#stylish writing

[tobyisave]

…

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - vii

selkie!soap x reader. depression. strangers to “lovers.” suicidal resolve. major character death. violent drowning. a reckoning. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

When you’re sure that Johnny’s friends have left, you return to the beach. The wind has died down in the late afternoon; the clouds sit heavy and motionless in the sky.

Night is coming, and it promises to be cold. It hangs in the wary stillness of the air, in the waiting quiet. The seabirds’ calling is absent; the dune crickets’ singing has ended.

He’s there on the sand. Somehow, you knew he would be. Felt it, even before he came into view. He stands by the kayak, almost as if he’s been waiting there for you.

You hold the folded pelt with both hands against your stomach as you approach. The fur is so soft against your palms, your fingers. Cool from having spent a night in the ground.

He looks at it with sharp eyes. Then, up to you, expectantly.

His eyes on you in the cottage bedroom, moonlight shifting in them. Teeth in your neck. The taste of brine in your mouth.

Pearls in your memory. Parting gifts to enjoy, as you come to the close.

“Missed you at the end there, bonnie,” he says, even and purposefully steady. “The boys were glad to meet you.”

He’s known—the whole time. He always has. You don’t know how you know this, but you do.

“I���ve had a nice time with you, Johnny,” you say, when you’re only a few paces away from him. “But I think it’s time for me to go.”

Three days. That’s all it’s been. Nothing much, objectively, to say goodbye to. A good way to end things, truthfully, with the aftertaste of good food still on your tongue, the heat and girth of him still lingering inside you. The etchings of his calluses still fresh on your skin.

A kind ending. A gentle one. Better than you and he deserve.

You hold out the pelt.

He looks at it. Mouth a tight line. Brows low and flat. Then his gaze moves to you.

“Where will you go?” he asks, still steady.

“I’m not sure,” you say. “Maybe—Amsterdam. Does it matter? I don’t know.”

“Just like that,” he says flatly. “After everything.”

You frown. “I was always going to leave, Johnny. Remember? I only booked the place for a month. This is just…earlier.”

Something frenetic buzzes in his posture. The slight lean forward in the way he stands. The angles of his face seem harsher, more pronounced. Eyes dark as wet stone.

“Johnny, just—” you shake the pelt at him, still holding it out. “Just take it, okay?”

He looks at the pelt again, and then back at you.

At it, then you.

It—you—

Johnny lunges.

In one swift surge forward he snaps the pelt from your hands and flings it aside. As it flutters to the ground his hands whip at you, seizing fistfuls of your shirt a half-thought before you realize it, wrenching you forward.

“What the fuck?!” you cry, but then you’re off your feet, falling toward him, arms flailing as you lose your center of balance. You topple into him, and he hooks you beneath the shoulders with the iron bands of his arms, stepping away from the kayak, and only for a moment do you think that maybe he’s going to bring you back to the cottage before he starts dragging you in the opposite direction—

“Johnny, no,” you breathe, as you hear a wave break on the sand,“Johnny, no!”

You start to kick and thrash. You throw yourself against his grasp, dig your heels into the sand, try to find the meat of his forearm with your teeth, but he is resolute. Unstoppable.

You start to scream.

The waves eddy around your feet, rise up to engulf your ankles, your calves, as Johnny roils the water with wide, unfaltering steps, deeper in—

The water closes around your thighs. Your waist.

This is happening. This is really happening—

“Had a month to get to this, bonnie,” says Johnny, over your screaming, rough and harsh and completely unrecognizable. He slings you around to face him, jaw set hard, the muscles in his temples flexing as he clenches his teeth. “But I guess we’re doin’ it now.”

“Johnny,” you plead, “please don’t, Johnny, please—Johnny, no, no, no, no—!”

He clamps his hands on your shoulders and shoves you downward. You claw at him, push against the seabed, but your lover is too strong, immune to your fighting, and you are barely able to inhale before he forces your head below the water.

Frigid cold—it rushes into your ears, through your hair, knife-sharp and paralyzing. Salt flooding the open canals of your nose—

You close your throat. The surface swirls above you, distorting him, rippling and folding in on itself as a wave recedes. Hope waits for the retreating water to expose you, but he has dragged you out too deep, far enough that even the lowest point of the backwash still submerges you.

Seawater, eroding cilia, ramming against the rolled stone of your epiglottis. Burning the film of your corneas.

You reach up, swinging your hands at his face, but the distance of his straightened arms, muscles flexing to hold you down, is too great; you beat at empty air, or collide with the rock-hardness of his shoulders.

Another wave comes in, deepening the surf around you. You kick out, knee upward, wrench against him—you just need him to loosen his grip once, for just one moment, and then you can get away. You try to pry his fingers up, but they may as well have rooted in you.

Lungs pulsing. Throat already fighting to open. Chest heaving, diaphragm beating upward to pull in air. Pain lancing up your chest, unimaginably sharp, head so heavy it might burst—

You throw yourself to one side, kicking against the sand, and physiology subsumes your control. The cost of fighting is breathing. The floodways open—the ocean rushes into your throat—

Salt abrades the walls of your esophagus, claw-slashing downward. Acid bypasses the filters of your alveoli, honeycomb structures collapsing to the pressure, to the spasming of your lungs desperate to send oxygen to the rest of your body. Your diaphragm contracts—your chest convulses to cough, to force water out, only to welcome more of the sea in.

You beat at Johnny’s arms again. All you manage is to throw water against him. He is a sea stack above you. A pillar. Unmovable.

Holding your body against his in the bedroom, frighteningly strong, moving against you like the ocean itself—

The water churns above you with your struggle. You cannot see his face. All you see is the unstable shape of his silhouette, wavering lines distorting the edges as the corners of your vision darken.

More seawater, expanding your chest. Heart stuttering between your lungs, yanking in the last of your oxygenated blood, with nothing to send back out. The weight of your body swells, arms too heavy to hold up. They crash into the water before you force them back up again, searching and unwieldy.

Perception narrows. Him, and you. That’s all.

Sunlight through the window the next morning, rimming him in gold. The heat of his shoulder pressed to yours.

The seawater steals the tears from your eyes, throat convulsing on a sob you cannot make.

Grinning as you shared oysters.

You slap your hands against his arms, clapping your palms to whatever they can find, begging, praying—

Him moving inside you, his warmth, his smell, the weight of his tongue in your mouth. The tug of his hand on your arm.

His smile, his voice, his hand in yours—

Fists like weights holding you down. Fire in your chest. Too full.

Upward—something in you tugging upward.

You want to live. You want to live. You want to live—

It’s done.

Johnny lifts your body from the surf and carries it back to the beach. You fit in his arms as if they were the mold you were cast from.

He knew you would the moment he saw you in the airport. Perfect. You were perfect for him. He saw it in the angles of your body, the way you stood, the emotions moving behind the mask of your face.

He tried to explain it to Price once—the seeing. The knowing.

How he could look straight at his old captain, for instance, and know, without ever hearing the man say a word, that he felt responsible. For everything. For the gunshot. For the months afterword. Even though he hadn’t chosen to discharge Johnny himself, Price saw the mold of his hands in the shape his sergeant’s life had taken.

It’s how he knows Gaz couldn’t see the change in him, because he saw what he wanted to see—his best mate whole and healthy, thriving in a new stage of his life.

It’s how he knows Ghost doesn’t even recognize him anymore. Not really.

And it’s how he knows you’re just like him.

He lays you down on the sand, cradling the back of your head so it settles lightly down. Stretches your legs to rest straight out. He aligns your limp arms with the length of your torso, turning your hands upward so the sand will not cling to your palms.

Beautiful. Even with your face slack. Eyes half-open, unseeing. Mouth parted; seawater dripping from the corners.

Your feet touched the island the same way his did, years ago. Running away. Looking for the end, without really trying to find it. It was in the set of your brows, the tight pull of your mouth against your teeth.

Life had gone in every direction opposite of your intention. And it had left you alone.

Johnny smooths a few stray hairs away from your forehead, and kisses the place between your brows. The little line that has sat between them this whole time is gone, smoothed away. He kisses the bridge of your nose, and then your mouth, and then stands.

It took him a while, back then, to make the decision. It was hours before he woke to find Price watching him, sitting despondent on the sand, tears tracking salty down the older man’s face.

He goes to the place he threw his pelt away and retrieves it, shaking it out. Holding it in his hands assuages the anxiety that has wriggled in the back of his mind since the day he shoved it into the lintel of the croft. He’d known where it was, but survival instinct prevails over logic—for the rest of his life, he will always fear its loss.

It’s a consequence, but not one he’d been unfamiliar with.

And, in the end, preferable to the alternative.

He lowers himself to the sand a little ways away from you, propping his knees up and spreading the pelt across them.

When he had done this—he’d done it alone. It had been close. He almost hadn’t made it.

If he takes up this vigil—if he stays, the whole time, watching you—you’ll make it. It’s not a matter of hope or belief. It’s a matter of knowing.

He knows every time he looks into your eyes. Every time he’s been inside you. Every time your body has risen to meet his touch.

You want to live.

So he sits back. He keeps his eyes on you.

And he waits.

The sky claps you between its palms and hurls you back down the gravity well—

You vomit up the ocean.

Panting, with burning lungs. Closer—everything is much, much closer, loud and bright, and suddenly, individually distinct.

Channels of sound and aroma dance on the wind—sea salt, the smoke of someone’s grill from the village, burning meat, the rolling crash of the incoming tide, birdcall and the gust of beating wings and—and—

And you can sense them all.

A gap in the clouds lets the sunlight touch the earth.

You move on the sand. Turn onto your belly, chest heaving, empty and light. The cove—you’re still in the cove. There’s the path back up to the cottage. There’s the kayak. There’s—

Johnny, riotous, waiting in the crashing waves.

He calls to you: loud, long, triumphant, teeth bared in jubilation.

You cry out. Wordless. If you’d had any words to say, your lips could not shape them.

You’re alive.

It crashes into you. Alive.

You lift your head into the wind coming off the ocean. It caresses your face softly, tenderly, like a mother’s kiss on your cheek.

Johnny suddenly turns from you and darts into the water.

You wail with surprise. A wave rushes up to where you lay, water licking up the fibers of your body. You’re not ready. It’s too soon. Why did he leave you? What’s happening? Why isn’t the water cold?

You clutch at the sand. You can’t find your legs—you can’t stand up. All you can do is crawl, shuffle your ungainly body forward with the clumsiness of a newborn child. You cry out again, trying to convince him to return, to come help you, but if he hears it, he does not come to your aid.

Another wave surges forward; salt water crashes across your face. You flinch away from it, but something nictates over your eyes, shielding them from the burn.

Once you reach the surf, the water cradles your body, buoyancy easing your way. You submerge, finding something to kick with—

And then you’re gliding.

Murky, and blue. Sand clouding in the tide. But comfortable—cool, without being cold. You remember frigidity cutting into your skin only hours earlier, rending you at the seams, unmaking you.

Now, it receives you like an old friend.

Ahead of you, Johnny moves further out. You can feel him, far out in the distance, tiny eddies of water rippling against your cheeks.

He’s not the only thing you can feel. The radius of your awareness vibrates with blips of movement, darting, swaying, dancing, below and above and all around. It shocks you to realize, and you go still, hovering in place, momentarily stunned by how much there is living around you.

Johnny pauses too, ahead of you. Waiting. A lone distinct figure, patient for you to follow.

You shiver with startled wonder, and resume your way toward him.

The coastal shelf slopes downward, falling away. The water gradually clears as overhead, past the surface, the sun sinks in the sky. Warm golden light dyes the sea around you. He leads you on, further and further, until a forest of kelp grows up around you.

In the turquoise, ribbons of twisting green undulate and twirl, feathery and dancing in the windy current. Silvery bubbles trail toward the sunlight, intermingling with tiny schools of glimmering fish that dart and jump between the fronds. Down below you, red and green algae fur valleys of rock, swaying lazily like prairie grass.

It’s beautiful.

Johnny drifts to a stop in the middle of it all, wheeling around to face you. You approach him, coming in close—and it’s almost like approaching the sun, so much that he radiates across your senses.

His dark eyes hold yours the same way they had that day on the beach, and the pendulum swings balanced now between you.

He brushes the side of his face along yours, and with his touch he leads you downward, following the stipes of kelp toward the stone to which their holdfasts grip. The heat of his huge body warms the water that flows in the narrow spaces between your bodies, even as the coolness intensifies the further you dive.

The two of you draw up along the forest floor—and find the myriad little denizens of the sea. You’d known they were there, at the very edge of your senses, and now they bloom into fullness in your attention.

Shrimp perambulate beneath rocky ledges. Crabs walks along the ridge of a huge boulder, like climbing a mountain. And there, further down, snails in their spiral shells, pulling themselves across the sandy grain. Starfish, in shades of red and blue and orange. Anemones, translucent hair streaming.

Tiny lives—insignificant to you, before. Hardly worth your notice. Now, you marvel at them, reeling. You want to cup them all in your palms and bring them up to clutch against your chest.

Something brushes against you.

You look up—Johnny, sliding along your side, curving back in toward you, then looping underneath. He nudges at you, then darts away; you gaze at him, confused, so he comes back in, shunting you with his body, and once again retreats.

Behind him, you catch a turtle fluttering in between the green leaves. Atlantic salmon chasing capelin. An eel peeking out from its cave. Undisturbed by Johnny’s—and your—antics.

He nudges you again, then backs off, looking at you expectantly. Realizing his intentions, you follow—he makes a low clicking sound in his throat, pleased, and jets into the flowing leaves, buffeting you with the wave he leaves in his wake.

You’re shocked only for a moment before the kelp parts for you in your pursuit. Johnny quickly disappears ahead of you, dipping down below the canopy. You feel him rapidly shrink in your awareness, and you propel forward, scanning for telltale splashes of gray and white, arms of green caressing you as you pass.

You close in on him, but suddenly he evades. You follow again, only to find he’s nowhere in view. Then the chase is on: he stays in one place only long enough for you to catch sight of him before he bolts, or wheels around and backtracks to confuse you every time you approach. Teasing, taunting, flaunting the dexterity he has underwater which you have yet to acquire.

Golden shafts of dancing sunlight begin to dim and shorten as he leads you on. Frustration rapidly builds in your chest, buoyed as your lungs press against your ribcage. You need to breathe, even as Johnny becomes no more than a dot of movement in your senses, confounding you at every turn.

Why is he doing this? Why won’t he stay with you? If you surface, you’ll lose him, but the sudden memory of saltwater flooding your chest has you kicking toward the fading daylight. Self-preservation taking its place at the head of your priorities, and you follow it with no longer any second thought.

Above you shifts a mirror of silk.

You rise. Faster as the weight of the sea lessens, your reflection blooming as you approach, closer and closer to the wedge-shaped face, the large, dark eyes—

You swim into yourself and breach the air. Your nostrils open, and you inhale the wind.

You see the twilight bleeding into the day. Clouds moving quickly off as the sun sinks into the horizon.

Where is Johnny?

You can’t sense him anymore—as you knew would happen—and your chest contracts with fear and longing, suddenly believing you’ve seen him for the last time—that he’s left you all alone, to figure out what to do next, with no idea how to live in the skin of this new self you’ve become.

You give a mournful howl. You don’t want to do this alone, you can’t, you thought you wouldn’t have to—

But in the distance, back the long way you came, you hear an answer.

You whirl around, facing the shore, and almost too far away to see, a dark shape rests on the sand.

Your throat convulses with a clumsy breath, and then you dive. The water parts for your body, sliding around you, streaming through your hair. Faster than you expect, the slope of the shelf draws close, and you jet upward, belly meeting the sand, and when the water recedes and you drag yourself back onto the beach, your own weight settling heavy on your bones, you cry out again.

You shake the water from your head, wailing at the top of your lungs, desolate and blind as you blink the salt away, and then there’s a warm body up against yours, weight melding against you, heat reaching out to drive away a coldness you hadn’t felt until you’d surfaced.

You continue crying as Johnny closes his teeth around a hank of your neck and drags himself on top of you, pressing you down into the sand. You shift to let him settle over you, and all of his weight compresses your body—sandwiching you between himself and the earth, pinning you down in one place.

Something in you still wants to fight. To shake him off—to escape. But all you can do is cry. He enters you with no resistance, and you cry more, harder, until your lungs deflate, and then you take a deep breath and start wailing again.

Saltwater streaming down your face, dripping into your own mouth. Your voice hits the cliff walls, rebounds off the stone until the air fills with your weeping. Johnny shifts on top of you, pressing your head down to the sand.

The vessel you have contained yourself within overturns. You cry.

You cry for yourself. You cry for him. You cry for what you’ve done, what you haven’t, and for what you can never undo. Your lament fills your own ears and spills out again, all across the beach, catching in the wind to fly off into the ether, raised to the birds, to the passing clouds overhead.

You cry with despair of never going back. You cry with the terror of Johnny finally rolling off of you, to dart back into the waves, to leave you here alone again. You cry until your throat hurts, stinging and raw—

And Johnny’s hands, strong and warm, edge beneath your pelt and pull you out, still bawling with every drop of shame you’ve carried in your body since the day you realized you hated yourself.

“Shh, shh,” he murmurs, drawing you up into his chest, arms steady and strong around you. “It’s alright now, bonnie, it’s alright. I’m here.”

You cannot respond to him. Your mouth hangs open only to wail your grief. Your body wracks against him, convulsing, involuntary, as you scream with despair and relief and horror and resolve, too much to contain, too overwhelming now to ever split yourself away from.

You find his arms with your shaking hands and grip on tight. He slips the pads of his thumbs beneath your eyes every so often to clear away your tears, and you feel his mouth press against your forehead. You wait for him to drop you. Wait for him to see the mess you’re making and wash his hands of it.

He doesn’t. Every time another sob wracks you, he grips you tighter.

Eventually—when you begin to wonder if it ever could, if this is all you are now, a squalling bundle of fragile skin pebbling in the cold—it passes.

The next time you pause to draw breath, you find nothing more inside you to disgorge. You begin to shake in Johnny’s arms, trembling with exhaustion, whimpering with clenched eyes.

He breathes slowly against you. Calm and even. He strokes your face with gentle fingers, even and patient, as if there’s nothing more in the world he’d rather do.

You find the courage to meet his gaze when your heartbeat steadies, finding the rhythm in Johnny’s chest to match. You see again what you saw that first day, that next night; you know now what you’ve always known, somewhere inside you. Your face is familiar in the reflections of it in his eyes.

His mouth curls gently as he gazes down at you. His eyes dance in yours, corners creasing as he traces the curve of your cheek. Light catches in his pupils.

You see him clearly, as the sun gives way to the evening, and the moon rises over a cloudless night of stars.

epilogue

a/n: shoutout to @/gildui for suggesting screenshots for that one section of text. Thank you to @/bi-writes for trying to figure out how i could keep the formatting with tumblr's coding. Please let me know if alt text is necessary. God forbid a text-based website allow for formatting said text.

[ramen-writes]

Love the concept of a chill ex-villain that the heroes only call during the final battle because they are an absolute menace and will decimate the new villain

[boozy-dwarf]

[gudakdalee]

I'm obsessed with the GLOWUP of Joan's wardrobe over the seasons, & I'm finally TALKING ABOUT ITTT-

-Season 1-3 costumes rub my hair the wrong way. LOL

Lucy Liu (love her) has a longer torso and shorter legs proportionally. The clothes given by the costume/wardrobe department are flowy shapeless skirts that hit mid thigh. Along with T-shirts, basically, that are ALSO shapeless and NOT tucked in, which means her shirt hem is worn OVER her skirts and therefore visually LOWERS her waist line, making her legs look even shorter.

and don't even get me sTARTED on her ankle booties, I HATE THEM WITH A PASSION! They cut her leg off at the ankle, which becomes a double whammy in shortening her legs again!

It just does NOTHING for her silhouette. /tears out hair/ In the first pic above, I outlined in orange a silhouette that would work better for her than the green outline.

EXHIBIT A, above! Silhouette comparison: s1e9 VS s2e13 rare gold star costume. See how the shapeless polka dot does nothing for her frame? It's also incongruous as a character choice: why is Joan Watson wearing a shapeless pajama sleeping shirt with starched stiff shorts over black leggings and shiny leather booties? Where would she go in this randomized outfit, what would she be doing wearing this??

It just doesn't make sense bc Watson is professional. She's smart, she's keen, and she's not neglectful over her appearance. Even/still as a sober companion! The SECOND picture (from s2) is a rare gold star in the earlier seasons, and it's for a stakeout at a fundraiser, it's perfect! Form follows function, so of course Watson dresses up for a gala. It also proves she KNOWS how to dress her body and her proportions. Look, she actually has a waist! AT her natural waistline! If she looks so great there, why does she look so bleh another day? le sigh

-So let's look at GOOD silhouette examples, s4 and on:

Costume dept finally SHARPENED up her look. Her clothes are fitted, sharper, with cleaner shapes. Her skirts are now mostly high-waisted pencil skirts that hit below the knee (tea length) with a tucked-in top: it's perfect for her body type! The tea length is also more professional as a character bc it gives a bit more sophistication and maturity, more 'credence' visually as a detective. For pants, they give her high-waisted fitted pants AND spiffy palazzo pants, it's so good.

Even a simple sheath dress is spiffy bc it's nipped in at the waist, so it still gives her a simple clean shape, rather than the voluminous flowy shirt/skirt combos from seasons past. My FAVORITE is when they give her tiny ties! HEHE. she wears a short fat red tie so good I screenshotted once but cant for the life of me rmbr which ep!!

SHOUTOUT: Look at this jacket!!!!!!!! I need to say it's s4e15 so you can go WATCH IT IN MOTION; IT MOVES SO WELL!!

The flared bottom, the length, the pleats, the gather at the waist, the LINING THAT PEEKS THROUGH AT THE BOTTOM?!?!, the strong shoulders, the sharp lapels, the SHAPE of the jacket is just impeccable. It's such a GOOD choice bc it's a strong statement piece, and Joan is a strong character who can go toe to toe with Morland, spies, murderers, Moriarty, and come out on top. So she deserves this jacket.

Post-s4, they also start giving her a LOT more TIES with every outfit. Whether it's a full on suit, or a short-sleeved button-down, or a cravat or a loose neckerchief. Fabulous and sharp. A great accessory that adds color and prints.

And look below! Even a simple patterned sweater can be fitted and sharp and still intentional as a costume. She can do casual without doing shapeless T-shirts. S1-3 felt like it lacked intention, neither here nor there like they didn't know which direction to go exactly, but s4+ looks intentional, not only sharper, but actually has a direction, a shape. AND look, they reuse certain pieces!!! That jacket from s5e15 to e24 season finale!!! Love it!

So do those s1-3 wardrobe choices inform/are necessary for her CHARACTER?? ......Not really imo, lol.

When Watson switched to work officially with Sherlock as detective, or when she established her on practice all within the first 3 seasons, her wardrobe didn't change. Her costumes still were flowy, shapeless, low-waistline outfits; that didn't change as her phases of life/professions changes. IF those shapeless costumes were intentional, then wouldn't it reflect her character's transitions? They didn't really, and arguably, s1-3 had her biggest life transitions!

BUT PRAISE BE TO SEASON 4 AND ON, bc the changes are significant, impactful, intentional, experimental, aaaand visually flattering LOL.

Anyway, 💖 lucy/watson and 💖 to COSTUME DESIGNERS, SET COSTUMERS, WARDROBE SUPERVISORS, KEY TAILORS!

tldr, TY wardrobe dept for FINALLY getting her outta those flowy shirts and skirts from s1-3 that gave her NO silhouette ough didn't do her proportions or legs any justice

[coaping]

Shoujo girl 2025 - Part One

Hobbies are one of the most important things a girl can have! They’re fun things you can do, and they help build personality! Take this blog for example, I’m having fun writing this, and I’m improving my writing skills! Fun, right?

So, to help you find your fun hobby, I have compiled a list of hobbies you may want to try in 2025:

-Baking

Baking not only improves your life skills, but gives you a sweet treat too!

-Putting together outfits

I personally love this one. Put on some music, pick out some cute outfits, and have fun! No more outfit panic before leaving the house.

-Writing + drawing

Have you ever had the most perfect idea for a shoujo manga? Pull out your pens and pencils and get to writing! Bonus points if you illustrate it!!

-Organizing

Most shoujo girlies are pretty organized, why shouldn’t you be?

-Spending time outdoors

This one is one of my favorites! I love spending time outdoors; going for walks, gardening, and having picnics are all some fun things you can do outside.

-Spending time with friends

This may not really count as a hobby, but it’s something I need to work on. Spending more time with *good* friends can be a good mood boost!

[in-stars-and-time]

WRITING ROOM:

There's a bunch of poems here, including an unfinished one about oranges. Bonnie took a book from the desk, but you couldn't see its title... they got very defensive when you asked them about it. What could that be about...? Also, the bookshelf has the "Handsome Young Men Falling Into Beautiful Heartbreaking Madness Horror Anthology."

STYLISH ONE'S HOUSE:

The lady living here is a big fan of Mirabelle's, but she's never gathered up the courage to talk to her... you can deliver a letter to Mirabelle for her, or you can read it for yourself.

[gertritude]

one of my most hater opinions is that i don't trust when mainstream gamers call something well-written because 90% of the time they are wrong

[wheretheresawyll]

This post by @bladeofavernus got me thinking about Wyll struggling to maintain his clothes after being cast out, his last scraps of home. But I can absolutely see a detail like that playing into a Wyll/Astarion romance.

Like, it begins with Astarion watching Wyll absolutely massacring another of his shirts by trying to stitch over a hole or a rip, and he can see Wyll starting to get flustered. So he takes over with a dramatic sigh, shows Wyll how a master does it - lets him watch as he works.

Time passes - their relationship deepens - and Wyll starts to notice his stuff going missing night after night - a shirt or trousers or his sleepclothes, only to mysteriously reappear in his backpack. And when they reappear, they're tidy and repaired, with a new little embellishment.

By the time their journey comes to an end, whether Wyll is slipping on his shirt or his socks, his fingers brush a bit of embroidery, and he knows he's loved.

[ramen-writes]

Villain: I swear I didn't do this

Hero: oh yeah? Then why are you laughing?

Villain: because whoever did, is a fucking genius.

[small-spark-of-light]

some kc glows and co in these trying times

[relevant-url-incoming]

There is nothing quite like digging through things you've already written and discovering that all your favourites are just. about siblings. like this is because i've chosen to lean into it but oh my GOD. anyway revisiting Caibos and finally touching on Vyme for more than an intro post! because you know what's better than reuniting with your long-lost brother when one doesn't recognise the other because he was too young when they separated and the other doesn't recognise the one because he looks too old to be his baby brother. it's fine. i'm so normal about them.

At first Caibos thought the cave was empty.

“There,” Zenith said sharply. Caibos looked where he was looking as a shape stepped out of the shadows. He barely kept himself from grimacing. He should have noticed the Sith there.

“I take it you feared this was a trap,” said the Sith. He carefully removed his mask and hood, revealing a Sith with minimal ridges and a few fleshy tendrils hanging from his chin. The Sith smoothed a hand over his neatly gelled hair and surveyed Caibos and his friends critically.

“I mean Caibos no harm,” the Sith said gently. His eyes lingered on Caibos for a second with a flicker of confusion, but he kept searching.

“You expect me to believe that?” Caibos said.

The Sith looked back at Caibos with a cold frown.

“My news is for him,” he said sharply. “So where is he?”

“Right here,” Nadia snapped, putting a supportive hand on Caibos’ shoulder. He almost smiled, but the motion was lost in the confusion swirling inside him. Why wouldn’t the Sith believe him? He was clearly a Jedi, and everyone knew by now the Barsen’thor had Sith blood.

“I am the Barsen’thor,” Caibos said, gently nudging Nadia back with a look. They needed to project confidence and age here. “Whatever you have for me, they’ll hear anyway.”

“Don’t you dare pull this game on me,” the Sith snapped. It was as if a switch had flipped. The gentle, soft look in his eyes as he’d tried to persuade them changed in a second to blazing fury. Lightning played at the Sith’s fingertips, and he raised his hand. “Where is he?”

Caibos pulled his lightsabre, holding it defensively in front of his people.

“Right here,” he said again.

“Caibos is seventeen,” the Sith hissed. The lightning blasted from his hand, and Caibos barely managed to direct it to the ground between them. When the light dissipated, they both stood panting, glaring at each other.

“Eighteen, actually,” Caibos said. Maybe some of the electricity had gotten through, because he felt strangely giddy as he added, “Vyme.”

He had guessed right. Vyme stagged back, clutching his hands to his chest.

“No,” he said, looking from face to face as if for confirmation.

“You know him?” Felix said in an undertone. Zenith kept his blaster raised, aimed between Vyme’s eyes, but Caibos could tell Zenith was hanging on his response.

“Not really,” Caibos admitted softly. It wasn’t soft enough; Vyme flinched again.

“What happened?” he demanded. If Caibos had to guess, he was scrabbling for anger to cover his hurt. Callie was the same way.

“Nothing,” Caibos said.

“Are you kidding? You’ve got –“ Vyme took a step closer, then stopped as Zenith jerked his blaster demonstratively.

“Zenith,” Caibos murmured. Zenith’s jaw tightened.

“Maybe you know who he is, but that doesn’t mean we ought to trust him,” he said.

“Maybe if we finally get to hear why we’re here?” Felix suggested. His voice was casual, but he was no less tense than Zenith.

Caibos swallowed, pulling himself together. Confidence. Surety. They needed him to be the Barsen’thor. He didn’t dare glance back at Nadia; he didn’t know how she’d feel about his Sith brother. He didn’t know how he felt about it.

“Why did you ask to see me?” Caibos said. He knew what Callie would want. She’d want to hear that Vyme had come back for them. Caibos knew better than to believe it.

“Caloma,” Vyme said. “She’s in trouble.”

Caibos knew it was true. He’d known it since his birthday. That didn’t stop the bottom from dropping out of his stomach.

“Where is she?” he asked. “How do you know?”

“Because I saw her,” Vyme said. “On the Emperor’s ship.”

“The Sith Emperor?” Nadia repeated incredulously.

“He’s done something to her head,” Vyme said. “She was herself, but twisted. Obedient to him.”

“Where is his ship?” Caibos said.

Vyme opened his mouth, then hesitated.

“What will you do if I tell you what I know?”

“Why? Are you more worried about your precious Emperor than Caloma?” Caibos snapped. Felix gave him a sideways glance, and Nadia tried to reach for his hand, but he shook her off. They didn’t know Vyme. “Why did you really come here? After all this time, you’ve discovered you care after all? And of course, it’s not for me.”

He covered his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say that.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Caibos said, words spilling out of him faster than he could plan. He’d thought he’d lost his Imperial accent a long time ago, but now it came out in fits and starts, egged on by a voice he thought was no longer familiar. “You stayed behind and you left us. You chose the certainty of your awful little world over your brother –“

“Is that what Caloma told you?”

Vyme sounded strange. Empty, maybe. Perhaps Caibos had sucked up all the rage in the room and left him with nothing to respond with.

“No,” Caibos said. “She’s always making excuses for you. I learned to stop asking.”

“They almost caught us, Caibos,” Vyme said. “So I drew them away. I let them catch me alone.”

“No,” Caibos said. “No, I remember –“

“You were five,” Vyme said. “Do you remember begging me not to go? I do. Do you remember that it was in a cave, not the slave camp? That mother was nowhere near, and it was just you, me, and Caloma?”

“Sith lie,” Caibos said. It was a weak response and they both knew it. Vyme’s face softened fondly, and he stepped forward until he could reach for Caibos’ face. Zenith kept his blaster trained on Vyme, but he didn’t fire.

“I thought we would match when they punished me,” Vyme said, gently tapping his thumb to Caibos’ scar. “All three of us. And you’d be with me. I got this instead.”

He turned his head, letting Caibos get a good look at the network of thin, almost surgical scars across one side of his face. Caibos couldn’t think of anything to say. Vyme smiled and stepped back.

“Thirteen years and you’ve hated me all this time?”

“Jedi don’t hate,” Caibos said automatically.

“Ah,” Vyme said. “Then it must be the Sith blood in you.”

Caibos rolled his shoulders back, trying to summon the presence that always convinced people he was older.

“What happened to Caloma?” he asked firmly. Vyme sighed and nodded.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I only saw what I told you, and briefly. She was being watched by the Emperor’s Wrath himself.”

“Where is she, then? Where is the ship?”

Vyme frowned at him sternly, and he looked so much like Caloma that Caibos’ heart clenched.

“I’ll tell you what I know, but you cannot go off on your own,” he said. Caibos began to protest, and Vyme held up his hands. “Do as you please to the Emperor. But not alone. Will you take it to the Jedi? Promise me you won’t be a fool?”

“Master,” Nadia said. “He’s probably right.”

“If we can trust him,” Zenith said. “Which I highly doubt.”

“If this were a trap,” Vyme said. “I had ample time to spring it. You think a Sith Lord would bother sending you to the Emperor when killing the Barsen’thor myself could gain a lot of favour? I want Caloma safe. I want Caibos safe, too, though I’m smart enough to know when someone is working against me in that.”

The look he gave Caibos told him that Caibos was the ‘someone’ in question. Considering how coolly Vyme had just discussed killing him, Caibos felt justified in ignoring him.

“I still don’t like it,” Zenith said.

“And yet, you haven’t shot me,” Vyme said cheerfully. He lifted his arms. “Go on. Fire.”

“No,” Caibos said immediately, though even Zenith didn’t move. “I mean – you could come to Tython. Tell the Council what you know. You don’t have to stay with the Empire anymore. You can leave now.”

Come with me, he wasn’t brave enough to say.

Vyme laughed softly under his breath.

“You are… more than I ever hoped you would become,” he said. “And I’m afraid I am not as brave as I was. I value my skin a little too much to betray the Emperor openly. Not when I have other Sith already coming for me. And –“

He sucked in a sharp breath, pressing his hand to his heart.

“It seems overtaxing ourselves is a family trait,” Vyme said. “I’m not long for this world, Caibos. Better to do what I can do where I still have some power.”

“Ironic,” Caibos said. He meant to say why, to twist the verbal knife so Vyme would know just how much his words stung, but his voice failed him. Vyme just smiled bitterly.

“Oh, little brother, I know,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the voices in my head are mocking me for caring about a Jedi, so I’d like to go back to my ship and dunk myself in cold water until I’m numb.”

“Caibos?” Felix said quietly. “Orders?”

“Let him go,” Caibos said. Vyme sealed his mask back on and pulled up his hood, but Caibos could still picture that wry, sad smile in his mind. It was the clearest image he’d had of Vyme since he left the Empire. “We have to help Caloma.”

“I don’t like it,” Zenith said, though he followed Caibos as he said it. “Just because he’s your brother –“

“Hey, Zenith? Let it go,” Felix said. “You ok, kid?”

“I’m fine,” Caibos said. Nadia had been hanging back, ever since he brushed her off. He reached his hand out, twitching his fingers in a gentle invitation. She smiled back at him and took his hand. He knew they were all watching him closely, waiting for a reaction or an explanation, but it felt a little less terrifying now.

“You heard the story,” he said quietly. “Which I assume is why you’re all looking at me like that. I can tell it when we’re on the ship, so Qyzen and Tharan can hear. I’d… rather not let the Senators know.”

“To be fair, they do already know you’ve got Sith family,” Felix said. When Caibos didn’t laugh, he coughed.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No, it’s fine. It should be funny.”

“Nothing’s funny when you get hit with something like that,” Felix said. “Thirteen years, huh?”

“I would prefer not to discuss it,” Caibos said rigidly. He pretended not to see the looks Felix and Nadia exchanged.

On the ship, ignoring the curiosity of the Rift Alliance, Caibos gathered his crew into the engine room. The thrum of it usually put him ill at-ease, but today nothing could unsettle him more than Vyme had.

“I… It’s no secret,” Caibos said uneasily. “That I am… of Sith heritage. My mother was a human slave. My father wanted nothing to do with us, and hoped we would not prove Force sensitive so he could continue to ignore us. I don’t – remember him. Caloma does. She was my brother’s best friend.”

None of his friends spoke, though Tharan and Qyzen were visibly confused.

“I did not realise my brother was the one who contacted me,” Caibos said. “I went expecting any other Sith. I thought – To tell the truth, I have thought very little about him. I haven’t seen him since I was five. I suppose the only reason I’ve seen him now is that he still cares for Caloma’s well-being.”

“If what he said is true,” Zenith said.

“She’s missing,” Caibos said. He took pity on Qyzen and Tharan and hastily explained what Vyme had told them about Caloma.

“Surely if she was to cross paths with the Emperor himself, the Jedi would know about it?” Tharan said.

“I intend to ask,” Caibos said. “I – I am sorry I’ve kept this from you. I thought it would never matter.”

“It still doesn’t,” Nadia said. “You don’t know him. We all know where you’re from. All we have to worry about is how we’ll help your sister.”

Caibos smiled weakly.

“Thank you,” he said. “All of you.”

[commandercoriandersalamander]

two dudes... sitting in a hot tub stone wolf... souls mingled into one complete being but they're not gay

[snowed-leopard]

I dont’t know if y’all are down for 1600 words of only slightly jargon filled and incredibly niche headcanons, but here we go?

The mercs go sailing! (And also boating / paddling in general. They deserve the options.)

(There’s a small glossary of terms, and reference photos of the boats I’m thinking about and mentioning at the end for your convenience. Please note I’m a pretty amateur sailor and I’ve prolly explained or typed something wrong) ((yes it got nerdy enough I felt a glossary was warranted, I’m sorry))

scout: Oh dear god this man is gonna be a mess until he gets it but when he does he goes ZOOMIN. put him in a sunfish or a racing boat, like a catamaran. first time he's on a steep heel he screams like a baby but when he realizes it means more speed he's totally down, hook him into that cat's trampoline straps and eat his sea spray, bitch. (He does not care that they are on a freshwater lake, it’s sea spray in his heart) he's a chronic capsizer in a sunfish though because he keeps overcorrecting when trying to catch all the wind he can. He is banned from the motorboats for reckless behavior and roughhousing enough to nearly send poor pyro and demo overboard. Gets sent up the mast on one of the bigger boats to fix a light on the top of the mast and nearly shits his pants despite being very assuredly safe.

heavy: he honestly would probably run the motor boats the most, but if there had been a chance for one of the really large sailing vessel (40-70ft) where he actually has room to move, he would be down. hes mostly just reading and fishing out beached or turtled mercs. occasionally drafted into helping scout unflip bc heavy actually weighs enough to leverage the daggerboard right, unlike scout, because he keeps filling his sail with water and making more effort to right the boat. He’d be a saint if he could work the 30 footers when they’re pulling the halyards to turn because he’d be able to pull those so well, is weary of the boom from his height

demo: he's chilling on a flat bottomed fishing boat napping and fishing for most of the day, but he periodically goes out in a canoe with sniper to catch some fish separate from the motor boat, and also mess around. his balance is just messed up enough that later in the day he can't really do any of the 20 foot boats and definitely not a sunfish, but if you catch him earlier in the day he'd probably manage a nice trip in a 20 footer. He gets a little rowdy on the big 30 foot and tries to swing around on the side stays while horsing around with scout and as the boat jerks, he totally falls. it was inevitable one of the men would do he just ended up the unlucky bastard to be the center of the man overboard drill

Engie: splits his time fishing on the motorboat and messing around with all the boats, he does a little of everything, he most of all likes the 20-30 footers because he can calculate out all the rope tensions and physical at play in the down moments between turns without having to worry too much. He does enjoy the quiet of being alone in the sunfish tho, the rest of the boys joke he just likes it because they’re the same size as him (small).

 thinks about how much speed he’d need to run them over with in said sunfish to make them quit. Barely refrains. He is incredibly interested in tinkering with the motors on all of the sailboats and motorboats to see how he could improve their efficiency. Refrains on basis of not wanting to kill them and wreck the boat

sniper: snipes is mostly kayaking around away from everyone's chaos to do some fishing and birdwatching, probably hops on the 20 footer with demo for chill times, hates the sunfish because he kept getting hit by the boom because he was too tall to bend under it when turning and couldn’t rig it higher up and medic got tired of coming back in and taking care of the head wounds. He is having a grand time when scout’s not harassing him in the sunfish. But he does get very accurate at using his paddle to splash scout. Comes in with the biggest haul of fish, crabs, prawns, and inexplicably, 3 turtles, a duck, and a righteously confused snapping turtle for everyone to grill up at the end of the day.

pyro: on the catamaran with scout zipping around. heard the boat had a trampoline, was sorely disappointed, but is bouncing on it anyways. does not like the sunfish because swimming in their suit isn't fun when they don’t anticipate it and they kept tipping before they got the hang of it. bizarrely good at tying the knots for the lines though, no one knows how they manage this though their gloves. got heavy to drive the motor boat really fast while they sit on the front and despite how rough it is (you slam up and down a little when you go really quick) they are hooting and hollering and having the time of their life. Nearly lost the sunhat they brought along and cried. Sniper has to dive down in the lake to retrieve it for them.

spy: this man absolutely used to competitively race, he yearns for his old racing boat back in france, gets over it by trying to teach the others the noble art of it, scout is the only one who tries and races and they get along oddly well once they get past scouts incessant ability to turtle sunfish. he's also on the 20 footer a lot because it reminds him of his old boat (he brings it up at every opportunity, very insufferable about it) he can absolutely do all of the fancy knot tricks that are a bitch and a half to master. Will rant about boat maintenance and design. Very Opinionated about what makes some boats ugly or beautiful. One of the only times he gets down and dirty is to maintain or repair the boats and their motors. He surprises engineer majorly with his knowledge.

medic: mostly likes the big 30 footer but does not mind going on the kayaks once or twice. gets a little wild with the helm (steering) commands, gets very dramatic with it. most likely to get sea sick to me, he also manages to scamper around rigging with far more grace than you would think. He is utterly enamoured with the various ways these boats can and have injured people though. He finds the interiors of the larger ones quite cozy and likes the design. The birds love following him around as he sails and stretching their wings, nestle back on him when they get tired. It gives him a fucked up pirate vibe with the chilling grin and bloody dove from sitting on snipers head on his shoulder.

soldier: oh goodness, have you ever wanted more naval trivia? because this man has all of it, correct and not. used overhand knots as stopper knots on the sails (derogatory) and gave spy a conniption because of it. he's lookout on the bigger boats because he wanted to "command the largest of their naval fleet" he has an impressive ability to know the wind and gauge its changes and how to keep the right point of sail (how your sails are set up) he's very "old eccentric sailing guy" to me. He is a beast at charting and piloting (positive) and can do dead reckoning math (slightly complex little bit of locational determination based on what’s around you at what angle and speed) with surprising ease. Excellent at doing knots, uses them wrong. (He’s doing that part intentionally to give spy grief. Whoever said solly couldn’t have a little fun?)

sunfish, little 1-2 people boat, about 14 feet long, very nimble, but flip (and luckily unflip) easily. Need lower wind speeds because itty bitty (not my personal fave to sail, but incredibly popular still, they’re not bad I just prefer larger less flippy boats)

catamaran: two hulled boat, used a lot for racing, has a web like a trampoline stretched between them, with straps sewn on so you can slide your feet under to not fall, or clip yourself right onto one of the side stays. 1-3 people ish (incredibly fun to sail, seem like they’re slow until they grab the wind right then you’re gone. I know a dude with a hilarious custom sail for his)

20 footer: general term im using for all the medium sized 2-6 person sailboats of abt this length (this specifically I’m showing here is a Chrysler buccaneer 18! IRL I’m working to repair one currently)

30 footer: like above, but these are up to maybe 8 or more people, minimum of 4 ish though for the sake of control in my very non expert opinion (what I’m specifically showing here is a tartan 30, which I also routinely sail! Ours is a piece of shit with a busted internal motor so we bolted a comparatively tiny one to the back. and I lover her anyways, we call her water rat even though that is most definitely not her name)

heel: when you’re boats at an angle in the water relative to the water, how flat or angled you are, having this is good! It means you’re catching a lot of wind and less boat in the water means less drag (you can see it in the catamaran pic)


daggerboard: a removable board in small boats like sunfish, (exists in other forms in larger boats) that points straight down and keeps the boat moving in a straight line, it pokes out the bottom and when you flip you pull down on this with all your (and your partner’s if you have one) weight to right your boat again. Do it fast or your sail will fill with water like a scoop and make it harder.


sidestay: mostly on 20 ish and up size boats, part of the system of metal cables that put tension on your mast to keep it pointed up straight, one of the things u can hold on (never hold onto rope) on a boat for stability part from handles and safety lines


boom: the metal pole running parallel to the deck of the boat at the bottom of the main sail, it's called a boom because when you turn, and it swings to the other side of the boat with the sail, and if your head is in the way well… it sounds like boom. Gives concussions even on sunfish, the power of metal tuning, and speed.


halyards: the lines you pull on the big boats when turning, have enough tension that they need winches to tighten and take in often times

[sweethoneyrose83]

Barbiecore Ask Game:

What’s your favorite shade of pink?

If you could live in Barbie’s Dreamhouse, what would be your favorite room?

What Barbie job or career would you love to have?

What’s your go-to Barbie-inspired outfit?

Heels or flats—what’s more your style?

If you could only wear one accessory forever, what would it be?

Which Barbie movie is your guilty pleasure?

Convertible or Jeep? What’s your ideal Barbie car?

What’s your must-have item for a perfect Barbie day out?

Do you prefer Malibu Barbie or Princess Barbie vibes?

What’s your ideal Barbie Dreamhouse location? Beach, city, or countryside?

Who would be your Barbie BFF: Skipper, Teresa, or Midge?

What's the most "Barbie" thing you've done in real life?

Pink lipstick or glossy lips? Which one would you wear?

What’s your dream Barbie-inspired hairstyle?

How would you decorate your Barbie Dream car?

What’s the most iconic Barbie fashion look for you?

Would you rather have an endless Barbie wardrobe or endless Barbie shoes?

If you had a Barbie-themed party, what would the main color palette be?

What Barbie accessory can you not live without?

Who’s your Ken (celebrity crush or real-life)?

What would you name your Barbie Dreamhouse pet?

If you could redesign Barbie’s Dreamhouse, what’s one thing you’d add?

What’s your favorite Barbiecore-inspired makeup look?

Which Barbie song or music video would be your personal anthem?

Would you rather go to a Barbie sleepover or a Malibu pool party?

What’s your signature Barbie pose in photos?

If you could be a Barbie for a day, what would you do?

Do you like sparkles or pastel colors more for Barbiecore vibes?

If Barbie could grant you one wish, what would it be?

If you were a Barbie, what would your dream house look like?

What’s your go-to Barbie-inspired outfit?

Which Barbie career would you choose: Doctor Barbie, Fashion Designer Barbie, or Astronaut Barbie?

Pink or glitter—what’s more Barbiecore to you?

What’s your favorite Barbie accessory?

If you could live in Barbie's world for a day, what’s the first thing you’d do?

Which Barbie movie or cartoon is your favorite?

Dream car or dream vacation: what’s your Barbie fantasy?

Who would be your Barbie BFF from any era?

What’s your ultimate pink power move (fashion, makeup, or confidence)?

If Barbie was throwing a party, what would be the theme?

Barbie’s iconic look is always flawless—what’s your favorite glam tip?

Would you rather have Barbie's closet or Barbie's dream car?

If Barbie had a social media account, what would her bio say?

Who would be your Ken (or Barbie) counterpart?

If Barbie could take you anywhere in the world, where would you go?

What’s your favorite Barbie memory from childhood?

If Barbie had a hidden talent, what do you think it would be?

What would be your Barbiecore nickname?

[fanme25]

New Story

My cousin liked it and thought it could be a story of a good movie. Please don't pay attention to my grammar/English mistakes. 😅🙏

It's about a stylist woman, a CEO called Megan, that helps with Victoria Secret's event and her clothes are shown to the public by the models. But, unfortunately, one of the guests was pretty drunk and ends up letting a drink fall on the stage (where the models walk) and it makes the models fall and get their clothes dirty. The man is taken out of the place. Megan apologizes to her guests for the horrible scene and postpones the event. In the backstage, Megan gets angry and wants to know about the responsible person for the horrible scene. A calm and beautiful man called Elijah gets close to her and apologizes. He tells her he is the owner of the drink spilled on the stage. He has a company that sells drinks. She gets angry at him. He gives her his phone number and asks for them to meet again to talk about this. She accepts. They talk and Megan asks Elijah to help her with the new designs to replace the ones that got destroyed. He accepts. They spend time working and having fun. Both have different perspectives of clofhes. Elijah wants something cool, not formal. Megan wants something formal (clothes that people wear to go to big events). Each one creates their style and they make a test with some models. They start liking to spend time together and they end up falling in love.

One day while Megan was busy, she trusted Elijah to help her to define the clothes for the big event. He ends up choosing the ones he created. Megan discovers it hours before the event. They fight and Megan doesn't want to see Elijah anymore. Elijah feels sad and wants to apologize to Megan. During the event, Megan has to suffer watching Elijah's clothes until.....the lights go off. Images appear on the big screen of the stage, showing a little about Megan's life and all the work she has done over the years. Then, a video of Elijah appears with him saying all his thoughts about Megan and that he feels sorry for everything. He also says that he doesn't understand many things about clothes and to do something with Megan was a big challenge to him. Then, the screen turns off. Some red lights start flickering through the whole stage and red roses are thrown in the air with a music playing and people dancing on the stage. Elijah enters carrying a bouquet of flowers. He gives a beautiful speech and apologizes to the people involved with the event, especially Megan, for everything that happened. He presents the clothes created by Megan yelling and reaches his hand to one side where the models come out with fire being spelled from the two sides of the stage and glitter being thrown in the air. Megan gets emocional. After the scene, Megan finds Elijah. They apologize to each other and Elijah gives the bouquet to Megan. They kiss each other.

Weeks later, Elijah takes Megan to a store that sells his drinks. They have a lunch together. Megan tastes the drink and approves it. Then, the story continues narrating some scenes with Megan and Elijah helping each other with their works, hanging out together and to finish with a last scene, kissing each other in the beach.