#so much characterization packed into one moment

[ramblingguy54]

Thinking again about the deep underlying context between Roz & Brightbill's bittersweet goodbye from the migration scene.

How neither didn't want to say goodbye to the other forever.

Yet, Roz felt like she had hurt Brightbill too much to deserve a second chance. After robbing him of a family, even if it was an accident.

Brightbill didn't want to insist upon her staying because he rejected Roz as his mother. Claimed she didn't feel any ounce of emotion. Let's not forget also processing the realization his biological mother wouldn't have been able to care for him, like Roz managed to do so.

Both struck by irrefutable guilt over what they did and said.

The layered complexity sold with barely much dialogue and only excellent character expression alone.

Fucking got me over here like.

[mariatesstruther]

okay but a version of events in which tommy takes ellie to the fireflies, but NEITHER of them come back. and maria joel have to work together to get them back

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hi!, ive encountered a problem i hope you would aid in? ive been trying to write this domestic breakfast scene where one character is still half-asleep trying to uphold a conversation but i can't. Its the "calm before the storm" kind of scene and i want to give my readers time to breathe and relate to the characters.

Writing Notes: Mundane Scenes

How Mundane Scenes can be Important (by editor Richelle Braswell):

Pacing: Mundane scenes can provide a breather from the action-packed scenes and add variation so that readers don’t get bored or worn down.

World-building: Mundane moments such as how characters get dressed in the morning or prepare their food can add realism and details to your world. It gives a sense of depth to characters lives and shows instead of tells how life operates.

Give weight to events: Mundane activities such as resting or tending to injuries can give weight to previous plot points such as a battle or reveal. We sit with the consequences, and thus the events feel like they have greater importance and space in the narrative.

Synthesize information: Characters can review things like whodunit clues or what they know so far over a meal or while traveling. Meanwhile, the reader can process events up until that point. These scenes are best used during the midpoint of a book or right before the climax.

Build tension: These much slower moments like chatting and weeding the garden can add tension to stories by sitting with the unknown. Readers will sense when things are too quiet and feel a building anticipation.

Develop character arcs: Slow moments such as shopping or washing-up can be important touchpoints to depict gradual character growth. If there is nonstop action, then there isn’t a chance for characters to stop and reflect and give the readers some insight into any changed thought processes and dilemmas.

Develop romance: Mundane moments are some of the best places to give characters space to make the bed together and fold laundry. Their romance and dynamic can be developed here but note that it is most effective when used sparingly and when the reader does not lose a sense of narrative drive.

Decisions as a challenge: Choices have gravity in a narrative when there is space for the main characters to struggle with doing the right thing. It can add further drama if they aren’t making tough decisions while dodging flying arrows or being chased, but while sweeping their floors or organizing their bookshelf. The reader experiences the weight of the choice since it can be carefully considered before it leads to a hero’s triumph or tragedy.

Whatever you do with a mundane scene, the idea to keep in mind is how it contributes to the whole.

some related literary tropes

"Slice of Life" Trope

Life, observed and examined.

A cast of characters go about their daily lives, making observations and being themselves.

There is an emphasis on the very moment, with the intent of focusing the audience on that moment rather than using that moment as part of a narrative.

"Calm before the Storm" Trope

Characterized by a sense of anticipation, perhaps tension, even dread of what is to come.

It allows the characters a moment of respite prior to everything going to hell.

Maybe they make final preparations.

Maybe they go bid farewell.

Maybe they go tie up loose ends or bury hatchets.

They might decide now's the time to finally spend the night with that special someone.

Or maybe they just meditate to still their minds and/or calm their nerves.

Or they may decide to throw a party while they still can.

This scene allows us a quiet moment to just be with the characters, especially if it winds up being the end of the line for some of them.

Great clouds lit from within by lightning gather on the horizon, an army can be seen assembling, or the Final Battle is just around the corner. Everyone knows it is inevitable.

Tomorrow the silence will be broken. Tomorrow there will be chaos. But for now, all is quiet.

"Action Film, Quiet Drama Scene" Trope

An action film trope that you can also incorporate in your writing.

In this kind of scene, there are no expensive visuals or frenetic action, just usually two characters talking about what they believe in, what they care about, their deepest pains, or anything that relates to the stakes of the situation.

This is not the same as the purely exposition scene in that there is something deeper displayed here.

In these scenes, you can understand the plot, grasp its theme, or develop a rapport with the characters to make the big scenes matter to your readers.

When it really works, it can make the action sequences all the more compelling, because the quiet scenes have allowed you to emotionally invest in the characters and care about their fate.

Examples

In The Hunger Games: Mockingjay – Part 2, after a long time fleeing through the giant death trap of the Capitol and suffering several losses, Cressida leads the squad to a friend's house. Their time in the basement covers a lot of ground, from mourning their losses to Katniss' guilt to the Love Triangle.

Inception: In the climax, we finally see whether or not Fischer reconciles with the memory of his father.

The Lord of the Rings: The scene between Aragorn and Arwen on the bridge in The Fellowship of the Ring. It introduces depth to Aragorn's character and reveals his backstory; the scenes of the Shire at peace in The Fellowship of the Ring (especially in the Directors Cut), filled with laughter, friendship and happy children (what a warrior lays down his life to protect) is what makes us actually care whether or not Frodo and the Fellowship defeat Sauron or not.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Here are some information and related tropes to keep in mind as you write your scene. Use the tropes as inspiration, and alter as needed/desired to better fit your story. Reading how other authors have done this as well, especially in your favourite stories, is one way to know how you would execute it in your own story. You can find more details and examples in the links above. Hope this helps with your writing!

[netherfeildren]

Cannibals : 2. LOVE.

Part 1. House of Fools

An At the Restaurant story

Pairing: Din Djarin x OFC

Summary: It's two days til Christmas, and the two of you sit side by side, thighs pressed warmly together, giggling at one another for absolutely no reason other than it’s been such a good day. All the best things the two of you do, wrapped into a perfect set of twelve hours.

It's two day's til Christmas, and one of the more bizarre aspects of life is how everything can fall apart from one moment to the next.

-OR-

the Christmas situationship to real love AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alternate Universe; Modern AU Din Djarin; Holiday Season AU; Heavy Angst; Angst with a Happy Ending; Explicit Sexual Content; Oral Sex (F!Receiving); Squirting; Unprotected Sex; Unhealthy Relationships; Emotionally Unavailable Idiots; But Also, Idiots in Love; Complicated Characterizations of Imperfect People; Toxic Relationships; Miscommunication; Anxiety & Depression; Brief Blood Mention; Mild Violence; Brief mentions of disordered eating; Unreliable Narrator;

A/N: The emotions surrounding the sex in this chapter are complicated, however, both parties are entirely consenting and both want the sex to happen, despite the fraught nature of the situation and the words exchanged. I don’t really know how to tag it or explain it otherwise, but I did want to mention it so that readers can proceed with caution. 

Word Count: 15.7K

Read on AO3

2. LOVE.

Christmas day dawns brilliant white, blanketed by snow.

A dog’s bark slips through the crack of your open window, the radiator spitting too much heat in the night to sleep comfortably. Outside, the flurries swirl in a mad frenzy, slipping inside one by one to gather and melt piled on the rug. The sound of the owner’s shushing follows. Another person’s laughter, an apology. Good morning and Merry Christmas, one says to the other. Silence, after that. 

You lie in the time machine of your childhood bed and wait for it to move, but it hasn’t been invented yet. 

Downstairs, your parents breathe life into the house, dishes clattering, making breakfast. This is the third time your mother has played I’ll Be Home For Christmas this morning. 

Last year, when you were still so unsure of one another, when he still felt entirely unknowable, the two of you had been in the car going nowhere, and you’d seen his eyes go tear-wet while this song played—the first time you’d discovered it was his favorite. Seeing him emotional had made you emotional, and when you’d climbed out at the end of the car ride, you’d kissed him fiercely. Feeling more in love with him than you’d ever felt before. 

You see, he was real in that moment.

The sound of the barking dog, your parent’s laughter and a favorite song. An apology and merry wishes. Still, all you can hear is the memory of his quiet voice following along to the lyrics in the car. 

You miss him more than you have ever missed him before and breakfast is a sad affair with your parents who love you and remind you of it constantly. Your heart is broken.  

You don’t call him like you feel the need to. You take the pile of wrapped gifts for the two brothers from atop your dresser and hide them at the back of your closet. You try to forget. 

You miss him more than you have ever missed him before. 

-

Time turns a year older and in the weeks that follow, Bo moves out of the apartment the two of you have shared together for the past five years. 

You defend your thesis at the end of January and the victory is passing. It makes you angry that the happiness of this achievement is overshadowed by the pain of your lukewarm goodbye, but you can’t help it. You feel badly stitched together. 

And after the worry of school has passed and the tepid happiness at the prospect of your new job has settled in, you also decide to leave the small apartment that has been your home for the past five years. Packing your things slowly, pieces of your life wrapped carefully in paper, one box at a time on the bus and over the bridge, back to your childhood home to attempt to pull the tatters of your life back together. 

You felt you needed to leave the place where you’d lost all sense of self, go back to your roots, to your mother’s arms. 

You’re ashamed to look at her in those slow, lagging weeks. As if moving through mud you seek out the safety of your family home, your creature comforts, crawling into your mother’s bed in the middle of the night, a ghoul playing the part of a child. 

But it is only that—he’d taken a piece of you with him, stolen it, or you’d given too much away until there was nothing left like you'd always known you would. Like you could never help but do. 

You revert to old habits during those January days, going to the Viewpoint to sit on the benches, even on the days when it’s too cold, to get drunk alone, ten mile runs along the shoreline, watching the water crash and crash and crash. One afternoon: a small boat struggling along in the distance against the waves makes you laugh and then cry hysterically. 

The dawn of the year passes and soon it’s February—you develop an obsession with time, with numbers, with the keeping of dates. The day of his birthday is a desperate, manic horror. You can’t look your mother in the eyes, can’t find the comfort you’d always done in sharing everything with her. Too ashamed of what you’d let become of her own daughter. Of your own weaknesses. You go to church on Sundays with them, you decide to finally try to get your driver’s license, fail three times and then give up again, bracing yourself for the prospect of a ticket when you start driving your father’s old Jeep to work, unable to muster the will of responsible fear. 

You think constantly of that delicious ability to look across a room and have an entire conversation without words. To have a partner. To know a person so well you’d know what they need at any given moment. To lose yourself amongst a crowd and laughter and still know where they are at all times, to know when they want to go home and then get to go home together. 

You think of what it is to know someone—to love someone. 

You rail at the tragedy of him, to find oneself unable to love the person who loves you in return. 

You horror over the destruction of your failed relationship, going over every detail obsessively in your mind, tearing it to shreds over and over trying to make sense of the minutiae. It’s agony, flagellating and cathartic. To see all the wrong, all the ugly. All the wonderful things that you miss so badly. 

After all, everything is remembered more beautifully with the passage of time—fairy lights through the mist of your memory. 

You wonder how he’d spent his birthday, with who. If someone had gotten him a cake. If anyone had remembered and made it special for him. If he’d fucked someone. He’ll find another, you tell your reflection in the mirror, cruelly. Men like that are never alone for long—making yourself sick in the streets with the daydreams of it. 

Felled by your lukewarm goodbye, this is all you become, a mania of roiling thoughts. Unable to do anything but think and wonder and miss. A deep and unsettling missing that permeates your bones until it’s all you've become. Sometimes to a degree that you worry is not even reality; all the things you never did that seem so real in your memory because you wanted them so badly. And you feel robbed, left without any sort of proof it hadn’t all been some sort of dream. His number, blocked, one day turns to weeks without the sound of his voice. You hear his laugh coming from the backs of rooms and know it’s only your heart’s imagination, you dream of watching your clothes tumble together in the dryer. Nothing but the comfort of videos and pictures left to you.

The first time he’d let you take a picture of the two of you together, you’d gone home and cried. Sentimental and overwhelmed by the silly, girlish idea of doing something so relationshipy. But the first time he’d taken a picture of you, alone—you’d been lying on the couch in their living room, cuddled warmly against his side, close up and goofy, your eyes wide, nose practically pressed to the camera—the end of everything had flashed in your mind. Unable to keep yourself from imagining the inevitable break up, the way that afterwards he’d still have that photograph of you in his phone. The way he’d either have to keep it, let it lose itself amidst the rest of his captured memories and life, or have to hunt for you, find you, make a conscious choice to erase you. 

In ways, the passage of time, of memory fading, makes it worse—worst of all, worse than anything—that you’d destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing. That you’ve been left with all this nothingness. 

The reality that you’d done yourself a great harm. That you’d made decisions for yourself that were immeasurably wrong. That you had been spineless in your silence. That there was a great guilt to bear and that your only victim had been yourself. For how terrible, coming to terms with the fact that this great pain you’d railed against for so long was by a measure, of your own doing.

You wonder on the notion of a fight. What does it mean to fight with a person you love? Truly. 

There’s escape in escaping, and amidst the streets of the Cape and your parent’s gentle encouragement, you search frantically for your old self, attempting to let go of the person you’d been dedicated to so devoutly for so long. 

You read books written only by women with your mother’s name to feel closer to her. You dedicate yourself instead to being a good daughter. You dedicate yourself to your role amidst the entity of this thing he’d so tragically lost and by which all your joint tragedies had followed; family. And you live amongst their worried glances and their encouraging attempts at healing, and in the midsts of the month of February, you start your new job. Returning to the city with frightened cowardice, overwrought by the possibility of running into him on street corners, terrified and certain you’ll find him around every bend.

But the library, like any house dedicated to the written word, becomes a safe haven. You find a sort of gentle but unambiguous understanding amongst the wisdom of the older women there that you’d found difficult to seek out with your mother in the past weeks, out of embarrassment or pain. They battle your silence and your melancholy and after several weeks you find yourself smiling and joining in on lunches and after work drinks, forsaking your anxiety for a few hours of mindless gossip and careful laughter. 

“Why no boyfriend?” Cara, closer to your age than the rest of them, finally asks you one night after one too many cosmos. You flush and stammer, but you don’t tell them about him. Some things you just can’t speak about. 

They hold onto it though, the lot of them. Dog-with-a-bone meddlesome but infinitely well meaning, they point out men in restaurants and bars, through the windows on the street—Oh, he’s cute, honey. Isn’t he? What about that one? And they push and push and are so loud and so boisterous and so lovely and kind that you can’t help but feel normal again. Even if it’s only for a few hours a day. 

As the only man in the group, Moff pretends to be the voice of reason; counseling you to take your time, warning that boys your age aren’t worth the worry, only after one thing. We need a little more time to stew in the vat of maturity, he cajoles one night over Japanese food and amidst raucous laughter.

You find you like having a group of new friends. You like working in a place where the people are kind and fun and interested in you and your life outside of the four walls of your job. It’s nice, cathartic, to let people who have no idea of your history, of all you’d allowed, get to know you. 

And in early March, you start seeing Mark. Two months, Bo says, is more than enough time to get under someone new to help you get over someone old. He works in tech, at an up and coming firm downtown; the swanky sort where it’s unclear if anyone actually does any work or not. His office, located in one of the more impressive pieces of renovated architecture, half eighteen hundred red brick, half glass, steel monstrosity. He’s impressive in a very ordinary way. Handsome and tall and rich, Ivy League. Not as tall as other men…but tall enough. But ordinary, and there’s something safe in that. 

He liked to come into the library on Tuesdays. A meticulous sort of man with his routine: check-in, business, self-help, ending his perusal in the nonfiction section where he’d sit and watch you catalogue and type and fret. Chewing on pencils and chugging coffee until all your teeth would surely start falling out. Every time you’d look up to catch him staring, your stomach would pang with aches and burns. 

“Mr. Ford is here again—Mark,” Cara had sidled up to you a couple weeks into his routine, bumping your shoulder with her own and poking you in the ribs. “He’s here for you, you know. Been asking the girls in fiction circulation about you.”

“What?” You’d hissed, panicked and sweating. “What did he say? What is he asking? You guys better not say anything embarrassing!”

“Oh, relax. You’re so jumpy, my goodness. You should go out with him.” She’d laughed at first, but then in a more sober tone, continued, “I think it’ll be good for you—help with whatever you’re getting over.” She’d given you a kind, sympathetic smile—showing up your farce.

The dates were meticulously planned on his end, just like the library visits. You suspected he really just wanted a girlfriend, didn't matter who she was. But you also didn’t think you minded that very much, either. 

You didn’t want to wonder anymore. You just wanted to know. 

And it was comforting, to have someone text you good morning, someone to recount your tuna sandwiches and burnt coffees to. He’d send you pictures of himself in the gym that you’d gag at a little, he’d take you to dinner and take you to brunch, and he didn’t like hot Irish coffee or watching the ocean much. He said he hated children, he read self-help books religiously. It was fine. 

After three dates, you’d braved his apartment. The physical stuff was tepid at best, truly bad at worst. But after what you’d had, someone who could bring you to the razor’s edge just with his eyes on your tits, finding someone you could kiss without bursting into tears felt like a miracle. You promised yourself you were taking it slow this time, stopping things before they could get too heavy handed, refusing to go all the way just yet. But the truth was, letting someone new into the place that had been someone else’s for so long felt nauseating. You just weren’t ready. 

But he calls, Mark does, every day. And that’s the part that feels good. He doesn’t make you wonder. That is what he has over others. His polar opposite, which feels like revenge and then betrayal. 

Bo emerges from her den of iniquity and true love, deep into March—it’ll almost be spring, and then summer, and then so much time will have passed that maybe you’ll soon have stopped keeping count of the days. 

The two of you go for tacos and margaritas one Friday evening, girls night out and all; Fennec away at a writing seminar in Vermont. She’s trying to write a book of short stories on love. Bo talks for a long time about how much she misses her, about how their house feels wrong without Fen in it, about how she’s happy. 

It’s not that you’re jealous. It’s not that you’re not happy for them, really and truly, so happy for them. You love them both. You can see, like any person with eyes and a notion of who they are as individuals, that they’re meant to be in that novel way, like out of a story and into Fennec’s own writing. They fit together so well. But there is a sort of smallness to be found in looking at the people around you—people that are your friends, that you know well, the people you surround yourself with and who have chosen you in turn for their own lives and must thus have things in common with you that have brought the two of you together—finding partnership like this, when you cannot. It turns you helpless to the onslaught of, well…if they can find it, and we’re friends, so we must be similar in ways, then why can’t I find it, too? 

Why not me? Why couldn’t it have been me? 

When will it be me?

Why couldn’t he have fixed himself for me?

“What’s up with you lately? Still liking the job?” She asks eventually. Once she’s done describing the exact tone of Fen’s snores and how cute they are, and how when she’s more tired they’re deeper and louder, but when she’s stressed they’re fast and high pitched. Like a baby kitten, she says.

Like really. 

“Nothing,” you sigh, leaning your elbows against the bar top, cheeks smushed between your palms as you sip your strawberry margarita from a long straw. “I’m just in a weird place. But yeah, I still like it.”

“You mean a better place without that demon.” 

A limp laugh, “Sure, yeah.” You can’t remember the last time his name had been said out loud. It had become the worst sort of curse word. 

The Knicks game is on the TV, and you wonder if Grogu is watching now, too. He never used to miss them. 

“What’s wrong?” Bo presses, gripping the back of your neck to shake your gaze towards her. “Did something happen? You didn’t lift tail for him again, did you?”

“I hate it when you call it that,” you scowl. 

“There’s nothing else to call fornication with men.”

“Ugh, no. I haven’t. I haven’t seen or spoken to him. His number is still blocked.” But Bo hadn’t seen you since early January, when it had been much worse, worrying, really. She’d been busy falling more deeply in love with her person, making their life together, and so she hadn’t been able to see that your progress had slowly plateaued into a numb, unmoving fugue. You weren’t getting better, you weren't getting any worse. You were just passing through the motions, floating through the days waiting for something. To wake up, maybe. 

“I want to say good. That I’m glad. But I can see…” she trails off, “So, no. I think I won’t.” 

You glance at her out of the corner of your eyes, her intense, concerned gaze. But opt to focus once again on the game on the television, too much of a coward to let her look at your whole face and really see. 

“You’re not supposed to be scared every day,” she says quietly, leaning closer to you, arm going around your shoulder. “That’s not the way it was supposed to be.”

“I know it’s not,” you reply quickly, trying to open your mouth as little as possible lest something worse come out. But then, you can’t help it, “It’s just that I worry there’s something wrong with me.”

“There’s not. I would know by now if there was after all this time,” she tries for cheek, attempting to lighten the mood at the quiver of your chin. 

“I think I’m intrinsically unlovable.” It’s the sort of confession you could only give to her. Something you’re embarrassed to even hold in your own mind when you look at your parents and see how much they care and worry. 

Her arm around you tightens, her other palm coming to grip your hand atop the bar, like she’s bracing herself. “Just because he made you feel that way about yourself doesn’t mean it’s true.” 

You can only manage a small shake of your head, a heat so unbearable rushing up your throat and face your head throbs with it, making you dizzy. How could you possibly tell her that you’d always thought that, though. That sometimes you worried that what had kept you waiting for him to change his mind for as long as you had, was that there was a part of you that was certain it was impossible he could ever do so because it was you that could not cause the change. Afraid that there was something missing in you. 

Mark calls after the next round, and Bo insists you move your night to the swanky cocktail bar across the street. Says it’s her right to meet the man and veto him if she must. You comply because you don’t really care, truth be told. Whether she likes him or not is irrelevant when you’re pretty sure you don’t even like him yourself. 

He’s moussed and coiffed to the nines when he waltzes in. Shiny Rolex and a money clip with BAND$ engraved on it that Bo gags at when he isn’t looking. 

He chugs cucumber martinis while he tells her all about the hot water, apple cider vinegar and green juice cleanse he’s doing, and when he runs to the restroom every twenty minutes like clockwork he calls it the little boy’s room. 

Bo looks at you like you’ve gone absolutely batshit, but all you can manage is a shrug. And on impulse and out of sheer, agonizing misery, you order a tequila soda with sweet grenadine and a maraschino cherry. You try not to cry while you down one and then another and then another, and as you get progressively drunker, Bo following suit loyally and Mark spending more time in the bathroom than he does at your table—you’re pretty sure he’s snorting coke like a mother fucker in there—she starts with the long list of his grievances. The Demon, she calls him. Asshole, dick bag, spawn of Satan. Whore. Lying, cheating whore. Each word is like a physical blow to your system. You nod and nod and nod, not bothering to correct that he’d never actually cheated on you, it doesn’t really matter, and you drown yourself in the grenadine. And if you focus hard enough to the point you can almost feel your brain vibrate, it’s like he’s the one that’s made them for you, it’s almost like he’s the one you’ll kiss and go home with after this. 

“Fuck him!” Bo shouts, clinking her glass roughly against your own, beer and Dirty Shirley sloshing sloppy and dripping over the glass edge. She toasts to the demise of the dick who’d broken your heart, wishing him nothing but the worst. “You’re so much better off now,” she promises again, but you aren’t sure you believe her, if it’s the truth. 

The shit talk feels good in a rotten way, the grenadine and tequila carbonated kisses Mark presses against your mouth later, tepid, but distracting. Distracting in a way that hurts, still connected to him but not directly. In service of him, in imitation. It’s not who you want, the flavor of this mouth. It’s all only your own delusional desperation, something self serving and small. 

You throw up in the alley behind the bar after another round, spewing hot and acidic, burning it’s way up your throat as your body heaves with painful sobs, hot tears squeezing out between your shut eyes. The sight of your sick makes you gag, the way the horrible beating thing in your chest twists, even worse. 

Begging off after that, you take the bus back home, no sweet twelve minute offer for a drive over the bridge and a kiss before you run inside anymore. And if you spend the way crying, with the flavor of someone else’s mouth against yours, well at least it’s all been your choice. 

Right? Right.

The irony isn’t lost on you that choice had always been your excuse with him, as well. 

On March twentieth, five days before Fen’s birthday and the party her friends are planning for her, your phone rings with a call from the bar. His bar. Watching the alien thing buzz and buzz until it goes to voicemail, you stare with wide eyed horror. Your fingers shake so badly you can barely press the notification of a new message in your inbox when it comes in with a hollow chime. Your heart does something so anxiously painful you worry you might keel over and die before you get the chance to listen. 

Eighty four days of dead silence and now—

“It’s me. I—I keep checking to see if you’ve unblocked me. I can’t help it. But…shit—I don’t even know if this is still your number.” His laugh is hollow, horrible, the vowels slurred, a long pause. “But I need to say something I have no right to say. I’m very drunk and I’m in love with you and I’m so sorry for everything. If I was a better person I’d want you to never think of me again. And I—I wish…” his voice whispers, mumbling, and then comes back. I wish… “But I had to—I had to say the words out loud. Even just once. And I’m so fucking sorry. I am. I am.”

Before, it had been difficult because he’d been so overtly careless with you all the time, while you had been so painfully, so strictly careful with everything. The way you acted, the things you said, the way you moved and breathed and existed in front of him. You were never real. It was all a game he’d beaten you at. A game that became too hard, so you couldn’t play anymore. So it felt like you were being ripped in two at all times.

Afterwards, you were both more careful. Tried to do things the way they should’ve always been done, more honest, more yourselves. But there was still something missing. Trust, perhaps. You wanted more, and he couldn't fathom what that more was. You loved him. And at times, you had thought he might love you too, at least as best as he was able to with his broken heart the way it was. But he'd never realized, or couldn’t recognize such a thing in anyone besides his brother. He’d never known what to do with you. You could understand all of that now, could see it more clearly, riding that sick and strange passage of time; a train leaving with half your body still on it. 

But in the end, it hadn’t felt like you were being ripped in two anymore. It had felt like you were being erased. 

What a cruel and selfish thing to do—I’m in love with you. 

For the millionth time, you wish that you could hate him. You wish that you could see all the bad that Bo sees in him. 

You think that perhaps you do hate him. Perhaps you hate him more than you’ve ever hated anyone in your whole life. But it’s a sad, weak sort of hate. Because well…because well you love him, also.

Still. 

You move like a ghost in the days that follow those words. Going back to search through old text messages and notes and photographs, desperate for proof that would substantiate them. Fixated on the idea that it couldn’t be true, that you’d hate the idea of him only realizing this once you’d left him. You want to know if it’d always been—this supposed love. If he’d felt it before. And then sick with humiliated, hysterical laughter that you were so unaware about the going ons of your own life and relationship you couldn’t even make sense of what had or hadn’t been between the two of you. Had you ever truly known him? Had you ever truly known what he felt or thought or wanted?

The go around in your mind makes you desperate for action, for movement, for any sort of answer or second of peace. A single moment of warm sun. Anything to distract from the what ifs.

When Peli’s bar is listed on the e-invite Fen’s best mate Boba sends, it feels like cruel and mocking kismet. Bo apologizes profusely, promising she’ll force them to move it, that if you don’t want to go they’ll all understand. But the spinning of your mind, of his words tumbling like those clothes in the dryer, the idea of being in a crowd with him and knowing where he is at all times, wondering if Grogu still loves the Knicks and if he’d won the end of year art competition at school, I’m in love with you, it all leads to anger. Fierce, sticky anger in your brain, poisoning everything so that you’re turned reckless. Maybe even vindictive. 

When you step into Peli’s bar for the first time in months, and he’s just there, the same nose and mouth and eyes, hair longer, pushed back beneath a backwards cap and curling over his collar, it’s like motion sickness, like years have passed in the blink of an eye. And when Mark’s hand curls familiarly over your shoulder, pulling you into himself, when Din looks up and sees you for the first time beneath the hand of another, this revenge feels like kismet too. Like that last chance you’d wished for all those months ago to hurt him just as badly as you’d been hurt. 

You look away quickly, passing around hello’s to the arrived party, not bothering to turn towards the shattering of glass from behind the bar. 

Bo squeezes you tightly, pressing kisses to both your cheeks and promising that she’ll protect you, that it’s going to be a good time, and then passing you off to be kissed and squeezed by Fen, as well. Mark makes his introductions, and you’re grateful that he’s good at playing this part, the charming boyfriend. His laugh is loud and handsome, his conversation easy, if a little shallow. But maybe that’s okay, to have this shiny new toy to show off. 

Your mind is sluggish with anxiety and your hands shake so badly even Mark notices, playing it off to no food since breakfast. 

You feel his stare like a burn slipping against your skin. Tucked between Fennec on one side, whispering gently into your ear, her pretty laugh making it seem like everything’s alright, and Mark on the other, his arm around your shoulder, his fingers playing in your hair, a kiss to your face every once in a while. 

But his words, the tinny sound of his message from last week, they’re a live wire bouncing around the walls of the bar, slithering between the happy people. 

And it’s there, that awareness you’d thought on for so many months, that knowledge of another person in a crowded room, that’s really what makes your eyes pinch hot with agony. That’s really what makes you turn to look for him after an hour of forced, fake, fucking horrible laughter, the light-bulb moment that this phenomena you’d thought on so much was alive and well here between the two of you despite the now eighty-nine days of interrupted silence—being able to find your person in a crowded room. 

Of course he’s looking when you turn—his gaze, unblinking on your face. Piercing. 

It hurts because it also doesn’t. Because you’d become complacent. Because it would always be the same, always good, always half finished, even at completion. 

At your side, Mark whispers something, lips brushing close against your ear, his finger tip caressing beneath your chin and Din’s face—you have reason to say his name again, Din Din Din—it spasms with anger, grief, something sick. Gaze moving to assess the man putting his hands on you while you take careful stock of his face, his clothes, his body. The tip jar next to the register is, like always, filled with half bills, half phone numbers. You used to sit there and pick them out, letting people think you were stealing his cash. The memory makes you smile helplessly. Just a small one. 

And when his eyes come back to yours, there’s a question there, confusion, or maybe an alighting, like he’s realizing he might not know you as he once did. But when he sees your smile, the corner of his own mouth lifts too—oh, oh, don’t do that—the dimpled one that’s your favorite, like he’s also helpless to it, like he’s answering you. And then it’s gone with a blink, being overtaken by that unfathomable look again, melted away. 

Sometimes, the thought that you were a real person that existed in his head, that he remembers and has memories of, that he’d known you and who and how you were, was too much for you to handle. And right now, with that question in his eyes, that wondering, it makes you desperate enough you could rush over and demand he tell you what he’s thinking, what he thinks of you. 

Mark says your name, voice insistent and annoyed now, wrapping his fingers around your bicep and shaking you into attention.

“Sorry, what?” you stumble out of your reverie, faced with the unwelcome sight of his face puckered in irritation at your ignoring him. 

“I said we should shoot some hoops. Don’t tell me you’re drunk already, babe. We’ve barely been here an hour.” Your inability to hold your liquor turns him off sometimes, you know. 

“No. I’m not. Sorry, just sleepy, I think.” You squeeze his fingers, trying to inject warmth and some sort of caring into your voice. You don’t want to push him away. You don’t want to lose him, you realize suddenly. If he dumps you, you’ll have to face the fact that you don’t care about him at all, but you’ll also lose your distraction, your cheap get-love-quick scheme. Sometimes you worry you’ve turned into a bad person, but you can’t help how you’d tried to stitch yourself back together. This is what you had. And Din’s gaze on you is triggering enough you need Mark at this moment. You need him to keep you focused on anything but how badly you want to go over there and talk to him. 

The two of you leave the table, and he buys a round each at the arcade basketball machines in the corner closest to the bar. The embarrassment that washes through you is inevitable, like you’re flaunting yourself, your new boyfriend, your body that’s been touched by both of them. Your stomach churns sticky and hot and you try and laugh and engage Mark's attempts at flirtation, angry that you’re letting yourself be so affected. 

You have no reason to be embarrassed. To feel ashamed. You have as much right to be here as anyone, and you’re not going to not be where your friends are just because Din is here. He doesn’t own the bar. He isn’t the boss of you. And you can do whatever you like and go wherever you like and take your new boyfriend with you if you feel like it, and Din can’t say or do anything about it because you aren’t together anymore. 

Mark wins the first round and pays for another, teasing your weak attempts at the game and your bad shots, pinching your hips and poking your ribs. Playful. He’s trying so hard. Too hard. Perhaps picking up on the strange, almost violent energy that sizzles through the night. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Bo approach the bar, saying something to Din. She throws her head back in mocking laughter. Cruel with all the contempt you know she has for him. His face is impassive, a mask you recognize well when he’s trying to protect himself. He nods once, turning to fill two pints from the well and handing them back to her. She says something else, and you think he almost flinches, you feel crazy, heart beating in your throat, like you're going to be sick watching your friend berate him. He turns to look at you, immediately finding where you are at the machines as Bo turns back towards the party. And Mark is saying something to you again, voice snapping when he realizes you’re not paying attention to him once again, and then tugging you none too gently back towards the group. Din scowls, brow pulling low, and whips the rag off his shoulder onto the bar top. You feel like you’re wading through mud again, like you did during those horrible early January weeks when the wound was fresh and putrid without the balm of him. 

“Can you pay attention to me for one fucking second,” this man, who you don’t like even a little bit and who you’re suddenly so thankful you never fucked, whines in your ear. He pinches your cheeks tight, almost painfully between fingers that are too soft and well moisturized, jerking your face towards his and pressing a too hard, reprimanding kiss to your mouth. You struggle in his hold, and suddenly hear Bo’s voice call out too loudly and in a tone that’s out of place amidst what is supposed to be a birthday party. 

“If you don’t quit jerking her around, I’m gonna kick you out of my bar.”

Mark pulls his mouth off of yours lazily, giving your face one more harsh squeeze before his indolent gaze moves to Din behind you. He doesn’t give up his hold on you, though.

“And who the fuck are you?” He asks, words all slow and arrogant. 

You struggle in his grip, suddenly feeling that the situation is at a boiling point you need to quell or run away from immediately. 

“You need to get your hands off of her now before I make you,” Din warns again. 

He sounds very calm, and you squirm out of Mark’s hold, feeling like you’re not where you’re supposed to be, like you’re on the wrong side. But Mark keeps his hold on your elbow, tight enough you worry you’ll have a bruise there later, and Din’s eyes catch the harsh grip, jaw tightening at the edge the way it does when he’s furious.

“I’m not gonna say it again.” 

Mark puffs his chest out against your back, still keeping you partially in front of him, like he’s using you as a shield from the taller man in front of him. 

“And I’m going to ask you again—” Mark says, petulant, a boy who’s not used to not getting his way, “who the fuck are you to tell me shit? Just some loser fucking bartender who—”

“Baby,” Din says very slowly, looking down at you, ignoring your stupid boyfriend’s tirade. His eyes are soft, your heart flutters madly. “I’m gonna need you to get the hell out of the way while I kick your boy’s ass right now.”  

Gently, he grips you by the elbow, attempting to move you out of the way while his other hand presses against Mark’s shoulder, trying to shove him back from where he’s got your other arm caught in a vice. But at the same time, Mark reaches behind himself, grabbing the closest thing in his vicinity. The empty beer bottle whistles through the air when he swings it towards Din’s face, knicking him in the brow with a sickening little sound before Din jerks back and out of the way of worse harm. 

“Damn, maybe that’ll finally knock some sense into him,” Bo quips jovially somewhere in the background. 

In less than a second, Din is moving faster than your anxiety-addled mind can compute. Pulling you out of Mark’s painful grip and shoving you behind himself and out of the way. You let out a weak little half-scream, realizing, finally, what’s happening, mind catching up, how Mark had tried to smash a glass bottle against Din’s face and how Din is now shoving him backwards while Mark swings his fist in a pathetic attempt at a right hook. Bo’s loud voice berates the two men, and Fen’s comforting hands are pulling you back and into herself. The security guard that checks IDs at the door is rushing back to help Din throw Mark out. 

You bury your face in Fen’s shoulder, her hands hugging you to herself. Bo’s voice signals her change in allegiance now, as she tells Mark what a fucking douchebag he is. 

“Aren’t you going to fucking do something?” You hear Mark’s voice scream in your direction. You peek out from the safety of Fen’s shoulder to look at him being pathetically dragged out by the security guard. “Huh?” He screeches, perfectly coiffed hair flopping lamely against his forehead, asking the security guard if he has any idea who he’s dealing with. God. “Are you kidding me! This asshole just attacked me, and you’re fucking staying? Fuck you!” His voice is nasty, childish. You’re humiliated you’d even brought him here. 

Din gives him one last hard shove for good measure, and a little slap against his cheekbone that’s more humiliating than anything else that’s transpired yet. “Keep talking to her like that— I fucking dare you,” before Mark is finally dragged out the door. 

When your eyes fall on Din, he’s got a palm pressed to his brow, a trickle of blood sliding down his cheek. You almost choke on your gasp, shrugging off Fen and Bo’s hands as they try and stop you from going after him when he moves towards Peli’s office in the back. 

He whips around when the sound of the slamming office door is stopped by your hasty grip as you slip in after him. The quiet snick of the lock turning is deafening in the silence of the room between the two of you. The months of separation reach a crescendo as you stare at each other, the both of you panting as if you’d run miles just to be here. 

He lets his bloody palm fall limply to his side, revealing the split skin of his eyebrow, and wipes away the slick crimson against the thigh of his jeans. Simply watching you as blood slides down the side of his face. You can't help the thought that it’s exactly what he deserves. Or exactly what you'd needed, to have him split open and bleeding for you. 

“Din…”

“What is it?”

His voice makes you want to cry. The familiar, deep sound; hopeful and fatigued.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. You’re bleeding,” you say again.

“Please. You have to listen to me,” he insists. “I’m so sorry.” 

His face scrunches up with that same agony his voice supplies, wincing when the split in his brow beads blood again. Ah— he hisses, turning to rummage through the desk drawers for the first aid kit, knocking a stack of papers to the ground in his haste, snapping you awake.

You rush forward, “Here, let me,” unthinkingly, taking the little square of gauze from his fingers, gently urging him back to lean against the desk’s edge. “It’s alright. Let me help you.”

You press the little white pad to the cut, watching the crimson bloom spread slowly. He’s breathing fast, panting, your chests almost brushing together with the way you’re leaning into him. Seeing his wide, shocked eyes at your touch, your nearness, you let your own gaze go unfocused in the line of your hand against his face so that you’re not forced to meet his stare. 

You keep the pressure of the gauze light, not wanting to hurt him further. You’d always tried to cause no harm. 

“Thank you,” he says through a swallow. 

All you can manage is a short jerk of your chin, letting your jaw loosen so that you can breathe through your mouth. He smells so good, like cinnamon and warm sweat. You can’t help it, really, when your eyes fall closed, lulled by the heat of his body so near to yours, skin prickling almost painfully, your eyes filling with tears—wanting to touch—and you hear his sharp intake of breath, the creak of wood. You open your eyes to look down at his fists wrapped tightly against the desk edge, knuckles white with the force of his grip. 

He struggles through several more swallows, mouth opening and closing before he finally says, “Did—did you end up liking the library? Did it turn out well?” This question spurned out of nowhere, out of days and days of silence after having known everything about each other for months and years. Or almost everything. 

He’d waited with you, through school and struggle, for you to finally find something to do with your life that was fulfilling, and then he’d gone and missed the actual happening of it, and you’re angry at him for it. Amongst so many other things. 

“Yes. I like it.”

That’s good. “That’s good.” His nervous nodding dislodges your hand at the split in his skin, and you take hold of his jaw firmly, holding him in place, freezing him up.  “Is it everything you hoped it would be?” he chokes out.

“Yes. I made friends.”

“That—That’s so good. I’m so glad to hear it.” He sounds like he really means it. Entirely out of your control, marionette on a string, your hand moves to cup his shoulder. The jutting wing of his clavicle pressed against the most sensitive hollow of your palm. 

His breath skips once, twice. 

“Did you get my message?”

“You’re an idiot.”

Your breath seems to go round and round, trapped at the hollow of your throat. 

“I know.” He tugs gently at your hair in soft reprimand. “So that’s a yes.”

“Yeah, I did.”

You take a small step closer, your knees between his knees so that when you reach for another pad of gauze, the curve of your hip presses into the muscles of his hard stomach. 

Pinpricks of heat move up and down your back at the sound he makes, and your hand shakes as you press it back against the cut. The blood flow is stopping, soon you’ll have to move away and mentally scramble for an excuse to stay close. 

The only thing you can come up with is to kiss him. 

It’s thoughtless, out of your own control. You still haven’t really looked at his eyes, and your mind has gone so far away, back to January perhaps, back to missing him worse than you’ve ever missed him before. 

Here, stood before him, with his hands on you once again, for the first time in eighty nine days, you feel lonelier than you had ever been. 

This is the only solution. 

Teeth clicking, it’s slippery, uncoordinated, pressing too hard against his mouth as you throw yourself at him, his grunt of pain when your fingers press too roughly against the cut on his face. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” someone says. 

He tastes like cinnamon, like memory. The way you remembered him during nights when your mouth felt full of salt. The tug at your hair is more insistent now, the only place he holds you, jaw hinging wide so that his tongue can slide fully against your own, he leans forward and off the desk to eat at you better. There’s a high pitched, pathetic sound coming from somewhere in the room, and you bring your arms around his neck, hugging yourself fully to him, moaning into his mouth and knocking his cap back off his head to run your fingers through his soft hair. 

He’s yet to put his hands on you fully. 

You pull back, ripping your mouth from his with a wet, smacking sound, “Touch me, Din.”

His palms flutter nervously over your shoulders, wide eyed look on his face, mouth kiss-reddened and wet. 

“We shouldn't do this.”

“Yes, we should.” You kiss him again, licking at his chin, teeth scraping along the stubbled edge. You want to press your hips to his, but you’re scared. “Please,” you say instead. 

He moans and you watch the working of his Adam’s apple, the up and down bob, pressing kisses to his throat and then licking into his mouth again. That out of control feeling from before bubbles inside of you, desperate for action. Desperate for him. 

“Wait—we shouldn’t,” but finally, his hands have reached for you, wide palms around your waist and pulling you into himself. He nips at your bottom lip hungry, kiss turning sloppier, uncoordinated, his mouth working desperately at yours. “We should—we should talk,” he struggles.

“No. Let’s just do it.”

“You’re going to hold it against me afterwards.”

“I won’t. It doesn’t matter.” 

Your mouth slides against his. Your hips meet, and you can feel him half hard and thickening down the leg of his jeans against your thigh. It makes you careless. 

“I don’t want you to hate me anymore,” he begs.

But with a grip on your bum, he grinds against you while you clutch tightly at his hair, his desperation at odds with his refusal, trying to pull each other closer. Some horrible sound of want pulses up from your belly and out your mouth like vomit. You want it so bad your cunt hurts. 

He’s saying stuff about how he doesn’t want you to be mad at him, about how he doesn’t want to hurt you, asking what it is you really need, asking to wait, to talk, but you aren’t listening anymore. You want him. The feel of his body, the way no one else will ever be able to give it to you like this. The way sex is good and real between the two of you because you love him and now he’s said he loves you too. You want him to erase the past eighty nine days with his hands and his mouth and his cock, and you don’t care how it’ll make you feel afterwards. 

“I’m in love with you, too.” 

You slip your never before said words onto his tongue. His whole body shivers and jerks. And you press your pelvic bone against the thick ridge of his erection, grinding frantically. 

“Fuck—”

“I love you,” you say again. “Please, fuck me.”

“We shouldn't.” But he’s still kissing you back, straightening off the desk to walk you towards the couch against the wall. 

“We should. We should. Please, Din,” you beg. 

In the center of the room, in the midst of Peli’s green shag rug, he stops you. Pulling back to cup your face in both of his wide palms, he looks between your eyes. You have that desperate need to know exactly what he’s thinking of you again, to know how he sees you, but it’s overridden by the fear of what you suspect he might actually be seeing. A desperate girl who hadn’t learnt her lesson, come back for a second walloping. 

“I don’t want you to be angry with me after this,” he says again. He sounds so sincere saying it, but you don’t know if there’s an alternative. 

“I won’t be. This is what we do.”

His eyes shutter, once, twice. You think pain flashes there, but you’re not certain you care. You wonder again if you’ve become a bad person after all this. 

“This is what we do?” His voice morphs into something hollow in the way he turns your words into a question. 

“I want you so badly. I’m so wet for you.” You pull him back towards your mouth, “Please—please, don’t deny me this also.” 

He hesitates only a second more before he’s kissing you again, laying you back against the couch as you cling to him, trying to climb your way up his body. 

Jesus, fuck— he curses when his hips fall in the cradle of your thighs, nothing but the flimsy cotton of your panties and fluttery sun dress keeping you from him. He pulls at your waist while he devours your mouth, hips rutting against the heat between your thighs. 

Taking a strong hold of your jaw, he holds you in place, restraining your squirming, palm cupping your bottom to lift you into his thrusting cock. The kisses he presses down the column of your throat turn slower, steadier, longer, and when he reaches the junction of your shoulder and throat, he tells you how much he’d missed you, and the way he says it, the way his voice comes up out of his throat, you know he’s telling the truth and you can’t help your sob of grief. You can’t tell him you’d missed him too, the words sound too small for the horror you’d endured the past months. 

Clinging to him, you wrap your legs around the small of his back, sandals lost and discarded, pressing kisses to his temple, his ear, his cheekbone. He kisses down your chest, in turn, pushing your cardigan back over your shoulders, pulling your dress low to find you braless, breasts hot and bare for his mouth. When he pushes the hem of your dress up your stomach to kiss the soft curve of it, tongue tracing around the ring of your navel, you think you’ll come just from that. 

When his whole mouth covers the curve of your sex, when he kneels on the ground between your thighs, sucking on the pink cotton turned translucent with your wet, you change your mind and tell him you’d missed him too.

He growls against your clit, dragging his teeth along your mound, all “Pretty little cunt. I fucking missed you—thought about this constantly,” as he pulls your panties down your thighs. 

Not so far gone you miss the way he tucks them into his jean pocket when he thinks you’re distracted by the spear of his tongue. 

The orgasm he sucks out of you is painful with how fast it comes on. Twisting in your belly, and wrung out of your cunt in a way you’re unaccustomed to after months of celibacy. Your knees shake around his ears, and you dig your heel into the meat of his shoulder, trying to grind against his face and kick him away in equal measure. And the sounds he makes between your thighs are obscene, the wet slurping, his groans as he palms the hard cock between his legs, humming when he sucks on your clit and presses the strong, flat muscle hard against you. 

When he crawls up the length of your body, kisses smeared with the sweet salt of your arousal, he whines into your mouth, unzipping his jeans and only managing to shove his pants down enough to tug his cock out. It hangs thick and heavy between your spread thighs shiny with your slick, making your insides heat, your cunt clench. Gently, he rubs the pad of his thumb against your clit, slippery and hot from orgasm. 

Spit, he demands, and when you do, head turned towards his hand, he not so gently shoves two fingers inside, deep and in one go, smearing your sex with your saliva to ease the way further.

It’s gross and so fucking hot. It hurts. 

“Oh, fuck—baby. This is not going to last long, I’m sorry.” Hand twisting, making room for himself, he pulls his fingers from you, little hole fluttering madly around nothing and slicks his cock in your wet, the dripping tip smearing against the inside of your thigh, against your sex. 

It’s okay, it’s okay, you tell him. Arching your hips to urge him inside of you, needing that heaviness to stretch you until you can’t take it, tugging him closer by your fingers twisted in the sides of his shirt. He pushes one knee to your shoulder, trapping it between his side and the couch-back, hooking the other one over his elbow so you’re caught and immobilized, folded in half as he starts to slick the wide head from the base of your spine all the way up to the swollen bud of your clit, the entire wet curve, pressing there hard once, making you cry and then circling your opening. 

He’s looking down at the wet mess between your thighs with what looks like open mouthed awe, and your eyes roll backwards, spine arching tight when he pops the head in, your breath coming in fast little pants. 

“Oh, fuck, finally,” he whispers, his long lashes fluttering shut.

“Ah—go slow, go slow. Fuck—gentle, please.” You dig your fingertips into his ribs.

“Yes, baby. Yes. I’m gonna be gentle with you. Fuck—” He pulls out, lets the ridge of his head pop out, catching on the rim, stretching it, and then back inside a couple of times, loosening you up before sliding in further just a tiny bit. With his thumb to your clit, he rocks slowly in and out, nudging deeper in small jerks of his hips, making sure it never really hurts. Being careful of the delicate muscles. You can feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, sliding beneath your bottom and onto Peli’s couch. God. 

“Is your period soon?” he asks breathlessly, a tiny nudge of his hips following. It’s like all you are is a bundle of nerves as you feel him slide further inside of you, a beating heart. 

Hmm— you mumble nonsensically, sweating, trying to wiggle closer to him despite the way he’s got you hooked open. You don’t want him to be careful, you change your mind—you just want him to fuck you. “Please, Din,” you whine. 

“Your period—it’s the end of the month—”

“What? No—no. It moved.”

Fuck—he grunts, drawn out and guttural, pulling all the way out, “Look. Look down. Watch how I fuck you. God, you’re desperate for it, hungry little pussy—” You can see the way your sex clings to him, dragging wetly so that a creamy trail of you is left slicked along his cock. 

He pulls you into himself by the back of the neck, pressing in again as he kisses you roughly, sliding almost all the way inside, pressing against a deep hurt like a muted bruise that makes your mind wake up. Fuck— “Condom—you… we need a condom.” He pulls back, pushes in again, there’s a wet slap of his thighs meeting your ass when you roll up to take him better. 

“I don’t have one. Do you?” he asks through gritted teeth, picking up the pace.

“No.”

“Then I’m not wearing a fucking condom.” 

Oh my god, you moan, clinging to him. You’re helpless like this, and Din groans against your cheek, stubble scraping along your jaw, and you sob with every thrust of his hips. The heat in you is overwhelming, the stretch of the wide base of him everytime he bottoms out and presses deeper than anyone else can, grinding there for a few seconds before pulling all the way out and pressing in again and again. You feel helpless like this, thighs spread wide and cunt dripping wet while he fucks you open, shoves against that spot that blinds. Helpless like you’re ruining your own life, like you never want it to stop, like all those months meant nothing, like it’s too much of a too-good-thing so it’s turned bad and rotten. 

You wonder, in a far away manner, if you can want someone too much. If something that was born of a good and desperate heart can turn ugly, easily weaponized—

You wonder who it is that’s wielding that weapon here and now. For some reason, you feel sure it isn’t him anymore, but it doesn’t make you feel good. 

“How many other girls did you fuck?” 

It’s not your fault, his cock is too good, it makes you ask, makes you stupid. 

“None,” he says through clenched teeth. He pinches your clit, a little mean. 

“I don’t believe you.”

“I swear. I promise.” You whine against his throat. “I couldn’t even think of it. I only want you—” He pulls your mouth back to his. 

The too-deep pain of his thrusts brings you to momentary awareness again, back to your previous thought— “You—oh, God, just like that— you have to pull out. You can’t come inside me. I’m responsible now—oh, that feels so good, Din, yes.”

Pressing your knees back against your shoulders, he nods once, jaw tense, intensifying the angle. You look down to watch the way your cunt parts for him, swollen and shiny wet with use, the way the thick of his cock slides in and out, it’s obscene, almost looks wrong, and he shoves in so, so deeply, a humiliating little squirt of liquid spurts from your cunt. 

He groans savagely at the sight, fucking you harder, squeezing the joint of your knee so tight it hurts.

You’re coming. Each press of the tip of his cock against your cervix is a pulse of your orgasm. The twisting heat between your hips moving up your belly to your breasts which you squeeze in your palms, tight so it hurts.

“Yes. Yes— don’t stop working my cock. You're such a good girl coming for me, yes, baby. I’m going to come, too,” he moans in your ear, pressing his hot chest against your bare one, biting down on your neck out of pure, raw instinct. 

“Pull out. Please, please, you have to pull out.”

He withdraws with a snarl, pressing his painfully hard cock to your stomach, sliding his palm over himself until he’s coming with frantic urgency. His spend falling in thick, long spurts across your sex and belly and breasts. The force of his orgasm so strong you can see each jerk of his cock as he grips himself, the tip flushed an angry red. As his pleasure hits it’s peak, he shoves two fingers back inside your still fluttering cunt, his middle finger tightly hooked inside of you, his thumb against your clit, squeezing both fingers tight until another little spurt of fluid trickles out of you. 

Looking at your eyes, he asks, “Who do you belong to?”

And in the aftermath of all this, there really seems no point in lying. 

“You, Din.”

He works his fist over himself fast, brutally, squeezing the head tight enough it looks painful, milking the thick spend out of himself. When he finally pulls his hand away, his fingers from your overwhelmed sex, he’s still half hard, as if unsatisfied he hadn’t been allowed to come inside of you. 

Looking down at the picture he’s painted of you, he hums contemplatively, smearing his come into your breasts, against your swollen sex and then pushing it inside, your cunt fucked open and shivering. 

You whine, wanting to tell him he shouldn’t but unable to manage the lie. When he presses his still half-hard, almost ready to go again cock back inside of you, laying himself over your chest, you start to cry. First a little hitch of your chest, a broken, silly thing, but building into true weeping, heaving sobs. He pulls back, afraid, eyes wide and panicked. 

“What’s wrong? What is it? Am I hurting you?”

“Yes,” you cry. “Yes. You’ve hurt me so much.” But you pull his head back to your breast, hugging him to yourself, letting him comfort you even though neither of you deserve it.

How do you tell him that you’re crying for this soft and helpless feeling filling the cavities of your heart, how you want to feel open and powerless beneath him, how giving yourself to him makes you feel good, letting go of that control, above all, desperate for him to give himself to you. 

What would he think of you if you did?

The question sits on the tip of your tongue, half a mind to ask him without even explaining the question. What would you think of me if you knew how I really feel?

Limp and shivery beneath him, he asks you, “Why are you doing this?” his mouth brushing against your nipple—crying, letting him back inside, hurting yourself or the both of you—who knows. 

“I don’t know. I can’t help it,” you tell him honestly. 

Eventually, he pulls you off the couch, and onto his lap on the floor, his cock gone soft with your crying, but still tucked safely inside of you. He lets you cry all the tears you need to cry, his mouth sliding soothingly over your temple, petting the crown of your hair. You stay like that long enough his cock starts to fill out again, and those deep inner muscles, accustomed now to months of disuse, flutter and twinge around him, making you whine softly. 

Christ, baby. “You’ll be sore,” he rumbles in that deep, sleepy voice. 

And the thought of that, the thought of that—of your body having to go through the physical healing process of forgetting him, marks fading, soreness healing, period coming, that’s what wakes you up. That re-lived horror, that physical loss—it’d been one of the worst parts of losing him.

You tense.

His sigh, one of recognition, of hurt, is long, before he’s shifting, pulling you off his cock and helping you to your feet. 

Why did I do that? What’s wrong with me? you mutter, spinning to look for your discarded dress you hadn’t even noticed he’d pulled off of you, your panties that you’ve now forgotten you won’t find because they’ve been stolen away in his pocket. 

“We shouldn’t have done that.”

His only response is a groan of frustration. 

You find your dress, pulling it roughly over your head. You can hear the sound of clothes shuffling behind you as he puts himself to rights, as well. 

“Was that a test, us not fucking, that I failed?” You whip around, turning on the offensive.

“It wasn’t a test. It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t—You’re the one that came in here—we should've talked. We need to talk, and you said this is what we do. You said this is all we are.”

“Well am I wrong? Did I lie?” you yell at him. It feels good. 

“Yes!” 

Jesus Christ—he groans, pulling his palm over his face, hissing when he meets the forgotten cut on his brow. 

“And that out there?” He flings him arm towards the door, “Your boyfriend, or whatever the fuck that clown was.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, sure. God. Fuck that—of course it’s my fucking business. Everything to do with you is my goddamn business.” He stomps towards you, jerking you up into his grip, giving you a little shake as if to jostle some sense into you. 

You stand barefoot before him, entirely unwilling to make this easier than you already have. You want to be difficult. You want to continue being careless. You want to make him suffer. 

“I don’t care.”

He blinks once, that hateful, indecipherable look, and lets you go. 

“That was really fucking embarrassing for you out there.”

The way he says it— “You’re being mean, Din,” makes all your bravado flee. Makes you small and scared in an instant.

“Does he fuck you like I just did? I doubt you get that wet for anyone besides me.”

“You’re being mean, Din,” you say again. 

“Am I?” he laughs once and humorlessly. “Then fight with me! Say something. Say anything. I am so sick of this goddamn silence!” 

“For what? Not that it’s any of your business,” you’re stupid, senseless mouth, “But we haven’t had sex. I’m taking it slow. I’m not going to make the same mistakes anymore.” He gives a real laugh at that. Jackass. “And why should I fight with you? Are you going to change? Or will you just say you’re changing and then do nothing—stay exactly the same and we’ll continue on as we’ve always done and I’ll have laid down and rolled over for fucking nothing? Hmm, tell me.”

He looks at you for a long moment in a horrible way, like he sees everything. Like he sees all your shame and all the things you see in yourself that you hate so much.

“Stop looking at me. I want to leave.” You’re horrified with yourself, sudden and sharp. 

“Fine.” His voice is quiet again, the fatigue is back. For a silly moment, you panic like you’ve disappointed him. “Go. Win your fight of nothingness. I’m done.”

“Fuck you. I’m done.” You turn for your shoes, scooping up your purse from where you’d dropped it by the door. 

He trails behind you like something you’d captured. Like a forgotten thing. 

“Why did you even come in here?” You fumble with the lock, crying. “Why did you follow me?”

But you have no answer, and nothing to show for yourself or your own dignity. And like a coward, or that same captured and forgotten thing, you run away from him. A little like a dance the two of you have been playing since you first met him. 

-

There is a phone number that calls the house sometimes. 

When his daughter picks up, she’ll stand quiet for several moments to listen to the voice on the other end without saying anything. When he is the one to answer, he finds the voice of the young man he has come to expect, asking if his daughter is home. His name is Din. The man has been given clear instructions to always refuse the boy—man. To always make excuses for his daughter. 

He’s good at following the direction of his wife. Of listening to the underlying tone of his daughter’s voice when she isn’t as forthcoming with him as she is with her mother, although he knows that this year she has been less so than she’d always been before.

He knows something happened with the boy. 

When she moved back home, there were parts of the man that were glad, happy, to have his only child back under their roof. They’d always been a close family, the trio. Tight knit in that way that two older, desperately yearning parents and their only child could be expected to be. They loved each other, but more importantly, they liked each other. They had always been very close and very honest. 

This year, that had changed. With her return, a pallid melancholy had followed her into the house that was impossible not to notice as much as she tried to hide it. He’d watch her on days when she’d walk down to the beach from the deck of their beloved home, the way she’d sit on the rocky sand, frozen by the gusts of sea-swept winds. Watch her walk back up the path too many hours later, blue in the face and bleak in the eye. 

But the man also understood that sometimes these things of the heart needed time and space to crawl their way out of the soul and let themselves be swept away to sea on their own. There was no easy scheme for a cure, only patience of which he’d always found he had an infinite well of for his wife and daughter. 

He had always been a soft man by nature, tall and thin, but pudgy enough around the middle which belied how good of a cook his wife had always been, how much he enjoyed a lovely glass of vintage and a rich dinner, or a large spot of brandy with dessert by the fireplace in the evenings. They’d always lived a comfortable, indulgent sort of life. They were professors by vocation, the both of them; mathematics and ancient Roman history, his wife and he, respectively. Purveyors of books and art and music, comfortable things. A love of knowledge had always been a thing that brought them together, had been the basis for their relationship, one of the reasons they’d fallen in love in grad school. And they had, truly, fallen very deeply in love. They still were, thirty years later, and they’d always made a conscious effort to show that to their child, to provide a strong example of an honest relationship. And they’d tried to instill the same sense of purpose and being in their daughter that they’d always strived for, raised her to live in her own mind, fed by the things she read, by honesty and kindness and responsibility. You see, the point was that they had been particular in her upbringing, sheltered and cared for and given everything they possibly could to ensure she’d turn out as self fulfilled as she wanted to be, that she was able to make for herself the things she dreamt of. 

He’d always felt that his personality, the things he enjoyed and gravitated towards, had set him up perfectly to serve as the father of an only daughter. A role that could sometimes be delicate for there were so many ways that she could’ve turned out; stoic and independent, anxious, removed, fanciful, perhaps a bit spoiled sometimes, but secretly that’s what he liked best, that’d she’d had a good life full of the things she wanted. But she was also mercurial, his daughter, sometimes, and given to bouts of distraction. She liked to live in her head, get lost in there on occasion, in her own worries and grievances. She was sensitive, too. Something he appreciated, respected, the great depth of feeling and empathy she’d always moved with. She was much like her mother in that sense. 

Given all of this, the man thus knew that whatever it was that had happened with the boy his daughter loved, had been something troubling indeed. Over the course of their relationship, he had been critical of the young man, of his obvious absences at his dinner table and their outings which had always been such a crucial element of what made up the nexus of their family’s core. But over time and the gentle admonishing of his wife, he’d understood that not everything was always as it seemed. 

The man sees this clearly, several weeks into April when the boy comes to their home. 

His daughter is upstairs in her room, unwell again, the way she’d been earlier in the year. Dark circles under her eyes, not eating enough, crawling into the safe space of their bed beside her mother during the night when they thought he was sleeping and wouldn’t notice. He watches from his comfortable leather wingback at the desk in his study as the young man sits in his car for almost an hour in front of their house. He recognizes him for the car, really, stories of the old thing fondly recounted by his girl as she’d tell them about the boy she cared for. The young man clutches the wheel tightly between his fists, rolling the window down, rolling it back up, talking to himself, tugging on his own hair, smoothing down his collar an unaccountable number of times, before he finally gets out of the car, walks around it three times and then finally makes his way up the path to the front door. 

The hydrangeas are out in full bloom in the garden now, one of the most beautiful times of year in the Cape. 

Standing from his desk before the boy knocks, he looks up at where he knows his daughter hides, sure she’s spotted the car already and must be waiting to see what her father will do now, how he will protect her. 

He stands at the door for a few moments after the knock comes, trying to collect himself—he’s wanted to meet this young man for a long time, after all—and makes sure to check the front of his sweater vest for any stray crumbs of the rum cake he’d had after lunch, before he pulls the door open. 

The young man looks terribly frightened. But also terribly brave. 

“Can I help you?” he asks in that patient voice he uses on students when they’ve come to beg for extra credit for their failing grade. 

“Hello, sir. My name’s Din. I’m looking for your daughter. I was wondering—well, I just…” He splutters, “If I could speak to her, is all…”

“I’m sorry, Din. But she isn’t home right now. Perhaps you could give her a call later and see if she’s in.”

His jaw works several times, a flush of embarrassment bleeding across his face. 

“Of course. Of course. I should have called first,” he says, which he had. The man had been the one to pick up the phone this morning and give him excuses. 

He considers for a moment, before he says: “She works at the main branch of the library in the city, perhaps you’ll find her there.” Deciding suddenly to have pity on the sad sight taking up space on his doorstep and in his daughter’s heart. He’ll make it up to the girls later, this aid to the other team.

“Oh, I’m not sure. Maybe—yeah. Maybe I’ll try that. Thank you, sir.” The young man shuffles awkwardly, running his palm over the back of his hair, turning to look back at the front garden. He sees his eyes catch on the flowers.

“Do you enjoy hydrangeas? I tend to them myself.”

“Oh, sure. Yeah, they’re great. Really beautiful.”

“Soothing practice, gardening.” He tells the young man that he’s trying to teach his daughter, but that she hasn’t taken to it so far. 

Din laughs at that, familiar in a way, with her tendencies. “No, I wouldn’t imagine she’d have the patience for it.” There’s fondness there, he can see. Maybe even love, too. It makes the man feel suddenly very sad for his girl and for this man, neither of whom can seem to find their footing with each other. 

“What year is that?” he asks then, tipping his chin at the old car.

“Two thousand eight, sir.”

“Ah, not so bad—good model. It’ll last you a while yet, if you take care of her.”

“Yes, sir. She’s been reliable.”

“Always a good thing to be.”

“Yes—yes, sir,” he trails off awkwardly, nodding, but he lets the silence sit for a moment, never one to mind a lack of chatter. There’s much to learn in the silences that sit between people. “Well, okay. I’ll go, then. Goodbye. And thank you. And I’m sorry, sir.” His voice is grave. 

“It’s alright, Din. Maybe next time,” the man tells him gently. 

“And I— I just wanted to say that… that it’s really good to meet you.”

“You too, Din. I’m glad I got the chance to meet you, too.”

“Alright, goodbye.”

He turns to go, walking down the steps, when the father calls, “Good luck, son.” There’s gratitude, also heartbreak, in the boy’s face, when he nods back at him. 

The man follows him down the steps, waiting to watch him get in his reliable old car and drive away from the girl that hides in the house upstairs. Turning to look at their home, the old New England build on the waterfront that he’s always been so proud of, the home where they raised their daughter, where he and his wife will grow old and die together, he sees his girl’s face, just there, in the window of her bedroom. Peering down the street to where the car has disappeared, perhaps waiting to see if the young man will turn around and try again. 

-

Through the month of May, you go to the beach every day. You’ve always been a little afraid of the ocean, of water you can’t see the bottom of. The water is never warm, but every day you manage to make it a little further out—trying to face your fears. 

You’d not been able to set any resolutions in January, no energy to think of anything better on your horizon. But now, with the dawn of summer and warmer months coming into bloom, you make this your goal—to make it out into the water until it reaches your heart. 

Each day you make a little bit of progress, and afterwards, you return home to your mother, a little sunburned but cheerfully tired. At moments, there is cheer to be found—while you wade in the ocean—even if the bruise of Din still remains. 

And eventually, as you’d always suspected, change comes because things always change.

It had come on a Wednesday afternoon, picking up tomatoes for your mother after work. You’d seen an old man shopping alone. He’d been choosing his produce very carefully, a little hunched, fingers gnarled and liver spotted. For some reason, the sight of him had stolen your attention. And afterwards, in the parking lot, you’d seen him again, carefully stowing his groceries in the back of his little car. It had been a randomly chill day in April, wind swept in from the sea over the Cape, and he’d had no one to help him, a plaid scarf wrapped around his throat in the middle of spring. He’d been wearing two too big shoes, the orthopaedic sort, and his pleated trousers were tucked into the back of them, a little funny looking. He’d taken a bushel of bananas out of one of the brown paper bags very carefully, turning them this way and that to make sure they were unharmed. His movements, careful and precise in his aloneness. 

It’d made you cry for no reason, and you’d had to sit in the parking lot for thirty extra minutes, making sure the puffiness in your face had gone down before you’d been able to drive home to your parents. 

And the thing was, that you were very tired, that you didn’t want to be sad anymore. You didn’t want to cry in grocery stores ever again. 

Or, perhaps, it was that after that brief, harried space of time in a locked office, you’d realized you’d been using him as a sort of excuse, Din. That you’d thought on the measure of a weapon, on the significance of a fight, how a person or a love could be turned into something self harming for no reason at all, how for some silly or broken fault in your character you didn't think you could ever deserve to keep him for yourself, and so you’d kept your rules and your distance the same way he’d always kept his. And everyone had ended up hurt and alone anyways. 

There was no rhyme or reason to it. You had never seen that in your home, been given reason to believe that you were a person that could not deserve a good thing, and yet, you did sometimes. 

And you didn’t want to be like that anymore.

You didn’t want to use Din as a vehicle of that belief anymore. You wonder if the two of you had ever approached the other without the intent to sabotage. You wonder if he hadn’t, if you’d even have been able to recognize it. 

It had been like waking up one morning, hearing a dog bark, knowing you're in your parents house, remembering your own history and who you are and meeting that limit of pain which you will put up with for love, reaching that line and knowing it cannot be crossed. You’d met that limit within yourself, and after that there was only a great fatigue to settle into. 

You wanted to be sunburnt. You wanted to be content. You wanted to let go of the things that served you no purpose. 

On the mornings you’d go out for a swim before work, your father would set up a portable radiator in your room for you to come home to and warm yourself from the ocean chill. Now, you sit on your bed wrapped in a towel after a warm shower, letting your hair drip cold down your back onto the duvet. 

When your mother comes in, a gentle knock preceding her, she sits down next to you, her soft hand on the warming skin of your back. The little radiator from your father belches hot air across your shivers. 

“Breakfast?” Her voice is quiet—sometimes you worry she’s afraid of you. 

You nod your head slowly, eyes out the window and unseeing, stomach full of a grief that you finally feel prepared to purge. 

“I saw Din,” you tell her instead. 

“I figured as much.” She waits for you to say more, and when you don’t she can’t help but press, “And?”

You shake your head, shrugging. “Nothing. Stupid…”

“Something happened?”

“I just got my hopes up. I’ll do better next time.”

“Daddy said he came here. That they spoke.”

“I know.” 

She pets your hair, brushes water droplets from your shoulders. 

“Would I sound…” you continue, “Would I sound crazy if I said I can't understand how it ended?”

“What do you mean, baby?”

“I wish I’d been stronger. More honest. I thought I’d hold out longer.”

“You tried for a long time.”

“But I don’t think I was ever honest.” You finally turn to look at your mom. “He isn’t bad.”

“I know he’s not.” She smiles at you kindly. You’re ashamed you’ve tried to hide from her all year. 

“He isn’t bad,” you say again. “He’s just…I don’t know. He’s a lot of things. Heartbroken.” You look away, the heater finally churns to a slow stop and your skin tightens with the drying water. “I think he needed me to hold out longer.”

“I don’t think you’d love him the way you do if he was bad. You’re my sweet girl, I know that sometimes you’re unsure, but I know your heart is honest even if sometimes your words don’t come out the way you’d like them to. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the truth about our feelings. Sometimes, people say things that aren't easily understandable because they've never been taught how to say it another way. ”

“But I was taught. You taught me.” 

She shrugs, shaking her head, still smiling. A sort of well, what can you do? type of look. 

You can’t understand why you’d taken so long to talk about this out loud. Perhaps you’d been ashamed, perhaps it was more of that unsure self doubt that had kept your tongue locked away. Terrible, festering insecurity. But you realize now that the only solution is to take better ownership of the things you feel, the things you want. 

“It’s just that it’s hard because all this time has passed and all this silence—we were never honest with each other, and I was so hurt and it was all just so terrible. And anyways, still, I’d do anything for him. And I’m so worried I’m never going to find anyone else I love as much as I love him. That I’ll never find anyone to be with the way you and Dad are together.”

“That’s not a reason to go back if you don’t really want to, though,” she says gently. 

“Sometimes I think that if he came back, and he’d changed completely, I’d take him back then.”

“If you’d change him completely, then maybe you don’t really love him.”

“Maybe. Maybe I only love parts of him.”

“You can’t fix a person, my love. They have to choose to do that for themselves.”

You wonder if she might not be talking about you. 

“But also…part of what it means to be a partner is helping them fight for that fix. And fighting—conflict—I know you’re afraid of it, but it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. You don’t always need to be so afraid—holding onto that much fear will hurt a good heart. You have to let it go. And sometimes to fight, to fight for something you love, it’s a good thing. It’s a concession or an admission, a dedication and a strengthening of that love. Don’t be afraid to fight.”

“I think he wanted that—to fight with me.”

Tears slip down your face and she wipes them away from your cheeks. 

“Then go fight with him. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Sometimes it’s okay to try one more time. It doesn’t make you weak or naive. All it means is that you tried again. Sometimes we all need one more chance.”

That Sunday, you wake early and go for a swim. It’s warm outside, and the rocks are sun baked when you step carefully over them toward the water, letting them burn the soles of your feet. You start slowly, first only your ankles, then up to your knees. The Atlantic is never warm, no matter the time of year, and when the saltwater reaches your thighs you’re wracked with gooseflesh and shivers until you’re up to your hips and decide it’s time to abandon all fear. You wade forward until the water has finally reached your heart, but you don't need to go any further. You have no interest in being swept away and lost anymore.

Your feet are firmly planted in the sandbed. 

You let yourself sway there, jerked by the waves until the morning sound of children’s laughter fades and then it’s just the water. 

Sun high in the horizon, the water is dark ahead of you, and looking back at the time you’d met him, you’d been so young. So naive. So ready to let yourself be hurt. So ready for failure, desperate for it, even. Neither of you had been prepared for the intensity of what it was you’d find together or the struggle it would be to work through your respective faults. And you’d insisted for so long that it would all end in nothing, shattered glass left on the table cloth, looking for the end of everything in photographs. Sure that it could never work. 

But look at you now, unable to move on even after that very failure.

You’d read books, you’d starved your body. You’d tried to be closer to God, to understand your mother. Still, you could not purge yourself of him. 

You swim back to shore. Your shoulders are sunburnt. You get in your father’s car, and you drive to him. 

You tell yourself that if he’s not there, it’ll be your sign from God and that’ll be your answer. There will be no more wondering, no more second chances, no more glances back at the past. And you repeat your mother’s words like a prayer, some things are worth fighting for. 

Standing in front of his door, twelve minutes and some later, it really is a lovely drive, you hold your five fingertips up to the face of his front door and you don’t wonder whether you’ll do it or not, knock, because you’ve already decided on his second chance, but there’s a strange part of you that wishes he’d just suddenly know you’re out here and come open it without having to. 

But there’s no crowd here for him to find you instinctively in. There’s only just the two of you, separated by all the things you could never say. You make a fist, you rap your knuckles, and there he is. 

He pulls the door open and he doesn’t say anything at first but neither can you. What’s there to say to the person you’ve decided to love again with honesty? To the person you want to give all your second chances to and who you hope will give them in return. To the person you want to fight with. Because faced with him, the imagining of seeing hearing touching tasting again when faced with the corporeal reality is almost fragmentally unimaginable, makes all your carefully planned words scatter at your feet. 

He’s right where you left him.

The specter-like-hologram of that terrible night made reality, but with something else equally intangible or unbelievable which you can also now tell is different. That tells you something has changed here, that it isn’t exactly just as you’d left it. 

He gapes like a fish for a few seconds, you've taken him by surprise. And then he flushes bright red, scowling angry all of a sudden. 

“Are you ever going to unblock my number?” he demands, furious. 

It makes you want to laugh, which you do, and then cry, just a little. Yes, you think, fight with me. 

The sight of your laughter throws him for a loop again, but then that helpless thing, and he’s smiling back at you, too. 

“My father really liked you,” you tell him. “He wants to know if you’ll come to dinner Thursday night.” This is your second chance, Din. Take it. “And I’m here to fight with you, too. Just so you know. I want to fight. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, smile blooming bright and real. “Can I bring Greg?” His perfect, true smile. Pulling you inside by the wrist, he takes your face is his hands and he kisses you—fuck, I love you. Maybe it’s a moment of mutual understanding, that everyone deserves a second chance. That everyone deserves a chance to be honest just one more time. 

From the back of the house, you hear Grogu’s gleeful shriek of your name, screaming that he can’t believe you’re back. Din kisses you again, deeply, like he loves you the way he said he does. And you finally feel prepared to believe him. 

Later that evening, after hours of dinner-time conversation where half a year of school time shenanigans and art projects and the highs and lows of loving the Knicks have been recounted, you and Din lay together in bed. You don't know what time it is. You’ve promised yourself that tomorrow, you won't look at the calendar, you won't count days ever again. There’s no reason to be a keeper of time any longer. 

With your nose and mouth pressed against his throat, the humid wash of your breath fanning against his skin, he gives a nearly drunk sounding purr of satisfaction. Exchanging honesties and apologies and self doubts, his fingers travel up and down your naked back, and you tell him that the day you met him never ended for you. He tells you that you had always felt so far away, so far removed, but that he only felt alone when you weren’t with him anyways. 

A second chance is not an easy thing to earn, but it doesn’t have to be a difficult one either. Sometimes, it’s easy to just be grateful, to just bask in letting yourself have the thing you want. 

You drift in and out of sleep in his arms, and when he turns you over onto your belly, stretching himself out over your prone body to cup the swell of your stomach and the weight of your breast, pushing inside of you again, it feels easy to be grateful for the chance to be here.  

And he tells you: “If you give me the chance, I’m going to make you happy every single day. I’m going to try harder every single day.” You tell him that you will, too.

The cricket song comes in through the open window, and you believe in each other. 

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

[auriidae]

can i ask more info about the ethubs roadtrip au? it looks so fun and silly! also love your artstyle, its so squishable

HECK YEAH YOU CAN! and thank you so much aww :D i appreciate it!

ethubs roadtrip au is a story that exists mainly in my head atm !! i know i make it look silly with the doodles but it’s supposed to have a healthy mix of silliness as well as serious-ish stuff :’) in short, the plot follows bdubs n etho running from the same Thing From Their Past while. not realizing that the other is doing the exact same thing LOL. shenanigans as well as heartbreak ensue!

a more detailed summary of the hypothetical story, if anyone’s down for that, is like. bdubs n etho have been living together in etho’s apartment since bdubs Quite Literally crashed there a few months ago. modern day-ish setting, and ethubs r old friends from the same town/whatevs ✌️ one day the guys they’ve been running from show up! and ethubs simultaneously Flip The Freak Out while Trying Not to Look Like They Are Flipping The Freak Out. etho suggests a spur-of-the-moment road trip and bdubs goes Oh Haha Etho You’re So Smart And Cool And Have The Best Ideas so they pack up their things and book it. after that it’s lots of open road. nonsensical conversations after hours on the highway to keep each other sane. hushed phone calls at rest stops they try not to let the other hear. getting into hotels past midnight and sharing a bed in the few hours between then and morning ETC ETC ETC you see what i mean by ‘healthy mix of silliness and attempted real character studies’ pff. anyways i'm not getting into it all here because this post is already too long, but yeah it’s a whole! story!

i’m not sure if i’ll do anything with it (longform fic-wise, i mean) because i’m worried that the characterization is a liiittle self-indulgent lol. but it’s so cool to hear that other people r interested in the idea! so maybe i might?

[turtleblogatlast]

Something I’ve been thinking about lately is that small moment in “Air Turtle” where immediately after the Daves lose yet another game, Leo says how sorry he is and how he’s doing his best as the mascot. This moment is so short but it’s honestly jam-packed with a whole heap of characterization.

His need to apologize for things clearly not his fault - especially when it feels like he messes up the job he was given despite doing the best he can (the phrase “it’s not about you” takes a new meaning when this is one of the lessons to be learned from that - that he is not always solely responsible for things going wrong), his need to save face and make a connection with an older adult man in his life (something he consistently does throughout the series - he’s got a few daddy issues, always collecting potential father figures, it’s no wonder he jumps at the bit to keep rapport), and the way he sounds and looks and the words he chooses really pushes how he is just a kid (“Mr. the Dunk, I’m so sorry”).

Like I know it’s a one off moment that doesn’t truly mean much, but when put against the rest of the series it works really well with the rest of Leo’s established character and helps in solidifying later concepts as well.

[constantfragmentation]

Arcane S2 Thoughts

I've had a week to digest this season and well, I guess I have the unpopular opinion of being very disappointed. After the initial flash of gorgeous animation and some ooo's and awe's.... I was left with a bitter aftertaste. I can rewatch S1 loads of time. I don't think I can watch S2 again.

I'm happy for the fans that loved it and got what they wanted or the shippers that got what they wanted. I'm happy for you. Do your thing.

Me? Not so much. Even as a Silco fan (and I admit to squeeing for any footage of him at first), I'm not pleased. Yeah, my young Silco is a nerd, man-bun hottie, but that's where it ended for me. His entire characterization was nothing like the character I fell head over heels for in S1.

Vander's Flashback: I honestly don't find Felicia's inclusion necessary at all. In fact, I think it waters down everything between Silco and Vander. Their knowing her and the kids creates more questions, plotholes, and problems than it supposedly solves.

Why is Vander only in those memories with the kids? It's before the fallout with Silco. Why don't the kids know or remember nice Silco? Why do they only fear him (obv that's from Vander and Benzo, yes?)?

Why doesn't Silco seem to know Powder at Vander's dead body? Why would he kill Felicia's kids? None of it makes any fucking sense if he cared about Felicia. He hates Vander so much, he hates the kids too because he adopted them?

How the hell does S2 Young Silco turn into S1 Silco? Riot really messed this one up. Vander's attempted murder didn't change his entire personality.

It was a rebellion battle. People were going to get hurt and killed. They had to know this. So, whether Silco accidentally killed Felicia (as some fans are debating) or she died, is so damn dumb for Vander to solely blame Silco. Takes the kids, becomes a pacifist FIRST and then decides to (shave and grow younger) kill his brother for the greater good. Doesn't make one lick of sense narratively.

The narrative, characterization and animation inconsistencies don't help from S1 either. The drowning scene doesn't fit the S2 explanation. They're too young. Vander had a beard and appears much older on the bridge. Hell, S2 Young!Silco looks older than S1 Young!Silco. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. If people want to kiss Riot's ass, fine, but there was too much that was straight up lazy writing.

Silco's death is just glossed over considering how important he is. Silco did what Vander couldn't. Even without Shimmer, the Underground was thriving. Cait's mother's death/burial/statue gets more screen time and Silco gets dumped in the river. No one seems to question his death or what happened? Yeah, ok.

I'll use this moment to complain about the excessive music video montages this season too. I watched S1 again and the writing and use of music worked in unison and enhanced scenes. S2 felt like scenes in between music videos and it was irritating.

There was so much screentime wasted that could have been good dialogue heavy scenes that S1 was great at. Instead, time wasted on poorly executed plotlines that needed way more time to flesh out (Mel, Ekko and Viktor) and we have slowmo music videos and MCU fight scenes. Hermie's guitar song and Mission Impossible jokster crap was laughable and not in a good way.

Riot tried to pack too much into one season, and it was a mess. This season felt like watching a Marvel movie. Cool action sequences with little to no substance. All the nuance and grit from last season were gone in favor of the 'good vs. bad' trope. All the political-societal issues in S1 were abandoned that were far more fascinating to explore.

Mel has superpowers now? It feels all out of place. Her, Ambessa, and the Black Rose plot have zero time to make it interesting and plausible. She was introduced as this master manipulator/politician and her sage persona feels so forced.

Jesus Demigod Viktor was too much. I was excited for the Machine Herald and the psychedelic Arcane magical multiverse took me out. Making him to be the big baddie and timeloop it around to Jayce felt like a big cop out. Viktor deserved better. Hell, Jayce deserved better.

So much was sacrificed to make the whole Arcane magic THE point of the series when it was one of the least interesting aspects of the show. Hextech for weapons and the continuing problems between Piltover and Zaun was RIPE for storytelling. It seems each act needed several episodes to cover.

Ekko sure as fuck deserved better than that half assed time warp with Hermie. The AU really bothered me. Everything felt wrong. EVERYTHING. Nothing was explained well at all. It felt like complete fan service at the expense of the characters. Before people rip me saying "well duh! It was an AU!". You don't assassinate characters and plot to have a happy ending that insults your viewers.

They turned Zaun (its own cool character) into the bargain basement of Piltover. How is it sunny and pretty? Really? Mirror tricks? Everyone just forgave Piltover after years of oppression?

You're telling me Vi's death saved humanity? Fuck that shit right now. Piltover just stopped because a kid died? Suddenly everything became better? What happened to Jayce? Viktor? Hell, Hermie after decades didn't give two shits about Zaun, so what changed with the Council? Where's Singed? I don't buy it.

I don't buy Jinx/Powder being super normal smart girl. I LOVE JInx, but I believe she had mental issues prior breaking into Jayce's apartment. I don't think Vi's death made that go away (as I don't believe Silco's death did either). As someone who battles with mental health, this is insulting to me as a viewer.

I hated AU Silco. There. I said it. He just forgave Vander? Really? Bullshit. The reason Vander tried to kill him is stupid. A simple letter changed Silco? That fluffy-haired softy is not Silco. I can't imagine that Silco being the one who fought a rebellion. He probably would not have become a mob boss peddling drugs but this AU softboi dad feels so wrong. I never would have stanned AU Silco. Not in a million years.

S1 Silco's traits didn't magically appear because Vander betrayed him. The young S1 Silco had to be similar in many ways to older S1 Silco. Drive, ambition, ruthlessness, willing to die for a cause. I don't see Felicia's death changing that. I certainly don't see Vi's death changing that.

If Vander needed to kill Silco to stop the violence, etc, it's because he saw Silco as a threat to him or society as a whole. S1 Vander is known as The Hound. So, he seems to be violent as well. He takes credit for building the Underground when Felicia credits both 'bozos' for it. So Vander being upset she died and blaming Silco to the point of murder is a slap in the face to fans' intelligence.

I do hate that by Vi's death, everything is magically better. I can't express how much I hate that. AU Powder was irritating and was nothing like my Jinx that I love. Again so much wasted time that could have been better spent on good character driven scenes that actually advance the plot.

Pointless characters. Introduce Isha (who I adored). Make her seem important to Jinx. Kill her and never mention her again. So what was the point of her inclusion this season? Just to make Jinx suicidal? I hated that also. Again WASTED SCREENTIME.

Oh, and Caitvi was a disgrace. I think shippers deserved better here, too. Caitlyn goes crazy dictator because of guilt over her mom. Granted, Caitvi only knew each other for a week-ish? Not a lot of time to make their relationship serious past an infatuation. Cait turns from all her good points last season to Ambessa's padawan.

Don't get me started on that side piece Maddie. Really? Cait you were that hard up? And that long awaited sex scene was a big eye roll. Vi goes to her sister, and shit goes to hell, and a few minutes later, she's fucking Cait in the same cell. Vi was reduced to shit this season.

I mean, these characters just got shafted in every way for a high speed train wreck ending that we've seen a million times in Disneyfied stories. Action sequences were more important than actual character development and plot.

You can't make me believe that one speech from Jayce 'seeing a possible future' suddenly got Zaun to work with and dress up as Piltover soldiers? Really?

I had high hopes for Sevika, and the girl got shit nothing to do except in two episodes. Her seat on the Council feels like a last-minute decision and not worthy enough to expand on.

What made S1 so great was the class divide between Zaun and Piltover and how it affected the characters. S2 decided to scrap that and go with the easy good vs evil trope instead. Even the parallels didn't have the same hit as last season.

I did like Jinx talking to her 'ghost' Silco in the jail cell. He was calming to her in contrast to Milo/Claggor except the implication that she should die (that's what I got out of that).

We didn't even get much from Singed. Yeah, he got his daughter back (in some form) but his story was so blah. We didn't get nearly enough of him and Warwick and what made Warwick.

I guessed a few years ago it was going to be Vander but I didn't like how it was handled.

Too many plotlines all rushed together without getting any decent screentime and explanations that don't confuse or insult viewers intelligence. OR you have to be a LOL fan/player to understand. I never played LOL before S1 and wasn't confused as to the main plot.

I loved all the characters in S1 and felt they were pretty much watered down or assassinated in S2 for an apocalyptical Demigod villain vs humanity battle done to death finale.

The Zaun/Piltover political-societal problems, parallels, corruption, science going wrong, pathway to hell paved with good intentions themes from S1 was so much better in every single aspect.

I'm still a fan of S1 and the characters and frankly, I'm going to ignore 95% of S2.

[theweeklydiscourse]

Yeah and one more thing, Cassian is a worthless bitch. How much can an “icy, amused gleam in Cassian’s eyes” tell us? I’ll give you an answer, Cassian is simply a dog that obeys whatever orders his master gives him and delights in carrying out his will. “Ick” doesn’t even begin to describe the feelings I have towards this moment of characterization, it gives me concrete evidence of Cassian’s worthlessness as a love interest.

Let’s go over his plan, shall we? Cassian intends to take Nesta on a gruelling hike as a punishment for her telling Feyre the truth, but it is strongly implied that he is inflicting this punishment to placate Rhysand’s rage about being exposed as a liar. Nesta, a person who has never been hiking before, is forced to carry a pack that is 1/3rd of her body weight up a mountain during an emotional crisis. Cassian’s says nothing about what Feyre told him, he barely speaks to her during the hike and leaves her alone with her guilt and by extension, her suicidal ideation. Tell me, how exactly is this meant to help Nesta? This is exactly why I’ll never buy the Inner Circle’s arguments that they only want to help Nesta, this is not helping, this is abuse masquerading as therapy.

Oh! So he does know that she hates herself! This makes his plan even better. In the midst of her obvious emotional turmoil and guilt, he can take her to a location where one could easily fall and die/harm themselves, all while not telling her anything about Feyre’s recovery and letting her anguish for two days straight! He’s the fucking worst!

[littlelambscandyland]

Hello! I've seen that your requests are open so if it's alright, is it okay if you write platonic yandere Tenth Doctor with a teen companion whom he just sees as his little one? And teen reader got so creeped out and tries to leave the TARDIS and him which in turn made the doctor forced to keep them in the TARDIS (kidnapping) with a special room already prepared for them Incase they tried to leave and it's basically a nursery where he would try to force the reader to age regress because in his words, reader is too young to make such assumptions and shouldn't be by herself.

Anyway thank you!

I'm literally living for this request rn. I really do think that the Tenth Doctor is a delusional yandere and I really love this concept and tying that in a little. I still feel new to writing for Doctor Who so I hope I characterized him properly. I hope you enjoy the story!

Surprise

^^Live reaction of when reader said she was going to leave^^

It's not that you didn't care for the Doctor, you just had to leave. It was all just too much. Every moment, every touch just felt wrong. Felt off. It was like he saw something that wasn't actually there when he looked at you. So you packed your bags, and you know he isn't happy about it, but you had to leave. Maybe you were overthinking, but you didn't think so. You thought this through, and things were weird.

Eventually, the little things just pile up. A few examples include...

Just the other day the Doctor insisted, in public, that you couldn't possibly understand how to feed yourself the food. Eventually you gave up fighting and were left with the alien hand feeding you in the middle of the foreign restaurant.

He's constantly explaining things to you like you were a toddler. Of course you thought he did that with all humans, but when he interacted with others, like Donna, he spoke to them like an adult. Yeah, you're a teen, but you're not a toddler, and you are definitely not stupid.

Another thing is, the Doctor insists on carrying you around places. He'll suddenly ask if you're tired then start carrying you around with his freaky alien strength.

You noticed he always pushes people away from you. Anytime someone tries to talk directly, unless it's one of the other companions, he stands between the two of you and dominates the conversation. It's quite isolating.

One time, during a particularly long adventure, he kept introducing you to people as his kid. Once again, he easily explained it was for the cover, but the way he acted and the way he said it felt deeper. The Doctor kept you by his side that entire trip; quite literally, as he held you on his hip half the time you were there.

Maybe it was just in his nature. You don't know anything about aliens, but you can't handle the oddities anymore. You need your life back without a lanky man, alien, dude trying to dote on you.

You didn't have too much to pack, most of your stuff was provided by the TARDIS. Of course, you wanted to take some more with you, but it just didn't feel right. You did pack some of the little trinkets the Doctor had gotten you over the past few months. Was it a few months or was it years? You haven't aged, so you're almost certain it's only been a few months, but then again, it feels like it's been a lot longer. You shake your mind clear and continue packing.

You throw your final outfit into your bag and zip it up. A sigh passes your lips as you sit on your bed. You feel terrible for leaving, you feel exhausted, you feel nervous, and you feel kinda liberated. You'll miss going on adventures, and you'll miss the Doctor. You just have to live your own life. You have to grow up, and it seems like he doesn't want you to do that.

A light knock startles you. Looking up you see the Doctor peeking his head inside nervously. You're glad he doesn't seem as upset as he was earlier when you told him you wanted to go home. You watch as he looks around your room. Seeing all the trinkets missing from your shelf and the suitcase on your bed he deflates a bit. Did he not realize you were serious? Watching the sad look in his eyes you assume he was more just hoping you weren't.

"All ready to go?" He holds an incredibly sad smile.

Guilt eats at your gut. "Yeah..."

The alien looks around one more time before clasping his hands with a forced enthusiastic smile. "Wonderful!" The Doctor looks at you for a second. "Well before you go I do have one last thing to show you."

You hesitate for a moment.

"C'moon one more mini adventure before you're off!" He smiles, almost devilishly. "We don't even have to leave the TARDIS."

"An inside adventure." You muse with a small smile. It wouldn't hurt. You couldn't lie, you were curious.

The Doctor holds his hand out to you with a bright smile. Slightly giddy, you grab his hand and let him lead you out of your room. Now that you think of it, that's another thing he enjoyed, he was always holding your hand. You both walk down the halls of the TARDIS in a silence that was much less awkward than earlier. The Doctor's mood already seems to have lifted from earlier.

After a few minutes you start to wonder more frequently where the two of you were walking. You always forget how big the TARDIS really is.

"What are showing me anyways?"

The Doctor smiles back at you. You always did look at him with stars in your eyes. "It's a surprise."

"Ugh, lame!" You jokingly complain.

Eventually you end up near a pretty familiar looking door. It was the Doctor's bedroom. You furrow your eyebrows in confusion. You've been in there once or twice before. Your most prominent memory was when you were sick and the alien insisted on having you stay with him instead of sleeping alone.

"Why are we here?" You question again.

"Still a surprise." He leans down with a slight playful whisper.

He opens the door, swinging it open with a playful "Allons-y" and a gesture to go in. You roll your eyes at him, but follow in anyways. Waiting for him to direct you, you take a second to look around. The room looks as nice as you remember. It was the stars randomly placed that really interested you. The different decorations take your attention for a few seconds.

"Little Star?" The Doctor calls to you.

You were waiting for him to finally call you one of his random nicknames again. Either way, you draw your attention back to him. He grins wider as he points at a door. A door you don't remember being there before, but then you've never really investigated the Doctors room before.

"Well... Open it." He says with a dramatic push.

You grin, he really thought you were gonna make it easy on him. "What if I don't want to?" You challenge.

The doctor quickly falls into a playful scowl. "Oh, you know you want to."

You giggle at the goofy face he makes.

"C'moon!"

You laugh again before opening the door. Once again, your face scrunches with confusion when you walk through the door. You're greeted with a very colorful, very pastel room. No, not just a room, it was very obviously a nursery. Some of the items seemed off size-wise, like the crib was much too big for a baby and the princess dresses hanging on the rack wouldn't fit a child.

You're a bit frozen in place as you try to figure out just exactly why the Doctor wanted to show you this. Frozen as you try to figure out what exactly this is. When you shake out of it, you turn to look at him. Creepily, he's just staring at you with a big smile.

Seeing your confused face he frowns just a bit. "Don't you like it?"

"It's a nursery right?" He nods. "Then, why would I like it?" You're almost angry with the situation and the confusion he's causing.

Really you're just scared to be proven right. Scared to be proven his actions were far from normal.

"Well it's yours!" His laugh borders hysterics. A nervous, excited noise. "I wasn't going to show you so soon, but you've come to that silly conclusion that you can just pop off on your own, and well I can't just let you run off like that."

"Doctor, you're scaring me."

Your facade of calmness fails you as both your voice and hands shake. What the hell is he going on about?

"Oh," He steps forward and you step back. "I know. Such a small thing," The Doctor shakes his head. "So naive and sweet. Of course you're scared. But! That is one of the reasons why this is good for you. You're so young and you make all these silly assumptions, you can't possibly take care of yourself."

"Doctor, I want to go home." You interrupt his rant.

"The TARDIS is your home!" He sounds close to anger when he shouts it.

You can feel your chest tightening. The alien looks a mixture of manic and lovesick. You've never seen him like this. You were terrified.

"I've taken very good care of you, but I can take even better care of you here. Isn't that nice? No more worrying, no more problems." The Doctor comes up to you too quickly for you to back away and wraps you in his arms. "You're so young, pet, you don't know what's good for you," He says, running fingers through your hair. "But I do."

"I want to go home."

His arms tighten around you. "No."

Tears fall in lumps down your face. You try to push the Doctor off of you but he doesn't budge. Instead, he lifts you off the ground and starts rocking in his arms.

"Please, let me go." You sob out.

"Oh, I know it's so much to handle for you right now, but I promise it'll be okay. Papa's got you."

[itsajollyjester]

yessss that defo answers my questions! ur thoughts on compassion & community intertwined w rebellion definitely show up in ur art lol. something more specific i have been curious abt is ur version of the endings of each specific hunger games & ur characterization/portrayal of the victors at those points! if u have any more thoughts abt any of those characters or their games id love to hear.... im also very not neurotypical abt hunger games

For sure!! But this is a novel and a half so I apologize in advance (also most of this is from memory so anyone can correct me if I'm getting any details wrong)

((TW: For visual depictions of Blood, Gore, and Wounds))

I realized I'd seen barely any art showing what the victors would have looked like when they won their games. They were all just kids and I feel like it can be easy to forget that sometimes

For all of them, I made the background one of their main "weapons" but tried to make it look like its turning back on them instead since there are no victors as Haymitch said.

I'll try to explain them all more in depth individually going in the order I drew them:

Finnick Odair, 65th Games:

His main weapons were his trident and nets that he made with vines. His background is one of the nets ready to trap him.

Finnick was the youngest victor ever at only 14. I really really wanted to emphasize just how little that is. (Especially since we know exactly why the Capitol loved him from the start…) Once I actually drew him looking that little I had to step away for a bit because I made myself too sad…

Outside of just how horrific his age is as a concept, I tried to think about what circumstances would lead to him actually winning when surrounded by older tributes. I think he would have had to avoid any kind of fight he didn't have the upper hand in. We know that he got the most expensive sponsor gifts in the history of the games (a trident), so he probably got plenty of sponsors outside of that as well. Because of that I doubt he needed to go looking for supplies much if ever so it was easy to avoid people there. He was also probably in a career pack, despite his age, due to his training and his popularity, and they would have hunted other tributes down together much like the one we saw in the first book (safer in numbers). Once it was narrowing down and the pack broke is when I think he started catching people in nets. All of that is a long winded way of saying that's why, unlike the other victors I drew, I only show him with minor cuts and bruises.

Originally I was going to draw him with a kind of strained smile like he was acting for an audience from the start. But I decided I actually think its sadder if he believed he was popular because of his skill and strategy as a fighter and only learned the whole truth after he won and that's when he started acting more for the camera. Instead I gave him a more muted despair kind of look, like his world is crashing down. One of my favorite parts about the movies, mainly THG and ABOSAS, is when they give the career tributes at the end a moment of realization about what they've done, and I wanted to give Finnick his. I'm a person that believes Finnick had to have volunteered for his games. I think he would have legitimately believed in the propaganda the career districts were fed and had a bit of a (very middle school boy) ego about his abilities. (I was NOT expecting to write so much about his lmao)

Enobaria, 62nd Games

She's most well known for ripping someones throat out with her teeth. (Her background is her sharpened teeth getting ready to eat her.) This is treated by The Capitol, and by Katniss, as grotesque and terrifying blood lust (Which obviously the Capitol loves her for). However, and I'm not at all the first to say it, that sounds more like a terrified and desperate attempt to survive a fight she was losing and an example of hysterical strength. We know that Career packs have had bloody betrayals in the past and I can see Enobaria being a part of one of them. Enobaria doesn't have a canonical age, but I decided to put her on the younger side (15 or 16.) I can imagine some of the older, bigger tributes deciding she was the weakest link towards the end and that was the result. I tried to make the blood around her mouth and down her shirt look more faded, like she tried desperately to wipe it off (Also I had to step away from drawing again after I drew her little tooth gap)

I think she probably leaned into the bloodthirsty image afterwards as a way to protect herself and (maybe even started to believe it too)

Annie Cresta, 70th Games

Annie's known for losing her mind after seeing her district partner decapitated in front of her. After that, she ran off and hid until the game makers started an earth quake, which made the large dam in the arena break and cause a huge flood. Annie was the only survivor because she was the strongest swimmer. So I decided to make her background dark water that's churning up and over her head. I also think it can work well as a way to show her mental state in the moment (and afterwards) Annie is actually one of my favorite characters in the series and I've been writing out a plan for a possible comic series about her that'll go more in depth about my headcanons for her. (when I say comic series, I mean sketches and oneshots, not a full thing lmao) It wouldn't take place during her games (outside of a few flashbacks when I need more context), instead it would start at her Victory Tour and go into her first (and last) year as a mentor for the 71st Games. Which is a perfect segue to-

Johanna Mason, 71st Games

Johanna is actually first mentioned early on in the first book when Katniss is wondering if the reason Peeta is crying is because he plans to act weak and helpless as a strategy in the games. (Katniss, he just found out he has to fight in a murder tournament with his crush. He's just Sad.) She bases her theory on Johanna, who pretended she was a "sniveling, cowardly fool" in the arena until the final stretch of the games when she proved to be deadly with an axe.

OR….. Katniss is an unreliable narrator and Johanna was actually a terrified kid from a district with so few victors that she was the only name in the bowl for the Quarter Quell… This is totally just a personal headcanon of mine tho lol. I think there would have been a point in her games where she realized she actually had a chance and that's when she seemingly had a huge character turn around. Maybe there was a infighting with the careers that ended in multiple deaths and there was only a few left along with any other tributes hiding away like her. Maybe she poked around what was left of their camp, found the axe, and felt strength from her district.

Her background was a little harder for me. Just slapping a big axe behind her felt cheesy. But them I remembered her saying there was no one left that she loved. So instead I put trees that could represent her loved ones (Two fully grown trees, a younger "teenage" tree, and a sapling) that are in the process of being cut down.

Haymitch Abernathy, 50th Games

Don't worry, I'm almost done. I don't have as much to say about Haymitch since we know SO much about what happened in his games. But his background was probably the hardest for me. His main weapon was invisible after all. I thought maybe the axe that was used, but again, That would look cheesy. I tried (and kinda failed imo) to draw the cliff side the force field was on instead. But the main thing I did was split the three panels I had on the previous drawings into six for two reasons. 1: Because he had to face twice as many tributes in order to win and 2: Being the only victor of a district that's tributes are seen as fodder for the blood bath means he had to meet and watch the death of twice as many kids every year.

[noorpersona]

hello lovely!! I hope ur doing well! I’ve been to gobbling up all your writing recently and I just wanted to say that you’re so talented! Your ability to accurately characterize, well, the characters is so important and it’s just overall fantastic. Please keep up the good work!! <33

I wanted to request Sugawara — possibly taking care of the reader when they’re sick? Or maybe period pains? Either works, I really don’t mind! There’s not a lot of Suga writing on tumblr as a whole (that I’ve been able to find), and I’d like to see you work your magic! Thank youuu!

Hi sweet anon!! 🥹💛 Thank you so much for your kind words — They genuinely mean the world to me. I’m so happy you’re enjoying the writing!! Hopefully this is want you pictured in your head hehe

Enjoy<333

--

Anon Asks: Sugawara

The door creaked open before you could even lift your head from the couch.

"Hey, you should be resting," came Sugawara’s voice—soft, teasing, but edged with concern. The sound of it washed over you like a balm, even as your body rebelled against every small movement.

You grunted in response, curling deeper into the fortress of blankets you'd made for yourself. Every inch of your body ached with a dull, persistent throb. Your head pounded in time with your heartbeat, and your stomach twisted and cramped unpleasantly, making you feel heavy and brittle all at once.

Koushi set the grocery bag down with a soft thud, the rustling of plastic filling the room as he moved around. You cracked one eye open to find him methodically unpacking supplies: herbal teas, a box of your favorite crackers, a heating pad, a fresh bottle of painkillers, and—to your complete and utter dismay—a small bouquet of daisies.

“You didn’t have to,” you croaked, voice hoarse.

He shot you a look over his shoulder, eyebrow arched in a way that immediately made you feel silly for even suggesting it. “You’re right,” he said lightly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

You huffed, burrowing deeper into the blanket, trying—and failing—to hide the way your face flushed. Whether it was from embarrassment or overwhelming gratitude, you weren’t sure.

Sugawara padded over, kneeling down so you were eye-level. His hand, warm and slightly calloused from years of volleyball, brushed against your forehead. Gentle, steady.

“Still warm,” he murmured, his brows knitting together in a tiny frown. “Poor thing.”

You cracked a weak smile, the motion tugging at the ache in your temples. “I’m fine, really,” you mumbled.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, clearly not believing a word of it.

Without asking, he cracked open one of the heat packs, giving it a firm shake until it warmed to life. He slipped it under the blanket, pressing it against your lower abdomen with slow, careful movements. A soft, involuntary sigh slipped past your lips as the warmth seeped into your cramping muscles.

He smiled at that, eyes crinkling in that boyish, heart-melting way he had.

“There’s my girl,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it over the gentle thrum of the rain starting outside.

Sugawara busied himself preparing tea—the comforting clatter of the kettle, the soft clink of a spoon stirring honey into a mug—all while stealing glances at you every few moments. Watching. Making sure you didn’t strain yourself.

When he returned, he slid onto the couch beside you, coaxing you upright just enough to press the steaming mug into your hands.

“Easy,” he murmured, one hand steadying the cup with you. “Small sips.”

You obeyed, too tired to argue, the warmth from the tea and his touch making the ache behind your eyes begin to loosen.

Once the tea was safely set aside on the coffee table, he didn’t retreat back to his corner. Instead, he carefully pulled you into his arms, arranging you across his lap with an ease that made your heart ache. His hands found your lower back almost immediately, working slow, tender circles into the tense muscles there.

The world outside faded. The rain against the windows softened into a background hum. Your muscles remained sore, but the sharp edges of your pain dulled—replaced by the steady, grounding beat of Koushi’s heart against your ear, the rise and fall of his breathing, the feeling of being wrapped up in something—someone—solid and sure.

Your hands tightened weakly in the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him like a lifeline.

“Thank you,” you whispered back, voice cracking from the weight of everything you were too tired to say properly.

He only squeezed you tighter, thumb stroking lazy, soothing patterns across your hip.

“Always,” he murmured.

And as your eyes fluttered closed, your body giving in to the exhaustion at last, you realized: with Koushi here, you could finally let yourself rest.

Truly, completely, safely rest.

[poemtoken]

Travis fares well in the wilderness despite being one of only three and then two male figures after Javi’s death (we know this because he is the only one to make it out) by resigning himself to passivity. He and Ben exist as their own subgroup of outsiders to the team by way of the fact that they are outnumbered, but they also exists as foils of each other in their chosen methods of survival. Travis survives by assimilating into the wilderness and becoming passive in the face of violence. Ben chooses opposition and the maintenance of his own humanity over conformity.

The nature of the wilderness provides only one of two answers to the question of isolation: conformity or death, dealers choice! To conform is to survive but to lose touch with humanity and morality in the spiral of starvation because staying alive matters more than doing what is morally sound. To find a vocal justification for the unjustifiable as the steaks increase, and to be swallowed whole and enmeshed in the world and belief system of the wilderness. To isolate or deviate or disobey is to face its consequences. Jackie refuses to conform post doomcoming, mocking the gift of the bear. She then freezes. Javi leaves and upon return extends humanity to Nat in the gift of a place to hide only to drown leading her to safety and away from the impending inhumanity of the hunt.

Ben’s refusal to conform is so interesting to me for the contrast it creates in him. Conformity and cowardice, feel however you please about his proclivity for these traits, are hallmarks of his characterization made much more interesting by the fact that his defaulting to them is far from baseless. His cowardice, like Travis’s passivity is a mechanism for survival but more importantly, this is not exclusive to his time in the wilderness. Cowardice has always kept him alive. His rejection of conformity is different. For a brief period it is his saving grace, but ultimately it leads to his death in a culture of join vs. die.

His whole life pre-crash is spent making the safe decision in cycles of deprivation and self-retreat. An ever present default to palatability and inconspicuousness, not to perpetually worry or weigh the cost of social ostricization and all the ways it could ruin him. He is not himself, but he is safe. His separation from the group is the first time in his life when conformity is no longer synonymous with survival.

He knows that being their coach will not save him, and ponders his value to the group after being pushed out of his role as their authority figure which is deeply intertwined with his own loss of ability. He grapples with the notion that if he cannot be useful to them in the way that is expected of everyone else, he may not be useful at all. (I was scared, that I—maybe was next. That you guys didn’t need me anymore…) that could very well cost him his life. His trial is about many things, one of which being that he helped himself by leaving when he couldn’t help the team.

Return in a death sentence. He remains unchanged and frozen in time at the very moment he saw the pile of clothes and butchered remains of the youngest of the group. It’s the whole reason he kidnapped Mari (You guys killed and ate Javi, you really telling me I wouldn’t be next?)

Even more so, his refusal to conform is ultimately also a death sentence. He knows and has seen too much without giving into It’s urge and the team knows this. Shauna said it best: He’s not one of us and he hates that. It terrifies him. We are here, and alive because we fought to be here, and we fought to stay alive. His status as an outsider, the only outsider, makes him an enemy regardless of the fact that he is fighting to stay alive, too. His survival looks different than everyone else’s. To the group, it’s more-so about that fact that he isn’t part of the in-group. He is an outsider; becoming the carcass of the bear himself as the team becomes the pack of wolves he once warned them of in their cruel and inhumane treatment of him.

Cowardice was and remained, for him, a mechanism of survival. Fleeing and hiding had always come naturally in a world that expected it of him. Going against the status-quo in contrast to his usual method of survival and straying from passivity, taking action, only made danger and death more imminent in the end. It wasn’t the right choice, but it felt like the safe choice. The irony of it all is that the same as he thought he was making the safe choice in boarding the plane rather than confronting the realities of how authenticity would change his life, he believes he will once again find safety in his departure, only for his isolation to be the final nail in the coffin. Safe is never really safe.

[blackkatmagic]

hi!! i love your writing so, so much. your characterizations are always so well thought out and you pack so much into even a few sentences. could i ask for neyo, for the game?

(asdffdfkgdk you're so sweet thank you!!)

It’s not a place clones are meant to be, or meant to find. Neyo doesn’t intend to go looking for it, but—

That’s how these sorts of things always start, maybe.

Drenched, freezing, limbs shaking so hard that he couldn’t aim a blaster if his life depended on it, Neyo drags himself out of the deep river where the shallows finally slow, scrambles up the bank as best he can when the eddies want to drag him back. Water pours from what armor he wasn’t able to tear off when he went under, and the air burns in comparison to the icy river, even though the planet is a cold one, still caught in the throes of an ice age.

The cavern Neyo stumbles up into is warm, though, even more so than as a comparison to the ice melt would suggest. There are crystals burning along the walls, and a deep metal cauldron full of something that shines and shifts and throws off unbearable heat, enough of it that Neyo's blacks are already steaming. He raises a hand to shield his eyes, but his gaze is still drawn to the far end of the massive hall, where a figure in armor sits slumped, lifeless, on a steel throne.

Heavy and expansive, the hush prickles at Neyo's skin, and he looks from the fire-bright glow of the long hall back to the black rush of the river, breath still coming rough and fast in his lungs. For a moment he’s tempted to retreat, to go back into the water, try to find some other way to the surface.

Windu will be looking for him, he thinks. It’s not a thought he would have had three months ago, when the GAR deployed, but—it’s the truth. Windu saw him go into the water, and that means Windu will look for him as long as the admirals allow. Neyo won't be left behind, abandoned on a Separatist world.

Strange. Jarring, to know that as simply as he knows how to breathe.

Grimacing, Neyo rubs a hand over his face, drags it over his wet hair and straightens deliberately. The hall is full of suits of armor and what look like powered-down droids, left standing against the walls like sentinels. There are holotables too, and a rack of spears that look impossibly old, and—

A body, half-hidden by the brazier. A body curled at the armored man’s feet, head resting right between his boots.

Something shivers down Neyo's spine, and he takes a step forward despite himself, drawn like there's a magnetic pull. The scene hits, resonates, hums through his bones as he stares at tattered, rough-spun robes gone grey with dust, an oddly preserved face with a fall of brown hair, a mark seared between the man’s brows. A Jedi, is his first thought, and he takes another step forward before he finally raises his gaze to the body in armor, slumped sideways in the throne.

This planet is an old one. People have lived here since the time of the Rakata, Windu said. It’s not even unusual to trip across some historical artefact, buried along a forgotten river. But something about this feels strange, Neyo thinks, and has to carefully draw a breath into lungs that feel tight, like awe or maybe fear is riding him. That prickle runs across his skin again, too much electricity, and he takes another step, then stops.

There's a lightsaber clipped to the man’s belt. The armored man, not the one in an approximation of Jedi robes. And there's a hand pressed, almost reverent, to the curve of rust-red armor, a flash of something crystalline beneath curled fingers.

For an instant, Neyo almost turns and runs. The river seems a safer choice, and he stares at the two men, at the tableau, at the devotion that’s so clear even so long after death, with something humming heady and fearful in his veins. The river is right there behind him, but—

He steps forward instead of back, moves down the long hall with careful, wary steps. Nothing moves, and the ancient tech is still, unresponsive. The bodies don’t move either, even though Neyo halfway expects them to. When he passes the brazier, the heat intense and almost painful, there's a shiver in the light, like the crystals flickered, but they don’t go dark, and Neyo casts them a glance but doesn’t hesitate as he sinks to one knee beside the man who might be a Jedi.

When he reaches out, the crystalline orb tucked beneath the dead man’s palm seems to move on its own, dropping right into his fingers—

A crackle. A surge, golden and blazing like a trapped sun, that crashes through Neyo's muscles and bones and stays, sinking barbed hooks into his flesh, his mind, his soul—

Neyo hits the ground, vision wavering, head spinning as he claws at bare stone, tries to pull himself up. The crystal is melting, pooling over his bare hand, dripping down his arm, and Neyo might be screaming, might be crying out for help or mercy or something else entirely.

And then, slow, deliberate, like he was just waiting for the right moment, the man on the throne turns his head. He looks down at Neyo, eyes glowing behind his blood-rust helmet, and pauses. One huge hand curls in the Jedi's brown hair, possessive, precise, and the man says, like it’s a revelation, “You have Taung blood.”

Neyo can't breathe, let alone answer, and the world is spinning dark and heavy again, too much for him to bear.

It doesn’t seem to matter. The man on the throne leans down, catching Neyo's chin, tipping his head, and then—

A rumble of sound, thick with humor and no little spiteful satisfaction. “More of our blood than most,” the man says, and lets go. Neyo struggles to rise, to get away, but his muscles won't answer, his body won't respond even as he fights the deadness of his limbs like a wild thing, furious and afraid.

“Like a spark,” the man says, and leans back, catching the limp arm of the other body, pulling. He drags the maybe-Jedi into his lap, sprawling back like the throne was made only for him, and tips his head, something pleased and pensive in the motion.

“Forge-fire,” he says, and it’s an order, a command that burns into Neyo's skin. He gasps, clawing at stone, but the world is darkening, the hall fading. The heat slides like liquid across his skin, heavy as water, and the crystal eating into his skin burns like acid—

“—Commander! Neyo!”

Shock jars Neyo awake, and he jerks up, over, coughing hard. There's water in his lungs, an ache in his chest like broken ribs, but there's a hand on his shoulder too, a body beside him. Warm cloth drapes over him, blocking out the chill of the air, and Neyo clutches at it, drags it closer around himself as he chokes and gags up what feels like half a river’s worth of water.

“Neyo,” Windu says, thick with relief, and there's a breath, a hand under Neyo's elbow. “Forgive me, but we have to go. There are droids on their way, and Ponds has a speeder waiting.”

Windu came for him. Even after enemy lines moved, Neyo thinks, and nods, forcing his eyes open. When Windu helps him up, he staggers, leans fully on Windu's strength for a moment as he reorients himself.

Just a strange dream, he thinks, even if he’s never dreamed like that before. Brass’s stories about hidden treasure and lost empires twisted up with the stress of hypothermia, and—

Crystal catches the sunlight, shivering, shimmering where it’s pockmarked across Neyo's skin like a spill of molten metal, and Neyo freezes, staring at it as his mind trips, trips, trips over the fact of its existence.

His blacks are dry, too. He’s coughing up water, but his blacks are perfectly dry.

“Commander?” Windu asks, concerned, and Neyo instantly pulls his sleeve down, hides the crystal beneath the drape of Windu's robe.

Clones get decommissioned for saying strange things. Neyo's made sure to never let himself slip outside of normal limits, has never shown emotion, has never indulged in the bits of rebellion clones use to define themselves. He’s been a good soldier.

One strange encounter in the dark won't change that. He won't let it.

“Just catching my breath, sir,” he says, and Windu nods, perfectly trusting, perfectly willing to believe him.

“I'm glad I found you,” he says, and it’s so honest that Neyo has to close his eyes and just…breathe for a moment.

He thinks of the possible Jedi on the ground beneath that huge Mandalorian's boots, the press of a lifeless hand to rust-red armor. Thinks of the word the Mandalorian used, the weight of his stare.

Taung, he’d said. Sparks and forge-fire.

It shivers through Neyo, hot like that hidden cavern, and he swallows hard, makes himself move forward as Windu helps him down the slope.

Just a dream, he thinks, pressing his fingers to the slickness of the crystal in his skin. And yet.

And yet.

[thewardenisonthecase]

There Used to be Five of Us

Chapter 3: Bethany

Read on AO3

Chapter 2

Series Summary: Snapshots of different moments between Elizabeth Hawke and her family.

Chapter Summary: Elizabeth remembers the day in which her siblings were born, and we see how Bethany's magic first manifested.

A/N: I'm not 100% sure about this chapter because truth be told, I have never had Bethany survive past the prologue because I always play mage, so I'm not too sure about her characterization. Hopefully, it's good enough. Also, tw for animal abuse.

Word Count: 1,616

9:20 Dragon

It had all happened in one instant. 

Mother had told Elizabeth to go run some errands before the sun went down, and she had brought Bethany along for company, as Carver had come down with a cold and could not help. 

“You have to stay near me at all times, alright?” She told her sister, as she held her hand out. “Maker knows Mother will kill me if anything happens.” She whispered under her breath. 

Bethany nodded, as she grabbed her sister’s much larger hand. They walked through the market, going from stand to stand as Elizabeth bargained with the vendors so they could get a discount. Soon, both girls were heading back home. 

It was then that trouble found them. 

They were halfway through the path home when they heard a strange sound. Elizabeth tried to ignore it, but Bethany insisted they go see what was happening, looking at her with those big eyes of hers. With a sigh, she tightened her hold on her sister’s hand and headed towards the noise. 

As they got closer, and the sound got clearer, they soon discovered what it was: a cat, meowing and hissing as Thomas, a young boy with red hair, known for tormenting the other children, pulled the cat in and out of a water bucket, attempting to drown it as he laughed. 

“No!” Bethany shouted, disentangling from her sister and running towards him. “Let it go!” 

She tried taking the cat away from him, but Thomas was much taller and bigger than her, holding the small beast away from her grasp.

“What? I’m just giving it a bath.”

“You’re hurting him!” She tried to push him, but he backhanded her, and she fell to the ground. Elizabeth screamed, trying to control the magic that began to trickle on her fingers, as she reached Bethany. 

The young girl got back up and Elizabeth could only watch as she put her hands in front of her, stomping her feet on the ground. In an instant, the boy was pushed far away from them until his head hit a tree and he fell to the ground, unconscious, as the cat freed itself from his grasp and ran into the woods. 

The girls shared a look and ran over to him. Elizabeth kneeled beside him, sighing in relief when she noticed he still breathed.

She turned to Bethany, who stared at her own hands horrified, the magic still in the air. “Did I kill him?” 

Elizabeth shook her head, as she covered Bethany’s hands with her own and softly said “He’s just sleeping.” 

Bethany nodded, but her eyes revealed her fear. “Will I get sent to the Circle?” 

“Of course not. Why would you think that?” 

She began to sob. “Father said…it’s hard enough to hide with two mages…what if he hates me now?” 

“Oh, Bethany…” She hugged her sister as she began to cry. “Father loves you. He would never send you away, no matter what.” Letting go of the hug, she wiped her sister’s tears. “You’ll see, being a mage is the best thing ever. You can do practically anything with just the tip of your fingers.”

“But…the templars-”

“The templars are wrong. Magic is good. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” They hugged again, tighter than before, as Elizabeth whispered that everything would be alright. 

They let go of each other once more, ready to return home, when they heard the boy groaning, as he began to stir awake. In an instant, Elizabeth punched him back into unconsciousness, quickly grabbing Bethany’s hand and running away as the two giggled. 

Once they told their parents what had happened, the family quickled packed everything they would need and vanished into the night. After weeks of travel, they finally found a new home. 

Lothering.

. 

9:27 Dragon

Elizabeth was awoken by the sound of Bethany’s voice quietly calling to her and a gentle shake on her shoulder. 

It was unusual for her sister to disturb her so late, and so, Elizabeth quickly sat up on the bed, waving her hand to light the candle on the bedside table. 

“Is there a templar at the door?” She asked, worried and barely awake. 

“Maker, no.”

“Did something happen to mother, then?” 

“As far as I know, no.”

“So there is no emergency?” 

Bethany shook her head. 

Elizabeth stared at her sister, waiting for her to say something, until she began to lay back in bed. “If that’s all then-”

“Wait. I was just wondering…” Bethany looked down, rubbing her neck, embarrassed. “Would you mind if I slept here with you tonight?” 

This was an unusual request from her. She thought that perhaps Bethany had had a nightmare, but between the two of them, she was not prone to such.

“Is there a particular reason for that, dear sister?” She asked. 

Bethany sighed. “It’s silly but…now that Carver’s gone with the army, I…I feel so alone.” 

Elizabeth raised a brow. “Why not go to Mother, then?” 

“Mother’s mother and I don’t want to bother her.” She sighed. “If you don’t want me here, I’ll just go.”

Elizabeth reached out, touching her sister’s wrist. “Wait.” She shifted on the bed, trying to make space for her. “You can sleep here. Though, if you snore, I will kick you out.” 

Bethany smiled, walking around and sitting in the empty space, before making herself comfortable beside Elizabeth, laying on her arm, her head close to her chest.

“You know what this reminds me of?” Bethany asked.

“What?” 

“Of when we were children, and Father used to tell us stories to go to sleep.”

Elizabeth smirked. “You mean the ones with the dashing princes that always fell in love with dark haired mages?” 

Bethany huffed. “Mock me if you want but I liked those.” She began playing with a strand of Elizabeth’s hair, wrapping it around her finger, while her sister’s hand began to pet her head. “How do you think he came up with those?”

She shrugged. “Maybe it came to him in his dreams. Or maybe that’s what the templars used to tell the mages. Maker knows what goes on in the Circle.”

“I doubt the templars were that romantic.” 

“You’re probably right, but it is funny to think about it.” 

Bethany giggled at the thought, but soon, silence filled the room. She stopped fidgeting with her sister’s hair and asked “Do you ever think about him?” 

Elizabeth took a moment to answer. When did she not think about him? 

“Everyday. You?” 

“Some days are easier than others. I just…I keep remembering that night. When he passed.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath. The hand on Bethany’s hand stopped, and she closed her eyes. For a moment, the memory of his death replayed in her mind. The sweat on his forehead, the shortness of his breaths, the grip he had on her hand as he whispered…

“Eliza?” 

“Yes, Bethany?” She said, opening her eyes again, and quickly wiping a stray tear from her cheek. 

“Could you tell me a story?” 

She chuckled. “Sure. What do you want to hear?” 

“What was like before…before Carver and I were born.” 

She thought for a moment on what to say. “Well…for one, my life was a whole lot easier. No responsibilities besides being the center of our parent’s attention, no annoying younger siblings. Those were the good old days.”

Bethany chuckled. “Come now, you were only six when we were born.”

“And it was the most devastating day of my entire childhood.” Elizabeth said in an overly dramatic tone. “I remember it well.”

In truth, she only remembered a few moments of that day.

.

It was hot, like it had never been before. Elizabeth and her mother sat on the floor, playing with dolls, when Leandra’s face began to contort in pain. She told Elizabeth to go grab her father, and tell him it was time. Her father raced across the village to find the midwife and once they returned home, the elderly woman told him to wait outside. 

Elizabeth didn’t fully understand why they couldn’t stay with mother, but she did not question it. Her father took her to a nearby pond, and the two threw pebbles on the water, watching it sink. 

She looked at her father, and saw an unusual frown on his face. 

“Daddy? Are you scared?” 

“No, love. I’m just worried.”

“Why?” 

“Because it’s taking so long. You came into this world rather quickly.” 

“How…how did I come into the world?” 

He laughed. “That is a story for when you’re older, Elizabeth.” He kneeled, putting his hands on her shoulder as he looked at her. “Eliza… you’ll be a big sister now. Do you know what that means?” 

She shook her head.

“It means that if anything ever happens to your mother or I, it’s your responsibility to protect your brother or sister.” 

“But how? How would I protect them?”

“With everything that you have. Just like I do.” 

When the sun was about to set, the two were welcomed back in, and she saw her mother on the bed, holding a bundled baby in her arms, the midwife with another. 

“Twins.” She told Malcolm, sweat covering her forehead.

He smiled, walking towards her and kissing her forehead. 

“Come, Elizabeth, meet your siblings.” 

.

The sound of a small snoring halted Elizabeth’s story telling. Looking down, she noticed that Bethany had fallen asleep. 

She shook her head, smiling. “I guess she won’t hear the best part.” 

Elizabeth waved her hand once again, to blow off the candle. She adjusted herself on the small bed, before closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep, hoping that Bethany would have good dreams.

.

Thanks for reading! If you liked this fic, please consider reblogging it and leaving a comment, they're extremely appreciated!

[fragilecapric0rnn]

CaitVi Fic Rec Roundup (Nov/Dec)

Just a few fics I've read since the brainworms have taken over! Before I start posting my own like crazy silly, thought I'd spread the love and shout out a few of my favorites! Always looking for recs as well, so if you have any please send them my way! If I read enough of them (I suspect I will) then I will do a monthly roundup!

through the valley by hyxzw (@butchhorse) [15k, one-shot, complete]

TLOU CROSSOVER FIC OF MY DREEEEEAMS. My wonderfully big-brained friend wrote this beautiful fic and I am not saying this out of bias (ok maybe a little) but it is seriously one of the best fics that I have ever read of anything EVER. A creative combination of the two universes, spot-on characterization, and captivating prose.

desktop/folder/Firelights tour footage by gillywulf [8.3k, one-shot, complete]

It's a band au! A band AU told in a vignettes from the perspective of documentarian Cait WOWZA this one straight-up altered my brain chemistry. Great characterization, hits ya in the heart and the gut in the best way!

Earned Run Average by gillywulf [1.7k, one-shot, complete]

Same writer as the band AU above. Short, sweet, and packs a punch! Created a captivating world in so few words, I want to print it out, fold it up and eat it!

Pretty little face stopped me in my tracks by moonflowery (@elizabeth-mitchells) [2.6k, one-shot, complete]

Sweet, cute, hot, in-character PWP fic HELL YEAH! I read this right after I finished the show and it was the perfect fic in that moment! In-character smut MY ULTIMATE BELOVED!!!!

count the ways by sophnyx [42k, 8/8, complete]

Modern AU, enemies to lovers where they are neighbors in the same complex WOOOOOOOOO BABY this fic is so good it got me screaming into my hands while hiding in the bathroom at work!!! Loved the characterization, i love a fic where I can hear the interaction happening in my head bc it sounds like something the character would actually say. It is one of those fics I'm going to go back to read from time to time, like comfort food! The elevator scene THE ELEVATOR SCENE. ok im cool im normal. Please read this fic.

Papercuts (Work) by Anonymous [11k, 3/?, on-going]

The Ultimatum AU. Now. Listen. This is where I reveal too much about myself, and tell you all that I love shitty reality TV. Now that that's out there, it must be said that it feels like this fic has been written for me specifically! I have watched every season of the Ultimatum since it started, its messy reality dating show, and to put these characters in that situation AND keep them in-character??? INSANE FUCKING BONKERS IM GOING COO-COO-BANANAS!!!!! I am also just a connoisseur of niche AUs love writing them love reading them and this one??? FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC!!!!

[mythosidhesdollhouse]

Teen Trends have arrived! Advance warning this is going to be another long post, there's a lot to go over--

The first thing I must report, unfortunately, is that they are not clean. Their limbs and faces have a slightly sticky, greasy film on them, and they both exude a scent akin to crayons with an undertone of something less savory that I can only characterize as 'well-aged child grime'. It is not pleasant. The good news is I suspect these conditions are due to long storage without prior cleaning after the dolls had been heavily played with, and a thorough cleaning should remediate both. Unfortunately the dolls' cases are equally grimy and unpleasant to handle, so I won't even bother trying to photograph them until I've had a chance to give them a once over with disinfectant wipes.

Kianna's Kanekalon hair is in markedly better condition that Gabby's (purportedly) curlable 'Memory' hair at the moment, but hopefully with a little tlc I'll be able to get them back in shape on that front as well.

Last thing to make note of on the condition front is that both have gone quite loose in their stringing, an issue I have seen reported frequently by other collectors. Once I get all their other problems dealt with I'll make a decision as to whether I want to restring them, find stands that fit them, or just figure out a good place for them to lounge XD

These dolls have such beautiful faces! Very reminiscent of some of the Barbies of the early 2000s, while staying distinct enough to be recognizable as their own thing. Would love to know which Mattel sculptor was responsible for them.

Aside from the dolls themselves there was lots of STUFF crammed into those cases--

First off we have Gabby & Kianna's pet dogs, which have had their bags switched. This amuses me a great deal and I have no intention of fixing it ;p

Next, we have been blessed with SHOES! All the shoes. I was so glad to find I needn't have worried on this account XD Only one pair is incomplete, and since the fashion it goes to is also not present I don't suppose its loss matters much.

We were also fortunate to end up with a great deal of clothing, though aside from Kianna's 'Night Out' fashion pack and the pj sets there are no complete looks here (thanks to the @dollect-net database I was easily able to determine what is missing from the various fits). Despite the losses there's more than enough here to give me good options for dressing them, especially if I augment it with handmade pieces.

There was also a fun bonus in the form of Courtney's complete unopened 'Goin' Glam' fashion pack in addition to the same set loose with the rest of the clothing.

Lastly there's a quantity of miscellaneous accessories I'm not inclined to handle until they've been cleaned. I'll update on anything of note once I go through it all.

___

So that's it for now! It always makes me happy to rescue dolls that were clearly a well-loved by their original owner. I admit it will be a bit of a challenge to clean all this up, but once the work is done I know they're going to be a wonderful addition to my collection.