hot, competent, protective Bea while she still can. Honestly it might do Michael some good to get his ass kicked, anyway. He’s smug as shit for a glorified lithium battery.

Apparently finally understanding his position, Michael frowns at Bea (he’s always frowning at Bea, like he’s expecting her, the fucking deadly assassin nun, to be more impressed by him than she is; it’s very white dude of him), but he turns his body toward the door. Beatrice glares at him until he begins moving, letting Dora follow, before she starts forward with Vincent.

“Hey, Bea?”

Brown eyes soften immediately as they meet hers.

“Can you come back, in a bit?”

“Of course, Ava. Whatever you need.”

She smiles softly at Ava before turning her attention back to Vincent, shoving him out of the room, all hard, sharp edges again.

*****************

Ava sits on their bed (their bed, because neither one of them even thought about sleeping anywhere other than exactly next to each other when they came back and what the actual fuck are they even doing anymore) and tries to get herself together. There’s too much going on in her brain for her to brief the rest of the team right now, but she knows she has to handle her shit, and quickly.

Ava’s just returned from the universe’s worst inter-dimensional sightseeing tour, where she was given a shiny new suicide mission as a souvenir. It fucking sucks and it’s absolutely not fair and it’s also just apparently the only way to save the world, to save Bea, so like, suck it up, Ava, I guess.

Then there’s the pretty fucking severe heartache left from Bea’s response to her admittedly desperate Switzerland pitch. It shouldn’t have been a surprise— Beatrice is a nun, after all, very annoyingly sworn to Jesus and the Church, but Ava felt the rejection so deeply in her body that she hasn’t really been able to breathe properly since. She knows, she knows, that Bea is furious with herself, is dealing with many years of shame and guilt and repression, is absolutely in love with Ava at least half as much as Ava is in love with her. And given that Ava is “die to let you live” levels of in love with her, that’s still a whole fucking lot.

And now that she knows what she has to do, has been reduced to a detonator whose timer is rapidly running down, maybe it’s best that she goes without the hope of a future with Bea, back in Switzerland or anywhere else. Maybe it’s best, but Jesus _Christ_ it hurts, and would it really be too much to ask for her to have this, to have Beatrice get to love her and daydream with her for the final hours of her life? Even if they both knew it was nothing more than a distraction from the absolute shit that is reality, Ava’s pretty down for a distraction right now. She wants to be reminded of how good life can be, how much life can offer. She swears she’ll still do it, still offer herself up, when the time comes. She just wants one moment to daydream with the girl she loves.


“Please.”

She says to no one in particular. To the universe.

Her palms are pressed to her eyelids when she feels the weight of the bed dipping. She takes in the familiar scent of Bea, clean with just a hint of something spicy. (Ava knows it’s the cloves in Bea’s preferred soap, the one she kept returning to over the citrus and woody options in their lineup. Choice was almost as novel to Bea as it was to Ava, so when Ava had placed four different soaps in their basket at the farmer’s market stall, with an “I don’t really know what I like” and a shrug, Bea didn’t say a word about price or excess, just smiled at her gently, “Well, now you can figure it out,” and moved toward the selection of eggs across the way.)

She can’t quite open her eyes yet but her breathing has slowed and she reaches blindly toward Bea’s warmth, her smell, hoping that she’ll understand. Of course she does, and Ava’s hand is quickly and efficiently wrapped in both of Bea’s, one thumb swiping gently over the back of Ava’s hand while the other moves hesitantly over the skin of her wrist.

“Is it okay that I’m back? Do you need more time?”

Bea’s voice is gentle and concerned and Ava feels the halo hum slightly as she lets Bea’s presence wrap around her. Ava squeezes the hand under hers.

“No, I’m glad you’re here. Please stay.”

Ava feels Bea’s weight sink into the bed next to her. Ava’s still working through the reality of her visit with Reya, the unfair feelings she has about Bea’s rejection, the letters she wants to write and goodbyes she wants to say, so she doesn’t speak, just lets herself exist with Bea, confines the loudness of her mind to the inside of her body.

It’s Bea who speaks first, and unexpectedly.

“I lied, earlier. It was cruel, and I’m sorry.”

Ava’s eyes fly open at that, and she finds Bea stripped of her wimple, hair down and tousled in a way that makes Ava ache, makes her want to reach out and touch. Bea’s eyes are red-rimmed, and her jaw is so tight that Ava’s teeth hurt in sympathy. 

“Bea, what are you…”

“I would follow you anywhere, Ava.”

And, oh. Oh. Beatrice is torturing herself over hurting Ava, because of course she is. Ava, who asked Bea to run away from her lifetime commitment to her faith to work in a bar in the Alps again. Ava, who selfishly wants to rip Bea from the Church and the community that have been her home in favor of a deeply uncomfortable double bed in a flat where it takes 100 years to get the kettle to a boil on the stove because the burners refuse to stay at any consistent temperature. Ava, who keeps taking and taking from Beatrice’s well of love and commitment, even as she knows it must be causing a crisis for the girl she says she loves. Ava, who will be dead in less than a day. Ava, who won’t go out with Bea feeling anything other than love and understanding from her, regardless of what the most selfish parts of her beg for.

“I shouldn’t have asked you, Bea. I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair.”

She means it. She means it. She means it. What she wants, the life she wants in the mountains with Bea and cute Saturday shopping runs and friends at the bar, she doesn’t want it more than she wants Bea to feel how much she matters, how much what Bea wants matters. She’ll break her own heart over and over again to make Bea feel that, to make her feel loved and valid even when she can’t give all of herself, can’t be exactly what she thinks someone else wants her to be. And anyway, Ava only ever wants her to be perfectly herself. Always exactly Beatrice.

Bea’s eyes are exhausted but there’s something more there, the kind of determination she has seen when Bea fights, anticipation and confidence and grit right there at the surface. She squeezes Ava’s hand tight between her own and then drops it, turning her body on the bed to face Ava directly. Suddenly, her hands are on Ava’s neck, thumbs swiping at her jaw. Ava’s breath stutters because _wow_ that feels nice. She grabs tightly to the thoughts that threaten to run down a very distracting path, pulls them right back in because now is not the time, Ava.

“That’s the thing. You don’t have to ask me anymore, Ava. This stopped being...I stopped being... I would be there. I would be there. I lied, to you and to myself, pretending anything else was true. I can’t…it’s not the time, right now, to get into all of this. But I need you to know that, that I would choose you, that it wouldn’t even be a choice.”

And what is Ava supposed to do with that but cover Bea’s hands with her own and let herself cry. Bea’s eyes channel from determined to loving to concerned as she lets them rove over Ava’s face before pulling Ava into her, tangling a hand in her hair.

“It’s going to be okay. We’re going to do this. We’re going to do this together, Ava.”

Ava lets herself breathe Bea in, wraps her arms around Bea and tugs and tugs until they’re lying down, Ava’s head on Bea’s chest and Bea’s hand still in her hair, the other grasping Ava’s forearm on her stomach. They’re quiet for a long time.

“Ava, what happened, when you were gone?”

The question is soft, whispered into the air between them as Bea cards her fingers through Ava’s hair.

“She showed me what needs to happen to defeat Adriel. She helped me understand some things.”

Bea’s fingers stop, and Ava can almost hear her mind working.

“Listen, Ava, I know what Michael said to you,” the way she says his name is so full of spite that Ava nearly cringes on his behalf, “and I’m not sure what this person told you over there but I know…”

“Bea.”

Beatrice stops immediately, always making space for Ava.

“I promise I will tell you and everyone else about the plan. But for now, can I just…be here with you? I missed you, while I was gone. Time is weird, there.”

She moves her hand up from Bea’s stomach to her sternum, laying a palm flat over where her heart might be. Bea moves with her, keeping Ava’s hand under her own and holding it against her chest when Ava stops.

“Whatever you need, Ava.”

And right now, that’s easy.

“You, Beatrice,” she lets her nose drag against the sharp line of Bea’s jaw, lets her lips ghost behind it, “I just need you.”

Ava feels Bea’s sharp inhale at that and presses closer, tucking her leg between both of Bea’s and wiggling a foot underneath her calf. A minute passes and Bea’s breathing evens back out. Ava decides to let Bea’s warmth lull her to sleep. It was _exhausting_ to spend time with Reya in the other realm. She wants to sleep, just one more time, this close to Beatrice, feeling safe and loved. She knows Bea will wake her in a few hours, a gentle squeeze of her shoulder, a kiss on her head, if she’s lucky. And then they’ll have to move. And Ava will have to go, to let go of all of this.

But for now, the steady rise and fall of Bea’s chest is the only thing Ava wants to know. As her eyes get heavy, she feels Bea whisper against her.

“You’ve got me, Ava.”

Ava rests.

*********************

As Ava anticipated, Bea wakes her gently and she gets a few more moments of quiet closeness before she forces herself to move from the bed.

“Let’s get this over with, yeah?”

Beatrice watches her closely as she moves to put herself together. Ava tries to keep herself together, to act normal, but Bea knows her too well. She’s going to slip.

“Bea, would you mind asking Jillian and Superion to get everything together for a meeting?”

It’s a shit cover, and Bea knows that. She knows that there is no “everything” to get together. Still, she moves toward the door.

“Of course. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Bea has paused to look at Ava, and Ava meets her eyes and smiles. Despite Ava’s best efforts, it’s shaky. Shit, fuck, damn it. She sees Bea’s eyes narrow, god damn it, of course she noticed, but Bea turns around and walks out the door anyway and Ava exhales for a minute.

*******************************

Of course, Bea is suspicious. Her nun is not stupid, and Ava can feel Bea’s eyes on her even more than normal, knows, as she watches Bea put together her gun, exactly what that look on her face means. She tries for teasing, but Bea is not in the mood.

“Well, better not test me, then.”

It would normally be hot. Okay, it still is hot. But also, it makes Ava worry because, like, she has this whole idea that she’ll have a moment to take Bea aside, to tell her that she loves her, to kiss her goodbye. She doesn’t want to fight or phase or struggle with Bea. But she’ll be ready, when it’s time, even if it has to be an ugly goodbye.

They’re pressed close in the van, Bea giving Vincent side eye in an extremely unsubtle way. Ava takes Bea’s hand and squeezes, lets her head rest on Bea’s shoulder. She soaks in the closeness while she can. As they approach the drop-off, Bea ducks her head slightly and says quietly, keeping this for Ava as much as she can, “In this life, Ava.”

Ava lets her lips touch the skin of Bea’s neck, breathes her in and basks in the shiver she feels run down Bea’s spine, acknowledges the sharp grief of knowing she will never get to make her shiver like that again.

“In this life, Bea.”

As she emerges from the van, she tells herself it’s not a lie. She does love Bea in this life, loves her so deeply that it’s going to be the last thing she ever does.

****************************************

It is a lie, of course.

She tells Bea to live and finally, finally, pulls her close and kisses her. The circumstances are far from ideal. She’s on a literal suicide mission, Bea’s on the verge of a panic attack because she now knows Ava’s on a suicide mission, and Yasmine is there, somewhere in the background, wildly unprepared for basically every part of what’s happening and apparently destined to be an unwilling and vaguely creepy spectator to some of the most intimate moments of Ava’s short life.

The kiss itself? Perfect. She has tried to live her second (and third) chances as hard as possible, and regrets instantly not having done this sooner, in a tiny flat in Switzerland, or maybe after she burst from 20 feet of rock and into Bea’s arms. But Bea would not have been ready. She’s pretty sure Bea is planning to renounce her vows, when this is over, and she still can’t quite bring herself to kiss Ava back.

Because Ava is totally gone for this human, she finds it endearing—it’s very Beatrice to need time to run possible outcomes before determining next steps. And honestly, she is proud of the fact that she is one of the very few people who can stop this free-wheeling, secret, ass-kicking nun in her tracks. It’s a perfectly Beatrice kiss.

When Bea finally does respond, grabbing her tighter just as Ava is beginning to pull away, Ava feels her resolve nearly break. It’s not fair; it’s not fair, and she wants to scream and cry and run away and live a real life, a long life, where she gets more than this moment with Bea, gets to see her come into herself and shed all of that shame, to cut her hair and get a tattoo and live. She wants, she wants, she wants.

But Ava presses her lips to Bea’s forehead, tries to live as deeply as she can in this moment and the sensation of Bea’s hands on her skin. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? She wants Bea to live her life. And she can make that happen. She is the only one who can make that happen.

Bea’s touch and the reality of her body in the world put Ava back where she needs to be. Bea is what matters. Ava loves her more than she loves herself and wow, what a feeling. It’s nothing then, to know what she has to do. Nothing more than love.

She tells a new lie, as she lets Bea go.

“In the next.”

It’s for Beatrice, and Ava hopes it will bring her comfort. As she drops through the floor, she wipes tears from her eyes and wishes she could believe it herself.

[cardboardsean]

why does this Sci-Fi Room tour spend time on beatrice reading from Frankenstein? (spoilers ahead)

first off, Frankenstein is a great choice for Bea's favourite book; written by an absolute icon of a young woman who established a new genre, slightly scary, slightly political, a pick that's not entirely cheesy or mainstream. It's fun that both Bea and Ben love scifi. It's also cool to see Bea lit up and engaged in talking about something she likes, which we get more often with Ben.

but why do we get an entire read out quote from Frankenstein at this point? Bea feels slightly alienated from her peers, sure, but she's hardly isolated or disliked. The character the quote she reads works for, is John Donaldson. Read it now with his arc in mind:

"he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I endured wasting in impotent passions. For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and craving; still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all humankind sinned against me?"

See, it's all right there! The 'he' in question (aka Frankenstein), is Pedro, while the 'I' (the creature) is John. @thebirdscomeback and I have written about queer affect in NMTD before, something that is at the very centre of Frankenstein. The creature rages against Frankenstein and other humans because even though he is a product of them, they refuse to accept him.

In the novel, this quote is said by the creature as he mourns over Frankenstein's dead body, and in NMTD it has clear parallells to CONFESSIONS, which is a kind of non-apology apology to Pedro's lost reputation (though perhaps mostly an explanation to Hero). In CONFESSION, John notes the following about Pedro; Pedro is perfect, is friends with everyone, has a passion for soccer, gets good marks, is always happy, and always 'makes the effort'. Then John explains that the failure he himself feels is not that of being unable to live up to their parents expectations, but being unable to live up to Pedro's. 'You didn't even try to understand me', he says, which is exactly what happens when Frankenstein sees the creature wake up for the first time. He's so horrified of his own creation he hates it right away.

Reading Frankenstein and the creature as a complicated sibling relationship instead of the creator/father route is in general incredibly fascinating! For Pedro specifically the thing is that he tries so hard to live up to being 'an all-round great guy', that he places those same pressures on everyone else, as seen in the other days video where he implies Balth is straight. For his brother in particular he tries to mold him after himself to protect him from the world.

Frankenstein also wants the creature to be normal, and in asking for a bride, the creature tries to adhere to this, but Frankenstein will not help him. And then the creature vows to destroy everything Frankenstein holds dear. As John says 'I thought I can disrupt that [your normal life]'.

Don John is often regarded as one of Shakespeare's flatter villains, he's seemingly just evil for kicks, sure he's jealous and hateful, but there's very little depth. John Donaldson is another game entirely, I think he's the main point where TCW have done something to surpass Shakespeare (sorry willy). He's cold and manipulating, but it's easy to see the ways he's hurting, and we do actually understand his motivations eventually. Ultimately he really does love his brother, that's the problem even! Like the creature he desires love and fellowship, but it is denied him, and that's what drives him. Even John running away echoes the end of Frankenstein, with the creature drifting away into the arctic on a raft.

THUS this extra video with Frankenstein heralds the narrative at the heart of the conflict in NMTD. Before we soonish return to the Claudio/Hero plot (and Hero's birthday in particular) it gives a forewarning of what themes are going on in the background of the story; alienation from your own kin. We haven't seen John or the watch for a long time at this point, so it's very interesting we get a bit of character study right before he returns, particularly since his plan is so incredibly convoluted. tldr; FORESHADOWING.

[mongo-the-liensis]

Carl's personality could be fully explained through love in the different stages of his life.

His love for his mom helped him get through the terrors of his childhood and helped him get rid of his dad. It made him stubborn and resilient and able to love even when everything sucks.

His love for Bea showed how desperate he was for any sort of affection (he literally overheard her and her mom talking about him, saying not the nicest things, and he ignored it). It showed that he was naive and trusting. That he wasn't able to see what was perhaps obvious for everyone else.

His love for Donut shows how he is unfailingly loyal and willing to deal with people's bullshit if he loves them. It shows how good of a person he is, how kind and thoughtful and caring. It shows how he is willing to die for those he loves.

His love for Mordecai showed how he still isn't over his childhood. Mordecai calls him "son" and tries to keep him out of trouble, and chastises him whenever he does something stupid. He cares and tries to protect Carl. Nothing like Carl's real father. Apart from that one time he hit Carl. And Carl immediately drew a connection to his father, and created a huge rift between them to distance himself from that, showing how deep his daddy issues run.

His love for Safehome Yolanda shows that he doesn't need romantic love. His platonic, familial love for his guild holds him up and keeps him going - keeps him fighting. He loves them all, they are his family, and he'd do anything for them. Every loss just makes fuels him more and more. Every loss strengthens him until he is able to take on anyone to avenge those he has lost.

Carl is a person so full of love, a person who loves so deeply, it's heartbreaking to see how the world keeps trying to break that. But he won't let it. They will never break him. He refuses to let them destroy the most essential part of him, the thing that makes him himself at his very core: his love.

[sapphic-book-tournament]

She Who Became The Sun by Shelley Parker-Chan-

In 1345, China lies under harsh Mongol rule. For the starving peasants of the Central Plains, greatness is something found only in stories. When the Zhu family’s eighth-born son, Zhu Chongba, is given a fate of greatness, everyone is mystified as to how it will come to pass. The fate of nothingness received by the family’s clever and capable second daughter, on the other hand, is only as expected.

When a bandit attack orphans the two children, though, it is Zhu Chongba who succumbs to despair and dies. Desperate to escape her own fated death, the girl uses her brother's identity to enter a monastery as a young male novice. There, propelled by her burning desire to survive, Zhu learns she is capable of doing whatever it takes, no matter how callous, to stay hidden from her fate.

After her sanctuary is destroyed for supporting the rebellion against Mongol rule, Zhu uses the chance to claim another future altogether: her brother's abandoned greatness.

Whe Women Were Dragons by Kelly Barnhill-

Alex Green is a young girl in a world much like ours, except for its most seminal event: the Mass Dragoning of 1955, when hundreds of thousands of ordinary wives and mothers sprouted wings, scales, and talons; left a trail of fiery destruction in their path; and took to the skies. Was it their choice? What will become of those left behind? Why did Alex’s beloved aunt Marla transform but her mother did not? Alex doesn’t know. It’s taboo to speak of.

Forced into silence, Alex nevertheless must face the consequences of this astonishing event: a mother more protective than ever; an absentee father; the upsetting insistence that her aunt never even existed; and watching her beloved cousin Bea become dangerously obsessed with the forbidden.

In this timely and timeless speculative novel, award-winning author Kelly Barnhill boldly explores rage, memory, and the tyranny of forced limitations. When Women Were Dragons exposes a world that wants to keep women small—their lives and their prospects—and examines what happens when they rise en masse and take up the space they deserve.

[graysoncritic]

A (Negative) Review of Tom Taylor's Nightwing Run - What Went Wrong? Bludhaven (PART 2)

Introduction Who is Dick Grayson? What Went Wrong? Dick's Characterization What Went Wrong? Barbara Gordon What Went Wrong? Bludhaven (Part 1, Part 2) What Went Wrong? Melinda Lin Grayson What Went Wrong? Bea Bennett What Went Wrong? Villains Conclusion Bibliography

Instead, Taylor readily abandons the statue just as soon as it is introduced. We don’t return to it, we don’t even use it as a set piece that can ground Bludhaven and make it feel like an actual place. It doesn’t make an appearance in any covers, nor in establishing shots. In fact, even its thematic symbolism is forgotten when Alfred’s statue is built. Such a decision is especially infuriating when one considers the fact that not only would Alfred hate having a statue in his honor, but that Alfred means absolutely nothing to the people of Bludhaven. He means something to the reader, but not the citizens of the city that Dick is meant to protect. In this, we see how once more Taylor’s online mindset interferes with his storytelling, replacing a set piece that was tied to the in-universe history of the city he was writing with fanservice.

By contrast, Humphrie’s Bludhaven is filled with specific locations that are unique to, well, Bludhaven. We have the different casinos

(Humphries, Sam. Ruthless, writer. Janson, Klaus; Campbell, Jamal, illustrator. Nightwing: Rebirth no. 37, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2018. pp. 22)

The Tiki District

(Humphries, Sam, writer. Chang, Bernard, illustrator. The Untouchable: Chapter Two: Relentless. Nightwing: Rebirth no. 36, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2018. pp. 13)

Which greatly contrasts the darkness of the docks…

(Humphries, Sam, writer. Chang, Bernard, illustrator. The Untouchable: Chapter One: Hunter. Nightwing: Rebirth no. 35, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2018. pp. 17)

And the melancholy of the sunken city

(Humphries, Sam, writer. Jimenez, Phil; Campbell, Jamal, illustrator. The Untouchable: Chapter Five:Face Off. Nightwing: Rebirth no. 39, e-book  ed. DC Comics, 2018 pp. 05)

All of it is so specific that it makes Bludhaven feel alive. It gives Bludhaven an identity rather than keeping it a generic location.

Let’s take a closer look at the establishing shot of the sunken city and see how the page is laid out to emphasize the storytelling going on in the dialogue and enrich Bludhaven. There's something so visually poetic about that last panel. The intimacy between the Judge and Nightwing, the opulent throne atop a simple boat in a sunken, destroyed home. 

It feels a bit like a visual metaphor for Bludhaven and corruption. Bludhaven is thriving because of the casinos, but they are also corrupt. And yet, despite their rich aesthetic, they are built on top of a tragedy, of a city that was lost and had to rebuild itself, taking advantage of a corrupt system that devastates its citizens while also being the only thing keeping them from drowning. 

The lighting of the page is also so beautiful. Light coming in from above, appearing almost heavenly, and yet it makes the scene so still and lonely

During Dixon and Grayson’s runs, and during Taylor’s run, Bldhaven does not have an identity outside of Gotham and Nightwing. It is difficult to describe it without relying on those two factors. It is not impossible, of course, but those descriptions would be rather bare, relying on what one wishes Bludhaven could be rather than what is actually on the page.

In The Untouchable, however, Bludhaven can be described independent of Gotham and Nightwing. Yes, those elements are still crucial to its depiction, but rather than being all that there is to it, they serve to enhance what is already there. Dick’s interactions with people from Bludhaven further fleshes out the city while also demonstrating that they have their own lives outside of their meetings with Dick or Nightwing. Guppy, Svoboda, Lucy, Dick's clients at his gym... All of them are clear products of Bludhaven, they are affected by what happens in Bludhaven, and they interact with different parts of Bludhaven. Because they are characters with their own interiority, the reader really is able to feel the consequences of the Judge's actions. 

Yet, Taylor and Redondo both refuse to pay Bludhaven any of the attention it deserves. They do not even give it the respect of making it into Gotham-light. Instead, they opt for the generic, lazy, and morally simplistic depiction that is yet more proof of just how little thought they give to anything remotely related to Dick Grayson.

Bludhaven, as it exists in The Untouchable, was built on top of a corrupt foundation, and its systems are so intertwined with the rot that you can't neatly separate them. There's no easy answer to this, no solution without a victim. It adds some nice stakes to the story, creates constraints which Dick must creatively work around, and demonstrates how Nightwing’s fight is far larger than just The Judge. It illustrates how even if Dick catches this one guy, he still has so much more to do, creating a perfect comic status-quo where the hero can progress and make a difference without eliminating conflict sources for future stories.

Through the Judge, we also get to see Bludhaven’s history, and through this evolution, we also get to see just how much Humphrey cares about Bludhaven. I have yet to encounter another writer who has devoted so much care to Dick’s city. I have yet to encounter a writer who put so much effort into making this city feel alive. Gotham is beloved by many writers and fans alike, and The Untouchable showed that Bludhaven has the potential to be just as great if only it was given to a writer who cares enough to develop it. 

Needless to say, Taylor is not that writer.

(Taylor, Tom, writer. Redondo, Bruno, illustrator. Leaping into the Light Part 4. Nightwing: Rebirth. 81, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2021. pp 13)

While this may be wholesome, the truth is that by giving such a triumphant moment early on in the story, Taylor robbed his characters of any opportunity to change, and any opportunity for a well-earned pay off later. In turn, this robbed the story of its ability to engage with its themes by creating a very simple morality. Evil can be manifested in different ways and anyone is capable of it. Perhaps not all of us will be uppercase Evil, but we're all capable of the smallest acts of lowercase evil by letting our anger blind us to what is right, not helping others because we tell ourselves we have to survive, upholding unfair systems because they benefit us.

The city of Gotham does something similar. We have the evil of the rogues, but we also have the crime families, a myriad of corrupt institutions -- from the police department to the justice system to the politicians who are in the pockets of those on the top – and the ordinary citizens who have been disillusioned by the hardship they face. We have greed on a massive scale but also a small and personal one that is far more relatable, we have chaos of the Joker and we have more relatable pettiness, selfishness, apathy, and cruelty. 

Some of these play a larger role than others, their influence has a wider reach, but it is the different layers that makes Gotham feel so difficult to tackle. There’s a reason why Batman's origin story works best when it's just about a mugging gone wrong, and when Joe Chill is just a simple man who fired two shots in a dark alley because he wanted a pearl necklace. There's a reason why Bruce stays in Gotham rather than trying to save the entire world all the time. Batman, after all, is not about fighting the just grander Evil, but about bringing justice to everyone, even in what may be perceived to be a small scale. 

While I do not believe Batman: The Knight was perfect (and, indeed, I have a lot of problems with it and dislike Zdarsky’s current Batman run nearly as much as I dislike Taylor’s Nightwing), I do think that Zdarsky did a good job when having Ra’s Al Ghul confront Bruce on this matter. 

In #09, Ra’s challenges Bruce to work on a macro scale, and Bruce explores that idea before deciding he needs to work on a more personal level.

(Zdarsky, Chip, writer. Di Giandomenico, Carmine. The Knight Part 9. Batman: The Knight. 09, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2022. pp 13)

Bruce’s world did not fall apart because of a war or an alien invasion, but that did not mean his pain is invalid. There might be far more important things than catching a mob boss who orchestrated the murder of two circus acrobats, but that doesn’t mean that their lives did not matter or that their son does not deserve to see justice. One of the beautiful things about the detective stories of Batman and of Nightwing is that they treat everyone’s trauma with equal respect. Batman and Nightwing aren’t just about catching the bad guy, they are about giving the victim a chance to heal by offering them closure. 

You can also observe the dichotomy of these two evils in The Untouchable. The entire plot of The Untouchable is about the Judge using people’s desires to corrupt them, luring them into committing evil deeds. At the same time, the story does not condemn those who fell prey to the Judge’s promises. Instead, it portrays them as complex individuals, and this reaffirms the themes of corruption through desire and the necessity for forgiveness.

Lucy, for example, is not vilified for betraying Dick. She did the Judge’s bidding, but she is not a bad person. She is still Dick’s friend and cares deeply for him. And yet, her choices are not portrayed as excusable. The comic perfectly balanced having Lucy not be a bad guy for what she did while also making it clear that she was still in the wrong for accepting the Judge’s offer. She is not Evil but she made an evil choice and she needs to be held accountable for that. 

This plays into the idea that to Dick, people are not naturally Good nor naturally Evil. They just are who they are, they have the potential for both, and it's their choices that dictate their nature. 

(Humphries, Sam, writer. Chang, Bernard, illustrator. The Untouchable: Chapter Six: Deep Dive. Nightwing: Rebirth no. 40, e-book  ed. DC Comics, 2018. pp. 18)

And as mentioned previously, Grayson also played with such ideas when she introduced the character of Sophia into the story. 

Taylor flirts with similar ideas without ever committing to them. His Bludhaven supposedly has corrupt institutions, big men on top who oppress others in order to stay rich, but to lay every wrong and every sin in the city at Blockbuster’s feet is morally simplistic. It's flattening. Immature. It's, frankly, boring. It just doesn't work on a narrative level. Most importantly, it makes Nightwing's presence superfluous.

Once more, I must emphasize that I do not believe that one must incorporate a social commentary in the themes of one’s story. However, as Taylor's narrative seems to signal he wants to discuss these matters, I think it is only fair to point out how his actual writing is uninterested in examining the complications inherited in these subjects. Taylor wants those big, meaningful moments that claim to say something thematically important, yet he creates easy-to-take down strawman villains who can take the blame for everything while wrapping them in the trappings of social commentary. 

Nothing in Taylor's supporting characters, conflicts, villains, or city were created to challenge Dick in any way. Part of the reason why you can feel Bruce's genuine love for Gotham is that that city is always challenging him, always giving him a reason to give up, but Bruce never does. Again and again, Gotham shows itself as a place that perhaps should not be saved, that is too rotten, literally cursed to bring out the worst of humanity. It would be easier to burn the whole thing down and start new. 

But Bruce doesn’t do that. He still sees something in Gotham worth saving. No matter what he uncovers, Bruce won’t give up, and that makes us, the readers, root for Batman and root for Gotham.

Bludhaven should challenge Dick in a similar way. But in this run, it doesn't. Dick's assertion that the citizens of Bludhaven are good and there are only a few bad apples ruining it for everyone is never challenged. Dick is never asked to question his beliefs. When he decided that the solution to one of Bludhaven's biggest problems (homelessness) was just to create a shelter, Dick is never challenged for his savior mentality, he never faces push back from those above him or below, is never paralyzed by bureaucracy, never has to deal setbacks that force him to re-strategize. He's just... Proved right. And everything goes on smoothly. 

Taylor’s approach gives Dick no room to grow and no room to stand his ground. I can’t help but think how much more powerful Dick’s own belief in Bludhaven and its people would have been if, during that earlier scene when the tent city was in flames, no one came to help. Nightwing and Robin would have had to save everyone on their own, and Dick would be faced with the difficult to swallow possibility that maybe he’s wrong. Maybe the people of Bludhaven are too disillusioned to do good. Maybe Babs and Tim, both characters who are known for being pragmatic, would even tell him so. But he refuses to accept that. As he looks upon the octopus statue, Dick affirms  the resilience of the city and how it does not need to come at the cost of kindness. Bludhaven is worth saving, its people are worth saving, and Dick will continue to believe in them, even though he was just given a reason not to. 

Again, I must emphasize that it is fine if a person is not interested in writing a story about this. Not every superhero story needs to explore these real-world, complex themes. One of my personal favorite Batman stories (and one I believe should be required reading for any Batman fan) is Murderer/Fugitive. While there are certainly themes of forging of identity, the story is far more concerned with what the forging of one’s identity means in the specific context of Batman rather than that of the real world. That is not to say you couldn't do an analysis on identity about Murderer/Fugitive, but the work as a whole serves more as a commentary on Batman, and it is in conversation with the popular idea that "Bruce Wayne is the mask that Batman wears." 

And just because one wishes to engage with themes of class and economic inequality, it does mean one needs to tackle it directly. Again I must bring up the modern masterpiece that is Scott Snyder’s Court of Owls. That story beautifully uses the fantastical and noire elements of the Court and the creation of the Talons to engage with themes of wealth inequality and to explore Bruce’s complex relationship with Gotham. The secret cult, of superhuman assassins, and the murder mystery element provide enough distance between the real world issues and the story itself that Snyder has the creative freedom to play with his characters and narrative while the specificity allows him to dig deeper than he ever could should he have decided on going for a broad approach.

Taylor tries to ground his themes by using real-world issues, but he refuses to engage with what those real-world issues look like in, well, the real-world. He deals with them in the context of his morally simplified, perfect little society. As Braxis perfectly pointed out “When Dick starts a charity to help the homeless he never actually explains how that will be done, what causes homelessness, or what the homeless are asking for support.” (Braxi, Steve, “On Superman, Shootings, and the Reality of Superheroes” Comics Bookcase, September 2021)

Taylor’s Bludhaven demonstrates a frustratingly simplistic view on morality that prevents the story from engaging with these issues with the care they deserve. By not fleshing out the city, by denying Dick’s interactions with other characters, Taylor creates a world of simple morals. This means that rather than engaging with the progressive ideology he claims to care about he is simply creating the appearance  of social commentary and rich themes. This demonstrates that he’s not actually interested in the work required to make that work, only the prestige that comes from it.

[kizzywh]

Ever After (Spencer Reid x Reader)

This switches between two points of view.

Content Warnings: suicide attempt, mentions of self-harm, mentions of kidnapping and torture, some angst, happy ending. DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS POST IF IT WILL TRIGGER YOU. FANFICTION ISN’T WORTH YOUR MENTAL HEALTH. 

Your Pov

I’d never expected to make it this far. Working in the BAU had been a dream come true. That is, until it wasn’t. I loved the team, even Hotch, who sometimes made himself impossible to love. But the person I loved the most was Spencer Reid. His dorky outfits, and the way he brushed his brown hair from his golden sun drops of eyes. Brown didn’t begin to do Reid justice. He was like an autumn day, like leaves in a puddle, after a rainstorm. The way his lips quirked into a soft smile, usually directed at something stupid I had said. Those lips that I could’ve kissed a thousand times. But I never did. He was the first person I wrote my note to. I left it on his desk, in a small brown envelope, tinged with sadness, but sealed with finality. There was only so much one person could take.

The last case had almost killed me. working on a case where I looked so similar to the unsub’s usual type, y/h/c hair, y/e/c eyes, it was a recipe for disaster. But I thought I could help. Get on the inside, destroy the unsub from the inside, out. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

~ 2 weeks earlier ~

“Guys, it’s the only way. None of you look like his type, and it’s the only way we can stop him from hurting more people.” I said, leaning back from the table in the round room. It was a local case, meaning we were all in our usual office. A pleasant change from taking the jet, I’d admit. I could see Spencer almost visibly balk at my suggestion, and he was quick to try to shut me down. “Absolutely not, y/n. it isn’t safe.” He stated, almost pleading with the room to agree with him; but of course, everyone knew just as well as he did that it was the only way.

“I don’t like it, but I cannot see another way to handle this case.” Hotch had finally sighed, a frown briefly passing over his darkened features; before he’d agreed, and you had soon found yourself in a local bar, taking in the view, with a small microphone on your stomach, with a gps in it, so you could immediately get back up. The team had stayed back in the round room. Somehow Garcia had managed to find glasses with a microscopic camera in them, so they could see exactly what I was seeing. I knew who I was looking for. Mysterious, charming man, with the social skills to charm whatever lady he wanted, and I could say that I was looking good, thanks to the makeover provided by Emily, JJ and Pen. Morgan had wolf whistled the second I walked out, in a tight-fitting red dress, and my hair curled. Even Hotch and Rossi looked impressed. Reid however, refused to meet my eye, almost choking on his words as he wished me good luck. Typical Reid.

Soon, a tall man approached, with a drink in hand, and sat by my side at the bar. “You are quite possibly the most beautiful woman in here, what is your name?” he asked, pulling out the full charm. I made sure to gaze into his eyes, so the team could see his face, before replying, “Bea.” The team had agreed I go with a fake name. It wasn’t worth the extra confusion. We chatted for a while, and I had to admit he was charming, easy to see how he had seduced so many women. He offered a drink, and I took it, knowing I’d watched the bartender pour it myself. It was safe. Or so I had thought.

He took the time to introduce himself. “Daniel, my lady.” It would’ve brought a blush to my face, except I knew what he was, and it almost repulsed me, but I had to play into the act. Laying a hand on his arm and laughing at what he said seemed to do the trick, because soon he was asking if I’d like to get out of this flashy bar. I nodded, making sure to keep an eye on him, as I followed him to the car. I was nervous, but I knew the team were right with me. They could extract me as soon as I had arrived at the unsub, or Daniel’s, holding location.

I begin to feel very sleepy as I get into the car, almost tripping on the step, but soon I am seated, and I felt so out of myself, that I didn’t notice the car lock turning, leaving me alone, in his car, with a monster himself. Trying to force my eyes open, I try to make conversation with him, acting flirty, but mostly, I almost forget why I am here. I am so tired.

When I awake, I’m tied to the ceiling, hanging by my wrists, and I almost cry out in pain. My glasses are gone, and a blurry figure falls into my vision. “You thought you were clever, eh y/n? you thought I wouldn’t guess your little game? Well, now your friends back at the bureau get to see what I can do to you, and there’s no way they can find me now.” That was the last of it I heard, before blows from a blunt object start hitting my body, and I fall unconscious again.

~ Back at the Office ~

“Guys, we have a problem. y/n’s tracker is going off in a parking lot, but her camera isn’t working, and I have no sound, I don’t think its connectivity issues, but oh my god, I think something is wrong.” Penelope almost shouted as she ran into the bullring. The team looked up, and Hotch was first to stand. “What do you mean it isn’t working, where is she Garcia?” hotch frowned, before going to the board. “The last coordinates, what are they for?” Penelope was close to tears, “it’s just a carpark, I’ve sent the coordinates to your phones, please find her. Please.” She sobbed out, before running back to her office to keep checking for any signs of life.

Emily was furious. She almost lost her mind when she found out y/n had disappeared. “We should’ve sent someone with her. Where the Hell is she and what is he doing to her?” she fumed, as JJ just slumped down in her chair, and even Derek couldn’t form a sentence or something clever to say. Spencer however, nearly broke. Y/n was one of his favourite people. She always got him his morning coffee and lent him books he’d finish within about ten minutes of being given them. They were like twin flames, and he adored her. Of course, he couldn’t tell her that. He got up and walked away, over to the kitchen, biting his lip so hard almost drew blood. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t feel, he was just numb. She had to be okay. She had to be.

The team could see spencer spiralling, and Morgan and Rossi were soon on the way to y/n’s last coordinates, while the rest of the team gathered in the round room. “So, what do we know about this guy anyway?” JJ asked, pointing to the board, expecting Spencer to reply instantly, but he just whispered after a brief pause, “rape, torture, murder.” Those three words were killing him. Who knew what they were doing to her?

“Guys. GUYS. We have a feed, it’s coming from a proxy server so I can’t triangulate it right now, but its y/n. I’m sharing it to the board now.” Garcia piped down the phone, staying in her office to try and keep herself calm. And sure enough, there was y/n on the screen, hung from the ceiling, while the unsub looked into the camera. “You thought you were so clever, sending Agent y/n in to see me? well. Boy, do I have a show for you.” He smirked, before walking over to y/n and tilting her chin. “My, she is truly remarkable, I am going to enjoy this.” He laughed, taunting the camera. A call came in from Morgan and Rossi. “Are you seeing this video of y/n?” Morgan yelled down the phone. “It’s being sent to all our phones.” And sure enough, it was. All you could hear was Y/n refusing to cry, as the unsub cut into her with various knives, and soon it was too much for her to handle. Her screams filled the round room. Penelope was sobbing, and so was JJ. Emily was so angry; she almost threw her paper on the floor. Hotch just looked pale, and Spencer, he almost threw up.

“Garcia, triangulate it NOW.” Hotch ordered, and Penelope obliged, sobbing through her tears, before shouting out some coordinates. “Go get her guys. Please.” Before hanging up and sitting in her office, her heart breaking.

Reid was the first in the car. He was furious, but he was terrified. The camera feed had cut off almost at the same time Garcia had read out the coordinates. Who knew what they’d find. “Right, when we arrive, the priority is taking down Daniel. He could hurt the rest of us otherwise.” Hotch ordered as they pulled up.

Your POV

I didn’t know how long I had been in this room, all I could smell was blood, and sweat, and I was in agony. I couldn’t stop the tears from falling, it was pain, it was torture, and he just wasn’t stopping. “Now, they think they know where we are y/n, so let’s give them something to see when they get here huh?” Daniel grinned, before continuing to cut and beat me. I didn’t think I could take much more. I heard vaguely the slamming of car doors, and I heard. “Daniel Carter. Put the knife down, and step away.” it was hotch. They had found me.

Then I felt the coldness of a blade against my neck. “If you shoot me, your precious agent dies too.” Daniel laughed coldly, pressing it almost deep enough to draw blood. I tried not to move; I was too exhausted to. The last thing I heard was a gunshot and felt the sharp graze of the knife on my neck, and Daniel drop to the floor next to me before I slipped back into a world of darkness.

Spencer’s Pov

Almost barging through the house, to the basement where y/n was, I could feel the tension in my head. She had to be safe. She is all I have. Pointing a gun at Daniel, I can see her hanging there, and it takes all my strength not to push that son of a bitch out of the way and get her down. I don’t know how much blood she’s lost, but judging by the floor, it seemed to be a lot. Finally, Emily manages to sneak behind, and shoot Daniel, and I push past them all, reaching for y/n, and fumbling with the restraints, before Hotch helps me gently remove her, and I carry her, bridal style, cradling her, shouting for medics. She opens those beautiful eyes and smiles at me, and I beg her to stay with me. she’s so cold.

~ Present Day~

Your Pov

I had made a full physical recovery, but mentally, it had destroyed me. I had nothing left to give. That’s why I had written the final note to Spencer. He had to know how I felt, before I was erased from this life, like the blood from a crime scene. Sitting on that lonely bridge, in the moonlight, I felt a sense of peace. This was really happening, I couldn’t fix my brain, but right now, I felt peaceful, calm. As if the last moments of my life were destined to be some calm ending to a tumultuous tale. I can hear owls in the distance, calling for their families, and I briefly recall the lack of my own family. Maybe it was just the way I was, maybe I was just unlovable, unfixable.

Spencer’s Pov

I was surprised to see a note on my desk, but I immediately unsealed it. Then froze. Y/N. she was going to hurt herself, commit suicide. There wasn’t time to call the team. I knew where she’d be. She thought I didn’t love her, and that she was going to be alone, she couldn’t heal herself from the wounds that that monster had inflicted on her. I ran for my car, driving well over the speed limit to the bridge, pulling up a few yards away, so as not to startle her into something impulsive, before beginning to walk toward her, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. There was something almost angelic in how she looked in the moonlight. “y/n. y/n, listen to me.”

Your Pov

There was a crunching on gravel, and as I look up, its Spencer. I cursed myself for choosing a bridge about which we had talked. He liked the architecture, the simple, almost British cobblestone bridge. I liked that it looked like something out of a fairy tale and thought it fitting that this would be the never after of mine. The moon bounces off his messy brown curls, and it almost makes me sigh. He never fails to look handsome, not even in the pale, watery light of the moon. “y/n. y/n, listen to me.” I heard him say, before he gently holds his hands up, walking closer. “You don’t have to do this.” He states, trying not to scare me, I note. “I do spence. I can’t do this alone.” I sob, shuffling closer to the edge. He panics, before breathing in, and walking to within touching distance. “I care about you, y/n, please, just listen to me.” but I can’t. I have to go now. I push forward, ready to fall into nothingness. But something, someone, is pulling me back. Spencer. He grips me tightly, falling to the path side and lays on the ground, clutching me close, I try to resist, but I can’t. I lie there with him, listening to both of our heavy breathing, and noticing those dragon puffs of air that only happen, when the air is crisp. He pulls us up to a sitting position and holds me by the waist.

“y/n. no. You’re not doing anything alone. I am here. I got your note, and I KNEW what you were going to do. Do you think I don’t love you? You couldn’t be more wrong.” He whispers against my hair, his lips pressed to my head gently. He reaches a slender hand to point at the moon. “You see that?” I nod, following his gaze, as he keeps an arm around me, holding me to him. “That is what we share. You are my moonlight. We are like the sun and the moon, constantly orbiting each other, sharing the same sky, somewhere. I love you; y/n. believe me. from the moment you walked into the office on your first day, almost tripping over my satchel and spilling your latte in my lap, I loved you.” He whispers more, stroking slow circles on my shoulder. I laugh at the memory. It hadn’t been one of my proudest moments. Even hotch had cracked a smile at it.

The breeze picked up, and spencer shivered, pulling me closer, and instinctively, I rest my head on his shoulder. “Spencer. I love you.” I mumbled, and he turned me to face him, smiling down at me with those golden eyes, almost hinted with silver in the moonlight. He’d never looked more angelic, and I told him that, his lips quirking into a smile, my favourite dimples on his cheeks. “I love you too y/n.” before softly, his lips brushed against mine, I kissed him back, shyly. This was what kissing spencer Reid was like? It was… magical. He gently increased the pressure of the kiss, cupping my chin with one of his hands, and I almost melted. I was hurting. And part of me didn’t think it would go away anytime soon, but I knew, and spencer knew, that he was never going to be far from me again.

The bridge had turned out to have a happily ever after, after all.

[ringotheman]

ARTFIGHT WEEK 4!! JULY 24th- AUG. 3rd!!! THE LAST WEEK OF ARTFIGHT!! WOOO with some of my best attacks yet,, this one was jam packed with bangers imo AS. USUAL. check out the read more for character credits, i'll tag tumblrs, the rest are artfight links, my artfight user is ringotheman, blahblahblah- you get the picture. here's week three !! SEE YOU NEXT YEAR!!!!

Nahin (chiliconcomics ) - my first scene attack of the whole season and possibly my best attack period?? i lovelovelove their design and i knew i was gonna destroy them <3

Video Killed The Radio Star (Evidaent) - more like internet killed the video star <3 i cant think of one without the other.

George Humphry ( @dykeseesgod ) - I'd been following vanpelt on TH for a while and i love all their characters- just straight up, but George is probably my favorite?? like what is wrong with him?

Blorkie (neuron_null) - I finished this attack like week one and forgor to post it- a r m y

Coy & Bea (fartmasterofficial45)- chillin on squares! my first time sucessfully drawing a criss-cross...wow,,

Elastickman (Elastickman) - this guy is so cool,, had so much fun drawin this one,,

Scruff ( @purbiworl ) - my first attempt at an "icon" style drawing! had fun! will probably do more...

Charlie (dazey-the-goat)- hey look!! a real human person! a normal man!

Ellie (Pink_lemonadeheart) - cute eye girl!! i lova her <3

Veda (Neonovica)- the ol' click n drag- wish i had time to make an actual pagedoll or something,,

Hana (Yuken) - blue hacker girl,, so cool, so cute-

[bechloesupercorp]

it happens after. during the haze of grief. just mindless movement, tracing the paths she once cherished in another life, one where a hand always laid in hers.

rough hands tug her into a van, tires squealing against the pavement. something in the back of her mind screams at her to fight, but a vital piece of her is missing and she can't make herself care.

they say it never existed. that piece, that girl, just a twisted facet of her imagination. that makes rage boil, but she breaks quick at the lifeless weight in her chest. maybe she didn't exist. but if she didn't exist, why do i feel the pain of her loss? blank eyes as her captors wave a photo in front of her face. a young girl, eyes closed on the morgue table. features slack, and in another life, beatrice would've loved to see them brimming with life. but that's not this life. no. this girl is dead. and if beatrice was to just close her eyes, she thinks she might join her.

that doesn't mitigate the rush in her chest that happens everytime she sees the girl though. something that warms her heart one second but drives a stake through it the next. "you made it all up," they sneer, gripping her head so she can't look away from the photo. "it was all in your head, so desperate to be loved that you'd make a fake life with a girl who deserved better." that makes her breath hitch. this poor girl did deserve better. she would never be enough. so she stares, refusing to let her delude herself into thinking she could ever be loved. she stares, and stares, and stares until she feels nothing. nothing but emptiness. maybe she's no longer human, devoid of all emotion. just a feeble body and distant mind, too lifeless to even fight her bonds.

ages pass, and it feels as if she's been sinking into the dirt.

--- --- ---

gentle hands caress her cheeks. "bea. bea. open your eyes." anxious voices muffled in her ears. it takes tremendous effort, but they flutter, fixing on foggy figures. her sisters. the shackles fall off, and shes scooped into comforting arms. the weight in her chest lessens, just a bit.

it's in the warm embrace that she feels again. the flicker of an emotion -- unidentifiable but human.

--- --- ---

betrayal. the first thing they do is settle her amongst the trinkets. it's that girl again, but beatrice won't let herself be fooled again. not by her traitorous mind, nor by these so-called sisters of hers. they pull out photos, and recount stories, reinforcing the absence of a lover. if she truly existed, she would be here right now. beatrice knows better. it's a trick. that type of love is not something afforded to her. she's never deserved it.

it makes her angry, watching them reminisce over something that never occurred. it's taunting. they're taunting her because they know-- they know -- that she has and will never be loved. they lie, saying that she is worthy, that she had love. that that girl had loved her. they lie. it's a trick. they lie. they lie, they lie. she doesn't exist.

it whips her into a frenzy, destroying the carefully crafted settings they've made, just to fuck with her head. she's trashing her bedroom -- the one that's full of life from an illusion of love. the one that she supposedly lives in. mementos fly with the anguished screams ripped from her throat. she sinks to the floor, stuttering breaths amidst the chaos. they lie, they lie, they lie.

she misses the burst of blue that illuminates the whole convent, stuck in the fog of her own mind. rocking back and forth on the floor, "no love. no love. no love."

"bea?" a soft voice calls. that girl. alive and real.

clarity cuts through for the first time in months. her.

"i love you."

[porcelana-r0ta]

Bound for Glory

Fandom: Night In The Woods

Word Count: 2119

Ao3 Link: Only available to registered Ao3 users

Summary: Casey Hartley is nineteen and isn’t ready to grow up (and he won’t).

xxXxx

He strikes the match against the sandpaper side of the matchbox, igniting his small world of the night sky and the train tracks. He brought the orange flame to the tip of his cigarette, and once the flame took, he shook the match out. Dropping it, he stomps on the burned out match: Smokey Bear would be proud. Or disappointed. 

Shoving the box of matches in his hoodie pocket, Casey Hartley takes his first drag of the cigarette as he resumes walking west. The smoke fills his lungs, clouding his organs, stretching them and destroying them all in one. He blows out. He can’t see the smoke under the new moon. The only light on the train tracks lives with the stars and the dim ember of his cancer stick.

“What, not gonna offer me a light?” Cain asks, flipping his Zippo out and sparking the end of his Marlboro. 

“You hate my matches,” Casey says. 

“‘Cause it’s not fuckin’ 1923, damn.” Despite lighting his cigarette, Cain keeps his Zippo out, flicking the flint wheel. Sparks fly, but never catch. 

Casey likes matches. Likes lighting them up and letting the flame crawl down to his fingertips. Likes blowing them out and smelling the woody smoke of their dying breath. Likes stomping them beneath his feet. Likes using them for his cigarettes or blunts, going through the same motions as thousands of smokers before him and the invention of the lighter. Likes feeling like something. Feeling like there’s something other than Possum Springs. 

Mae got out, at least. And Angus and Gregg are saving to get out. 

He and Bea, though? 

He brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales. Holds it. Lets it out in a sigh. 

“Cain—”

“No,” his cousin says immediately. 

“No?” 

“No, you can’t join the business.” 

Casey is offended, “I don’t want to join your business.” 

“Good,” Cain says. He flicks his cigarette, sending ash to the tracks. “You’re gonna have a future, you know.” 

His stomach curdles. “In Possum Springs?” He tries to keep his tone wry and playful, but his bitterness takes over. Consumes, like the smoke. 

“You can leave. Get a job, like your gay friends. Gary and Angie, or whatever.” 

“Gregg and Angus.” Casey rolls his eyes. 

“That’s what I said.” 

"Uh-huh."

“Yeah, whatever. Point is, you don’t have to be like me. Mary and Bryan love you. They’ll support you even if you get a bitch pregnant and walk out on her.” 

His mom would sooner beat his ass for walking out on a girl after knocking her up, but Casey doesn’t argue the point. 

“That’s not the problem.”

“Yeah?” Cain’s voice takes on a hint of arrogance, the inflection he uses whenever he successfully blows a smoke ring. It’s too dark to tell, but Cain is always sure of himself. “Enlighten me.” 

Casey kicks at the ground, hoping to strike a rock, and only scuffs a plank on the track. 

“I dunno what I wanna do.”

“What, with life? For a job? No one does.” 

The lit end of his cigarette shakes in time with his fingers. “No. Or yes? I don’t know what I’m fucking doing.” 

“Yeah, and no one does. Life is a guessing game, man.” 

“Well, it sucks. The only thing I know is I don’t wanna stay in this shithole town. Maybe I should just hop on a train already.”

“Possum Springs ain’t that bad.” 

Casey scoffs. 

“No, really. It’s kinda nice, minus the xenophobia.”

“Huh, so you did pay attention in high school.

“Shut it, kid.” Cain punches his shoulder. He’s only seven years older, which isn’t that much older, but Cain milks it for all it’s worth. 

They’re quiet for a long moment, the only sounds being their feet on the tracks and earth and their sighs of smoke. Then Cain suddenly breaks it. 

“I wanted to be a teacher.” 

Casey looks down, startled. “What?”

“‘S true.” He flicks his cancer stick. Cinders falls and die in the dark. “Loved art. Loved Mrs. Terry. Wanted to make other kids like me feel like they were worth a damn.”

Casey knows the name, even if he never took art class himself in high school. Mrs. Terry had taken Cain in after he was kicked out, at least until Casey’s parents found out and gave him the spare room. Cain stayed there until he scrimped up enough money for his trailer house. 

“It was really cool of her to take you in like that,” he says quietly in the night. 

“Yeah,” his cousin agrees. “Mrs. Terry’s real cool. She said I could make it. But college’s expensive. ‘N I’m just a dealer now.” 

Casey’s not good with this, with comforting people or supporting people. But he can’t say nothing. 

“Maybe you can save up. Do a ju-co, then something cheap for your last two years.” 

Cain scoffs a laugh. “No…. Nah, that’s just not me.”

He drops his cigarette and steps on it, suffocating the fire. Killing its short life. “Seriously, Case. You can do whatever you want, and your parents will help you. I’ll help, too. You’re my cousin, more like brother, honestly. You can take all the time you need to decide what you want in life.” 

But Casey’s not in high school anymore, he doesn’t want to go to college, and he feels stuck in place. He doesn’t want to grow up. He wants to stay Casey Hartley, seventeen years old, rage-playing drums while Gregg plays guitar and Mae plays bass and Angus sings. He wants to commit crimes with Gregg and Mae, wants to lift snacks from the Snalcon and smoke weed in the upper office of the old Food Donkey and referee Gregg’s and Mae’s dumb knife fights. 

God. He won’t even be a teenager in a few months. His twentieth birthday is creeping up. 

He’s scared of getting a job. He’s scared of hating his job and being stuck with it. He’s scared of taxes. He’s scared of finding an apartment to rent. He’s scared of never owning a house. He’s scared of owning a house.  He’s scared of Cain being arrested. He’s scared that Mae will never come back. He’s scared that Gregg and Angus will leave and never come back. He’s scared that Bea will be crushed under the weight of the Ol’ Pickaxe and her negligent father. He’s scared that he’ll be all that’s left of them, left behind in dying Possum Springs, left behind to die here with no one but conservative asshats and nothing to do and nothing accomplished that means anything.

His parents will stay, and they are young, but they aren’t getting younger, and a good son dies after his parents. He’s scared of that. Of being with just them until old age claims them and then he really is—

a   l   o   n   e

He doesn’t want to grow up.

The train tracks start to rumble, quiet and gentle. A headlight beams behind them, though it has not reached their backs quite yet. Casey steps off on the right, and Cain goes left. 

“You’re right,” Casey says instead of any of his fears. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.” He looks at the stars and hums. “Look, it’s late. I’m going home. You should, too.” 

The train gets closer and louder. The light reaches them.

Casey has to yell, “Yeah, I will. See you later!” 

“I—”

Cain’s response is stolen by the train, cutting in between them and blocking Casey’s path back to town. 

The train wails as Casey lights another cancer stick. He lets the fire creep to his fingers before dropping the match and stomping it out beneath his black canvas shoe, his fingers stinging as he puts the cigarette between his lips. 

The air is warm with the birth of summer. He shouldn’t even be in his black hoodie in this weather, but it’s the same hoodie he’s had since sophomore year and he’s not good at letting go. It was only during the hottest August days that he’d shed the hoodie in previous years.

He hums “Die Anywhere Else” as the train passes, whistling and crooning all the way. He finishes his cancer stick, considers lighting another, but ultimately doesn’t. 

When he gets to the chorus, his chest burns, and he sings the words instead of humming the melody. That part was always meant for Mae. But she had bigger and better plans than an idiot like him who was scared and clueless all at once for his future and would throw that future away as soon as he gathered the courage to hop a train.

Maybe I should just jump on the train, he thinks to himself. Leave for Durkillesburg. Crash with Mae for a weekend or two. Start finding my own place.

But his legs are stuck in place, just like he is. Glued down by fear. Petrified of the culmination of the future of his wrong decisions.

The train eventually passes, and Casey is expecting to be alone, Cain long gone to his trailer. But he’s not. 

Someone stands on the other side of the tracks, a silhouette in the darkness. They are tall and look like they are wearing something long, like a trench coat, maybe. Some kind of hard hat rests on their head. 

A crusty, his mind supplies, a vain attempt to calm his heart. His fur stands on end, his blood going cold. He’s jumped off the train, just like a million other crusties.

For a moment, the two can only stare. 

“Casey Hartley?” they ask. They sound male. No crusty is likely to know his name—he’s befriended some, sure, but they hardly ever return, and they wouldn’t just assume that the first shadowy figure they see is him. 

“No,” he says. “Cain, actually. Casey’s my cousin.” 

Their hand goes up to their head. A clicking noise is instantly followed by a beam of bright light. 

Casey flinches back, his arm raising to block the light. He squints against it, trying to make out who is across the tracks. His stomach drops and he takes several panicked steps back, the other suddenly on the same side of the tracks as him. 

“Look like Casey to me,” the person notes, voice dangerous. 

He’s not going to try pleading his case. He turns and bolts.

He makes it maybe five yards before there’s a bang and a sharp pain in his right calf. 

He falls, yelping, sweating, crying. He claws at the dirt, forcing himself to turn over so he’s not face-down and accepting death quietly. Anywhere else, he tells himself. Anywhere fucking else. I won’t die here.

“You fuckin’ shot me!” he cries. He reaches for his leg with a trembling hand, expecting a bleeding bullet hole, but instead he feels something cool and cylindric with fine hairs coming out from the top. He yanks it out and throws it, terror mixing with drowsiness. 

No, wait—

He immediately regrets the action, belatedly realizing it could have been his own weapon if he’d kept it. Fuck.

“No,” says the person, confirming what Casey has already concluded. “I tranq’d you.”

“Why?” His vision spins. He feels alert and subdued all in one. His stomach twists. His body is heavy, like he’s trying to pull himself out of the public pool after being in all day. Please, no. Don’t sleep. Don’t fucking sleep. Don’t even lay down.

“Don’t be scared, Casey.” The person kneels next to him, still bright and unknown. It hurts his eyes, but he’s so scared that if he closes his eyes, he won’t open them ever again. 

Casey swings at him, but his hands glance off, doing nothing against this monster. They coo and cup the back of his head, fingers grasping Casey’s fur, their other hand grabbing at Casey’s upper arm. They force Casey to lay down, and he’s full-on sobbing now despite the call of sleep. 

“No,” he begs. “Pl’s, no. Don’ do this to me.” 

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. This is for you, Casey, and your family. Your parents. Possum Springs doesn’t need another dealer, hmm? But we need business. This is just business, Casey. It’ll all be over soon. You won’t even know it when you’re gone.” 

“Nnnnnnnoooooooooo.” It’s a low moan, grieved and miserable. It takes the rest of his energy, his body numbing, his mind clouding. He tastes smoke.

He wants his dad. He wants his mom. 

Did he say bye to them this morning? When was the last time he said he loved them? He can’t remember—it's all too fuzzy now.

“Shh, shh. Just go to sleep, Casey. It won’t hurt none.” 

He’s supposed to fucking grow up. 

He falls asleep instead.

xxXxx

Casey Hartley's away message:

BORN 2 LOSE COUNTRY TRASH PROUD DRUMMER SK8 AND DESTROY SK8 2 CR8 BOUND FOR GLORY

[rockyroadkylers]

2023 Writing Roundup

@hgejfmw-hgejhsf tagged me to do this, and @inexplicablymine actually did, too, a while back, so here we go!

i haven't written much this year- well, no, okay, that's a lie, in terms of word count i've written quite a lot, but in terms of how many fics i've posted, i don't have that many to share, here. but i'm pretty dang proud of what i do have!

May

I Will Soften Every Edge (I'll Do Better) - MCU, 6.6k, T

Tony Stark is unexpectedly thrust into parenthood when he discovers that Spider-Man is not only fourteen years old, but also his son. He's unsure how to proceed from there, until the Vulture destroys a ferry full of people and Tony learns something about his son that makes him reevaluate his own behavior. Gift for hold_our_destiny from my Fic Raffle on Tumblr.

October

It's Nice to Have a Friend - RWRB, 59k, 11 chapters, T

Two boys meet on a beach, build a sand castle, write letters, and fall in love.

November

After Everything, I Must Confess I Need You - RWRB, 5.8k, T

“Fuck,” he gasps, tears springing to his eyes and mixing with the rainwater on his face. He’s not sure if the tears are from the asphalt biting into his palms, or if it’s a release of the emotions he’s been trying to shove down deep ever since he woke up to an empty top bunk at the lake house. Wait. Asphalt. Over the pounding rain, Alex hears the shrill sound of a horn honking, and looks up just in time to be blinded by a pair of headlights coming straight at him. OR: When Alex dares Henry to tell him to leave, Henry actually does. Neither of them could have predicted what happens next.

Upcoming in 2024:

i picked the petals, he loves me not

canon divergence starting from the day Alex and Henry met in Rio, following an AU where Alex develops Hanahaki Disease from Henry asking Shaan to get rid of him.

currently untitled sequel to It's Nice to Have a Friend

Picking up where chapter ten left off (Alex and Henry finally getting together), the sequel will follow the boys as they navigate their new relationship through the ups and downs of long distance, therapy, school, and Ellen's 2016 presidential campaign.

This Love is Worth the Fight

a surprisingly highly-requested sequel to After Everything, I Must Confess I Need You. It will likely be another longfic, due to the amount of ideas I've made notes of, but I don't have anything concrete, yet.

1/124th of a second (credit to Beas for the genius title)

Actor!Henry, Photographer!Alex AU. Sort of an enemies to lovers premise. I won't actually be able to write this one until Mary and George comes out, I don't think, because the premise of it is Alex taking a job as the photographer taking pictures of Henry to promote his role as George Villiers in Mary and George, and he watches the show to prepare for the job, so I might need to be able to actually reference some of the scenes in order to write about Alex watching the show, lol. Other than that, this fic is entirely outlined, so it should be easy to write... once I have access to clips of the show for reference, pfft.

this has been fun to do! so much of the writing i've done this year has taken place over the last four months, that sometimes i forget i did any writing before the month of September 😂 but i did! and it's good writing, too, as hard as that is for me to remember, sometimes.

tagging: @matherines, @firenati0n, @affectionatelyrs, @anincompletelist, @littlemisskittentoes, @read-and-write-, @happiness-of-the-pursuit, @songliili, @wordsofhoneydew