#swan watches bleach

[swan2swan]

MY DARLING MOMO FINALLY LAUNCHES A COMBO ATTACK

IT HAS BEEN ALMOST TWENTY YEARS

[swan2swan]

And there you have it!

It only took Ichigo a few minutes to get rid of the Quincy King's control over him. In the last episode, we saw him use his legs and other arm while his controlled right arm was useless; now he gained full control.

It was just an attack he wasn't expecting before. Even the Quincy Powers inside of him probably didn't realize that they were subservient to the will of the Almighty.

"The Blade is me" and "The Quincy blood in you will not permit the Soul King to exist" are two fundamentally contradicting statements, and it's frustrating that people don't seem to understand that.

Which is it: Has Ichigo mastered himself and is in control of his powers in totality, regardless of where that power comes from, or is he enslaved to their whims like he always has been?

If "The Blade is Me" was a factually correct statement, Yhwach should have no power over ichigo whatsoever. Ichigo should've been able to pull out the sword at no risk to himself, or baited Yhwach by pretending go along with the compulsion before attacking him instead.

But the statement is factually false by Yhwach declaring "The Quincy blood within you will not permit the Soul King to exist" turning Ichigo's own Quincy side against him, declaring it will kill the Soul King regardless of Ichigo's own desires. Which narratively speaking tells us Ichigo has NOT mastered himself and never will.

I ask again: Which one is it?

What was the point of introducing that whole concept, and the Quincy parasite pledging fealty to Ichigo, if the idea was immediately contradicted by having the parasite betray him?

Kubo, pick a fucking lane, you hack.

[x-gabrielle-x]

Tides Of Survival | 1

Pairings: Finnick Odair x Reader.

Warnings: Blood, gore, violence, murder, swearing, major and minor injuries, death, (eventual) smut, mentions of forced prostitution.

Summary: The white swan of the Capitol; gracious, elegant, and innocent. You catch many of the Capitol's attention in your games, whether that was due to your agility, cleverness, or looks in all, even managing to capture the gaze of your young mentor and old friend, Finnick Odair.

Series Masterlist | Pinterest Board

Although most days in District Four were hot, today was definitely one of the most. The sun blared down on your back and sweat lined your forehead, creased with dedication and concentration. You swore that if it were to get any hotter than this, your skin might as well be melting off.

The breeze did little to cool you down, the wind hitting your face as your fingers worked at the knots in your aching hands. You could conclude now that you were miserable at knot tying.

Frowning, your smaller hands lifting the mess of a rope up to your father's gaze, you called him.

"I still can't do it, Pa" you whined, gaze trained on him as his fingers worked effortlessly at his now half-finished net.

He glanced down, brown eyes flicking between you and the disaster held tightly in your smaller grip. He smiled, though his fingers remained at his work.

"You'll get it, Princess. You've only been practicing for a few hours," he tried, but you were determined.

"All the kids at school can make them now, I don't want to be left out." Twisting the rope between your hands, you undid the poor knot before aimlessly placing it down on the wooden work bench, fingers raw from the rough material.

He hummed, picking up a weight that laid off to his right and tying it to his work. "Sometimes it's just harder for others to learn. Thats why we practice, so that we become better."

You huffed when he turned away, though you weren’t able to avert your gaze from his hands. They worked effortlessly with the small rope, weaving and pulling into patterns. Though District Four was full of different kinds and styles of nets and knots, your fathers were some of their proudest works.

"How about this," he started, eyeing you at his side as you sat atop the table boredly, legs kicking back and forth. "When we get home, I have some old rope in my bedroom. We can practice together when I'm off work. Does that sound good?" He asked, and like a switch your smile was gleaming back up at him.

He laughed, a solemn look flashing over his features when he went to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. "You smile just like your ma, Princess." He pressed a quick kiss to your head.

Whilst he continued his work, you allowed for your gaze to wonder. The docks of District Four were crowded with workers; some actively catching a variety of fish and others weaving and knotting nets at the benches like your father. The air lingered the smell of salt and seaweed with every crash of the waves against the shore. The heat blaring down at you made you ache for the feeling of the cool water surrounding your body, and you watched on as sunlight danced across the water like ribbons of gold, as if taunting you to give in.

"How much longer?" You asked. The sun had yet to set, and you knew that would mean a few hours at the least.

Your father let out a breath, and you didn't miss the way his hands trembled and flexed with exhaustion. "Still got a few hours, Hun. I need to go and grab something off Matt, so stay put here, alright?"

Once you nodded, he was already walking a few tables down and disappearing into the crowd of people. Now alone, your gaze caught onto the rope beside you, fingers etching out to grab the rough material when a voice piped up from behind you.

"Maybe I can help you."

You turned, startles to see a young boy stood behind you. You recognized him as one of the boys from the year above you, though you didn't remember his name. His sun-bleached blonde hair was pushed around from the salty ocean breeze, and his green eyes sparkled with mischief. He stood with a certain confidence that you admired, his gaze trained on the untied knot at your side.

You hummed in question, and seeing your confusion he picked up the rope you had previously discarded, twirling it in his palm as if he was dissecting it.

"I've already tried," you told him, though you were quite embarrassed admitting it. A District Four girl couldn't even tie her own net.

He raised a brow. "Can you tie shoelaces?"

Taken aback, you frowned at him, slightly offended. "Yes, I can tie shoes. I'm not that bad."

"Can you tie any knots?"

"Only a few my Pa taught me."

His lips quirked into a grin. "Great! Then you won't have a problem."

He handed you the rope before fishing around in a nearby crate of ropes. Finding what he was looking for, he turned to you and set the rope out flat.

"All you need to do it watch carefully, and if you're stuck ill help you."

You didn't answer, only watching as he slowly began to explain to you between weaving and pulling. He kept it at a slow pace so that you were able to follow along easily, and though you messed up a few times, he was quick to correct you. Your movements were hesitant and slow as you tied your knot, and you noticed Finnick pause at your side.

"You know," he began. "You make fumbling around look kind of fancy."

You wrinkled your nose into a scowl. "Thats not a compliment."

He laughed, and you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. "I promise it is," he said.

A pause.

"What's your name?" He had asked, watching you closely. He noticed that you barely were watching him work now, instead getting the hang of the knots yourself.

You glanced at him, smiling brightly. "Y/N."

He nodded. "I'm Finnick."

After some time, you couldn't help but to smile down at the finished net in your hands. It was only small and still poorly done, but it was better. Better than any progress you'd made so far. You held it up to Finnick, gleaming brightly.

"See? You did it!" Finnick smiled, though he let out a small laugh when you eyed the net wearily with a grimace. "Not bad for somebody who can't tie shoelaces."

You shot him a look, though the corner of your lip tilted into a smile. "I told you I could tie laces?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Just better now."

You lifted the net so that it was eye level with the both of you. Some of the knots were better than others, and half the net hung lower than the other, but nevertheless it was yours.

"Should we test it?" Finnick questioned, and you eagerly nodded and jumped off the bench.

The planks creaked beneath your feet as you ran to the end of the deck, Finnick hot on your trail. The net was practically tangled around your arms, and you shrugged it off with excitement, gazing down at the water below. You noticed some of the Peacekeepers leant up against the wooden railing, and though their helmets concealed their expressions, you knew they were watching. They always were.

"Let's hope your throwing is better than your net making," Finnick joked, but you ignored him, finally getting the newly made net untangled and throwing it as far out into the water as you could.

"Imagine how good I'll be in a few weeks," you thought, but Finnick was quick to nudge you.

"Not ever as good as me, though."

You opened your mouth to retort but were cut off by a gasp when a splash in the water caught your attention. Finnick helped to pull your net back up onto the doc, the both of you noticing it had come back empty.

"I definitely saw something," you murmured, though there was no upset in your tone. You were eying the net carefully, gaze practically burning.

Finnick shrugged. "Next time, we can make the-"

"Wait!" You suddenly squealed, digging around into the wet net. It was then that Finnick realized the subtle movements from under one corner of the net. You dug around, hand finally clasping around the fish.

"I got one!" The words caught in your throat with excitement, and you watched entranced by the scales of the fish that shimmered like treasure. Perhaps it was treasure to you.

The moment was short lived when the fish in its mighty attempt flapped its fins, slipping from your grasp and falling back into the water. Finnick was prepared to assure you that you could always try again, but when you turned to him, bright smile on your face, he swore he'd never seen anybody happier. Your smile was contagious to him.

"I caught a fish in my own net!" You jumped up and down, and you noticed your father back at the work bench from the distance. You turned to Finnick, E/C eyes sparkling with pride. "Next time we will catch more fish together." It was a promise.

"Thank you, Finnick," you gleamed, before running back to your father with the soaking net, telling him about the exciting news and practically shoving your new net in his face.

Your words echoed in his mind. Next time, he thought, the smile lingering on his face at the promise of many.

©x-gabrielle-x. Do not steal, copy or translate my works.

[th3cadav3r]

SFW Mouthwashing Headcanons

Daisuke

Hawaiian W/Japanese ancestry(maybe quarter Filipino too)

Speaks English & Japanese

Dyslexic

Has a sister who’s a lot older than him who he rarely ever gets to see

Loves Animal Crossing(fav villager is Dom)

Probably gets scared easily and flinches a lot

(Not so secretly)really likes Hatsune Miku

Paints his nails sometimes but has to hide it from his parents

Likes to skateboard(even though he’s not that good at it)

At home he has a cat named Bonsai

Cuts and bleaches his own hair

Really likes volleyball

Wore braces as a kid(it didn’t really work cuz he still has a gap in between his front teeth)

Good at remembering things

Fav fruit is mango

Absolutely cracked at Mario Kart

Scared of the dark

Anya

Russian & Chinese

SHE HAS A CUTE RUSSIAN ACCENT OKAY TRUST

Volunteered at senior centres as a young adult

Very good with children because she has younger siblings

Vanilla ice cream is her fav

Definitely listens to Laufey & Mitski

Brought board games on the ship

Has a hard time making friends

Fav colour is purple and in her younger years had a purple streak in her hair(much to her parents’ dismay)

Likes thriller novels

Prone to night terrors

Goes thrift shopping a lot

Likes buying gifts for others more than receiving gifts

Into pottery and ceramics

Used to be religious but now she’s agnostic

Early Bird

Curly

Either Scottish or he’s Australian take your pick

Was in the Air Force

Likes cowboy movies & media

Can’t handle spicy food at all

Likes green tea

Actually hates the taste of alcohol but usually just forces himself to drink it in social settings

Used to be a chubby kid

Lowkey scared of birds (the big ones)

Gentle Giant

Has a tattoo on his shoulder (idk what it is but it’s there)

Nipple Piercings

Surprisingly very good at drawing

Fav Disney movie is Nemo

Swansea

Irish & Welsh Descent

Born and raised in Brooklyn (definitely has the accent too)

Definitely a barbecue dad

Used to be fit back in the day but things changed when his daughters were born

(BTW one of his daughters gave him that little swan keychain that he has)

Has older sisters

Never cried in front of anyone before

Likes watching soccer

SNEAKERHEAD(I think that’s pretty much canon)

Has a bit of a lazy eye

Was a bully at school

Definitely gets road rage

Attended many pretend tea parties when his daughters were little(and enjoyed them)

Jimmy

Italian Descent

Definitely one of those ppl who has Walter White and/or Patrick Bateman as their pfp

Has a big family but he’s quite distant from them

Very rough upbringing(which doesn’t excuse his actions by any means)

Thinks that therapy is stupid and a waste of time and money

Hands and feet are really cold all the time for no reason

Wears too much cologne

Used to be a sleepwalker

Ambidextrous

Chews on his nails when he’s nervous

Originally planned to just kill everyone on the ship himself before decided that just crashing it would be easier

Hates kids so much(definitely makes scary faces at them in public)

Can’t swim at all

[princessbrunette]

okay but just imagine being popes sister and you’re sneaking around with jj and one day hes like talking to you through your bedroom door while jjs balls deep in you

CLOSE CALL!

a.n: this can def apply to regular siblings or just step-siblings with pope. some smut but nothin crazy !!

Closed doors at the Heyward house was allowed.

You were allowed privacy, your room was your space and there was a decent amount of trust between all of the house residents. However, locked doors was a no-no, especially now you and Pope were older and were spending an increasingly large amount of time with the opposite gender.

In your defence, you didn’t even know Pope was home. He was meant to be off with John B that day, looking into some old transcripts that could lead them to a map for some treasure you’d all been after for a while now. This was you and JJ’s day off, one might say — and you spent it straddling his lap on your bed, his cock bullying your insides as you grind down on it, his hips lifting beneath you to meet your bounces. One of his ringed hands clasped your waist, helping you with your movements whilst the other took a moment to run through his sun-bleached hair, slightly matted from the sweaty, balmy atmosphere in your room. “Fuck, that’s good huh?” He groans.

Your jaw dropped, a moan just about to rip from your throat as you drew closer to your orgasm— when the moment was interrupted by a swift, but unmistakable knock at your door, followed by the calling of your name. Pope.

JJ sat up so fast from his laid back position you nearly knocked heads, the blonde wincing and holding your lower back as you clenched hard in surprise. You looked at eachother, eyes wide — before Pope called your name once more.

“I gotta get in there, I hid the key to the safe in your room ‘cos I was paranoid and now—” The handle to your door turns.

“Don’t come in!” You yelp, JJ about 3 seconds from throwing you off him so he could swan dive naked out the window. “I’m naked!” Technically, not a lie.

“So put some clothes on, look I’ve got John B waiting outside and I don’t have time to—”

“I cant, I just got out the shower and I’m air drying. Just— just tell me where the key is and I’ll bring it to you.” You call out, hearing him sigh. JJ shifts a little inside your wet heat, and you both wince this time— both sensitive.

“I don’t really remember. I just know it’s in your dresser— Look if you just let me look it’ll be quicker I really gotta go!” He begs and you bite your lip. Pope wasnt dumb, if you tried to sneak JJ out the window or even off the bed he’d hear the extra set of feet and come bursting in like the protective big brother he was. You stare into JJ’s wide eyes, his expression reading ‘What the hell are you about to do?’ and speak again.

“If you come in you gotta keep your eyes closed, okay?” Your voice wavers unsurely, now if having JJ round during the day wasn’t a big enough risk, this sure was. JJ’s eyes widen, jaw gaping slightly as if you’d lost your mind.

“Obviously, I don’t wanna see you naked, dude.” Pope mutters before swinging the door open, eyes screwed shut as promised, even holding a hand over them for extra precaution.

“Just— take a few steps, and then a few to the left and then face the wall where the dresser is.” You direct him as he stumbles over, following your directions until his back his to you, the dresser now infront of him. The two of you watch Pope rummage through the drawers, searching for where he left the key— JJ practically holding his breath, putting statues to shame.

“You should really be coming to this. It could be pretty big.” He converses, digging around.

“Uh— yeah, maybe I’ll meet you there in a little.” You try and regulate your voice, trying to ignore how you can feel JJ throbbing inside of you, begging for release. You furrowed your brows at him briefly, in disbelief that he was still this hard with his close friend in the room. Must have been all the nerves, JJ was always the adrenaline junkie.

“JJ too. Lemme text him—” He mumbles, and you watch the back of him as he digs into his back pocket. The blonde boy beneath you comes to life, wilding shaking his head and waving at his phone sat proudly on your bedside table like a bomb ready to detonate, sure to make a loud and obnoxious noise if Pope was to text him, giving the game away.

“No!” You yell, a little too urgently, and you watch Popes back straighten a little suspiciously, like he wanted to turn around. “Let—” You clear your throat, attempting at a casual tone. “Let me text him. I’ve been looking for an excuse to text him anyway.”

“Gross, you can’t be crushing on my friends. They’re… dudes. They think with their dicks and it’ll just fuck everything up.” He scolds you, sticking his arm deep in the drawer until he jolted with recognition, finally finding the key amongst a wad of socks. “Ah, got it.”

‘Gross?’ JJ mouths to you, face screwed in offence and you lightly smack his arm, distracted by the conversation.

“Whatever, Pope. We’ll talk about this some other time. Now uh— see yourself out.” He stumbles blindly to the door and shuts it behind him again, the two of you staying rooted to your spot until you heard his feet descend away and out the front door.

JJ collapses onto his back once more, breathing out a loud sigh of relief and from the momentum you fall straight on top of him with an ‘Oof!’

“Jesu— my legs crampin’ up. You really just— invited him in here? Just like that?” He explodes, brows raised as you shuffle into a more comfortable spot, his cock still nestled inside of you.

“I had no choice!” You pout, hoping to win some cute points. “And we got away with it, didn’t we?” You add with a cheeky grin, rolling your hips as you grind him in and out of you once more. He lets out a jagged breath and then a chuckle, shaking his head.

“Oh you’re crazy. You know that right? That you’re crazy?”

“You like it.”

“I do but uh— don’t you have something you should be doing? Like texting me for example?” His smile grows as he speaks and you burst into giggles from his stupid joke and fingers digging into your waist. Not giving you a chance to retaliate, he flips you on your back and gets back to work.

[kurosstuff]

2nd time requesting so bear with me please. Sera x Gn!Exorcist!Reader who came back from an extermination and is very tired. Just some fluffy stuff and maybe a small tiny bit of spicy stuff. It doesn't have to be a Fanfic, it can be head cannons. I don't really mind :]

Please and thank you!!

Gonna be a headcanon this time cause- I got a very bad headache at the time of me writing this♡ your so sweet♡ Oh -So only one drabble this time- I do hope you enjoy still though

Warning(s): fluffy mostly, some blood and some spice tho- slighr angst? Very short headcanons

Ngl I like to think all the sera x exorcist reader are all like- connected that I did- ..maybe I'll make a thing about it? If anyone would like that idk

Sera x gn!exorcist!reader

Every time without fail. The second you enter your home, Sera is there waiting for you- eagerly to help you relax more than be aware of how taxing - how draining your job is. How she carefully pulls your tired Frame to her huge one not minding the blood touching her or her dress-

"Shh, little one~ my darling little swan~, you've done so good for me~ protecting Heaven~. " she purred out, shushing your tired body from your worries of you dirting her. Ruining her pure white dress- bleaching it in such a sinful color.

Red.

Such a gross thing on such a pure angel "now now~ I've made a warm bath for you~" Sera purred out, carrying you to the bath, her large height bending into the bathroom setting you down. Planning on helping you relax fully-

First a bath- to clean yourself of the filth(and to ensure you are unharmed) sera will bath you herself humming to you as she does

Just going all out bubble baths massages wing massages- SCALP massages- she wants her precious angel to feel relaxed

praises- I repeat PRAISES.

THE WHOLE TIME?? She'll praise you none stop- even after she carries you out of the bath- dressing you in pajamas she set out-

She won't let you eat though- she'll make you drink water but food? Forget it. She read somewhere that food after traumatic events they'll throw it up and she's scared that'll happen to you when your supposed to rest

Cuddled all the way- just wrapping you in her six wings whispering to you sweet praises? Watching you turn into a puddle into her arms? GOD she can't get enough of it- how your wings flap how you chirp-

She doesn't mind having a little fun to help relax you- she doesn't mind at ALL only thing though- she won't allow you to lift a finger- just going all out on servicing you- ensuring your satisfied- it's all about you-

She'll stay the whole night cuddling kissing up on you praising- only time she won't do spicy is if your truly exhausted and/or hurt in any way

She'd be too panicked over you to even think of such a act- she's just to busy worrying about you to act on that "impulse"

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

Christmas Reruns 2024–Day 10: A Pirate’s Christmas Carol (2/2)

Merry Christmas if you celebrate it and happy holidays if you don’t!  One of the things I love about Christmas is watching reruns of all the old classic Christmas movies–Christmas is a big time for nostalgia.  A few years ago, I decided to incorporate that tradition into my fandom life and post my CS holiday reruns.  So here you go!  Enough holiday (mostly) fluff to get you to New Year’s Day. (With a new story posting on Christmas Day.)

Word Count: 2724

Other chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Notes: This is the conclusion of my 2016 fic A Pirate’s Christmas carol.  At the time it was written, it was a future fic, but now that canon has disproved it, it’s more of an “alternate” fic.

Killian woke with a start, heart pounding, utterly disoriented, realizing he wasn’t in his bed with Swan curled up at his side.  After a moment, it all came back to him…his fears and insecurities about upcoming fatherhood, coming to sit before the tree and the fire so his restlessness wouldn’t wake his sleeping wife, Liam, the journey to the past.

Had it really happened?

Surely not.  Likely his sleep addled brain had conjured an elaborate dream, seeking relief from the anxiety.

The thought was sad, somehow.  How he would have loved to spend another hour in Liam’s presence, even if his brother was naught but a ghost.

Deciding it would be best to return to bed, Killian got to his feet.  It was then that he noticed the other presence in the room.

Henry stood still and silent in the corner near the Christmas tree.  He stared, unblinking, merely taking Killian in.  It was unnerving as hell.

“Henry, lad,” Killian said slowly.  “I didn’t see you there.  Did you…did you need something?”

The lad shook his head slowly, and then finally spoke.  “It wasn’t a dream, Killian.  You know that, don’t you?  It truly happened.”

Killian took an involuntary step backward.  There was something eerie about this conversation.

“Uncle Liam, I mean,” Henry continued.  “He came to help you overcome your fears, and so have I.”

“But…I was under the belief it would be ghosts visiting me lad.”

Henry nodded.  “Indeed.  Henry lies sleeping peacefully in his bed.  I’m but a shade of your stepson.  Think of me as the Ghost of Christmas Present.”

That…made about as much sense as anything else had on this confusing night.  Perhaps Swan had been speaking literally and not merely in a figure of speech when she called Christmas Eve night a magical time.

“And have you come to show me vignettes from my present?”

Henry nodded and then smiled brightly.  “Absolutely.”

“Well then, lad, lead on.”

~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~

Killian first found himself standing near the window in his own bedchamber.  Bright rays of sun burst through the gossamer thin curtains and came to fall on the bed.  Emma slept on her side, a peaceful smile on her face.  Killian lay behind her, holding her to him.

As the sun continued to pour in, the Killian in the bed woke slowly and stretched.  Sitting up, he ran his hand through his hair, and then smiled down at his still sleeping wife.  A glint of mischief came into his eyes, and he leaned down, brushed her hair back from her face and began to kiss the spot on her neck he knew she particularly liked.

Standing by the window, Killian felt his face flame.  “Henry, lad.  Are you sure you wish to be privy to this?  It appears we’ve wandered into a scene not fit for a son’s eyes.”

“Relax, Killian,” Henry said with a good-natured roll of his eyes.  “You really think I would have brought you to a moment that would leave me wanting to bleach my eyes?  Yeah, I don’t think so.  Just watch.”

Killian shot him one last skeptical look, and then turned his attention back to the bed.

Emma squirmed, and then turned onto her back, eyes opening, smile firmly draped over her face.  Without a word, she reached up behind his head and brought his lips down for a long, slow kiss.  When it came to an end, Killian caressed her face, joy radiating from him like the rays of the sun.

“That was quite the way to wake up,” she said.  “Looks like someone’s in a good mood.”

“Aye,” Killian said.  “And while I’d greatly love to continue on to activities that would ensure both of us were in an even better mood, I fear your lad will be knocking soon, eager to open the gifts we left for him last night.”

“You’re probably right,” Emma said, awkwardly moving to a sitting position, her protruding belly making the movement far more difficult than it would have been otherwise.

Killian reached over and rubbed Emma’s belly, then leaned down so he could better greet his little one.

“Good morning my lad,” he said.  “I love you, and I can’t wait for the moment I may greet you properly.”

Hand still placed on Emma’s stomach, Killian jumped slightly, feeling a little foot kick him.

Emma chuckled.  “Looks like someone’s excited to hear his daddy’s voice.”

“Truly?” Killian asked, face a bit wistful.  “You think he recognizes me.”

She laughed again.  “Killian he kicks and squirms and does somersaults every time you’re around.  I think your son loves you already.”

Killian leaned down to kiss Emma’s belly, right over the spot the babe had kicked.  “I hope you’re right.  I’d never known it was possible to love someone this much—and he hasn’t even greeted the outside world.”

Emma pulled him up until she could kiss him once more.  “You’re going to be an amazing father, Killian.  You know that?”

~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~

The scene blurred, and Killian rubbed his eyes.  When he opened them again, he and Henry stood near the Christmas tree in their home.

“The first Christmas with the whole family at the new house,” Henry explained as Killian looked around at the Charmings, Regina and Robin (who had made a miraculous return from the dead), Roland, little Robyn and even Zelena.  (Emma had expressed reservations at inviting the greener of the two Mills sisters, but Snow had insisted, stating that if they wanted Zelena to continue on her hero path, they had to give her a chance to prove herself.)

Killian saw Emma making some last minute preparations in the kitchen, assisted by her mother, and Henry sat near the fire playing with his young step-brother and entertaining his even younger uncle…but Killian didn’t see himself in the happy family tableaux.

“Where am I, lad?” Killian asked, feeling a sense of loss at the idea that he was missing Christmas afternoon with his family.

“Don’t worry, Killian,” Henry said.  “You just went to the Jolly to check on her after last night’s snowstorm.  Oh look!  There you are now.”

Accordingly, just as the lad indicated, the front door opened, and Killian came barreling in, quickly closing the door to the winter cold.  He removed his coat and then turned to kiss Emma.

“Hey Killian,” vision Henry said, getting up and going to his step-dad.

“Merry Christmas again, lad.”

“Is the Jolly weathering the winter well?”

“She’s right as rain, my boy,” Killian said. “Nothing so prosaic as a snowstorm can disturb her.  She’s truly a marvel.”

“Cool!”  Henry said.  He continued to smile for a moment, and then suddenly began shuffling from foot to foot. 

“Is something troubling you, mate?” Killian asked, brow furrowed.

Henry averted his eyes.  “No.  Nothing’s wrong,” he said.  “I just…I was hoping I could talk to you.  You know somewhere where everyone isn’t watching.”

“Of course.  You are aware you can always talk to me about anything on your mind, are you not?”

“Yeah, I know,” Henry said.

The two stepped through the door to what used to be the creepy Dark One cellar—now turned into a comfortable man-cave, as Emma called it.  The visitor Killian and his guide Henry followed their other selves; somehow Killian knew this conversation was precisely what guide Henry wished him to see.

“Now, what’s this about, lad?” Killian asked as soon as they were assured their privacy.

“It’s just…” Henry began awkwardly.  He turned away, reached into a satchel Killian hadn’t realized he’d been wearing.  After a moment of shuffling, he pulled out several pages.

“A new story for your storybook, lad?”

“Yeah,” Henry said.  “Well…more for your storybook.  Yours and moms.  I’m gonna give you guys the start of the book for Christmas, but…I don’t know…I wanted to give you this story separately.”

Killian took the pages and looked over them.  “Our story,” he breathed softly.  “You wrote of the difficult times we’ve just overcome—from your mother becoming a Dark One, to her confrontation with the hooded figure.”

“Yeah,” Henry confirmed.

“But why did you feel the need to pull this story out in particular, and why did you wish to give it to me privately?”

Henry looked anywhere but at Killian, his shuffling and squirming beginning again in earnest.  “It’s just…I wanted to say thank you.  I mean, these last few months have been really, really hard, and you’ve always been there for me, even when you were scared for mom too.  So, yeah.  Just…thanks for being the best step-dad out there.”

Killian felt the familiar rushing sensation, and the next thing he knew he was back in his living room in the middle of the night.

Killian felt a suspicious lump in his throat as he watched the scene play out.  “Do you really think that way about me, Henry?” he asked in a small voice.

“Of course!” Henry said with a smile.  “And that’s why you have nothing to worry about.  All you have to do to be a great dad is to love your children, and you do.  You really do.  My little brother is going to be a lucky kid.”

“I hope you’re right, mate,” Killian said, allowing hope to fill his heart and almost—not quite but almost—push away the fear.

~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~

When Killian woke the next time, he looked around eagerly, wondering which familiar face had shown up to guide him this time.

He found himself peering into the face of a stranger.  He was tall and handsome with straight, black hair and familiar green eyes.  Killian was quite sure he’d never met the man before, but there was a definite air of familiarity about him.

“Would you happen to be the Ghost of Christmas future?” Killian asked carefully.

“That I am,” the man said.  “I’m here to show you a Christmas from your future.”

“Pardon mate,” Killian said, “but who might you be?”

The man smiled, a secret smile that Killian couldn’t quite understand.  “For the moment, you can simply call me Charles.”

“Very well, Charles,” Killian said, feeling somehow both eager and hesitant to see the future visions this man had to show him.  “Lead on.”

~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~

The first thing Killian noticed when the room stopped spinning was himself and Emma sitting on the couch before the fire.  Many years had clearly passed as both of them were quite elderly, sporting snow-white hair and skin significantly wrinkled.

“She’s still beautiful, isn’t she?” Charles asked, following Killian’s gaze.

Killian let out a long, slow breath.  “My Emma is gorgeous, and she no doubt will be until the day she dies.”

Charles rolled his eyes good-naturedly.  “The two of you have always been so romantic and in love it’s almost disgusting.”

“You’ve known us long?” Killian asked, curious about the identity of this guide.

“All my life,” came the cryptic reply.

“In what capacity?”

Charles shushed him, pointing toward the front door of the Swan-Jones home. 

After a quick knock, the door was opened and a woman entered; a woman Killian didn’t recognize—but he didn’t need an introduction.  The lass was the spitting image of Swan at the time he met her.  This must be…couldn’t be anyone else but…their daughter.

Killian felt the tears come to his eye as his lovely daughter rushed forward and hugged first Emma and then him.

“Eva!” Emma said.  “You’re here!  You actually made it!”

“Surprise!” she said. 

“What happened, love?” Older Killian asked, joy suffusing every inch of his face.  “You told us you were required to work over the holiday.”

“I couldn’t do it, Papa!” she said.  “I know how much Christmas means to you.  To both of you.  I rearranged my schedule and took the first flight I could get into Storybrooke.  I couldn’t stand to be anywhere but at home for Christmas.”

Older Killian hugged his daughter once more, a single tear tracing its way down his wizened cheek.  “You couldn’t have given me a greater gift, little love.”

The living room blurred, and when it came back into focus, Killian noticed that the evening had turned to night and Eva was joined by a whole houseful of new—and familiar—faces.  Killian noticed a middle-aged Henry, seated next to a similarly aged Violet.  Several children played, running and chasing each other in the far corner of the room.

Killian continued to scan the scene, smiling as Eva and Emma sat talking and laughing together.  He saw himself with a tiny boy on his lap…and sitting next to them was none other than Charles.

“Papa!” the tiny boy said, turning toward Charles, “Grandpa told me a story!  An exciting one about when he was a pirate!”

“Did he now, Liam?” Charles said, ruffling the boy’s hair.  “Grandpa has all kinds of exciting tales to tell.”

“I know!” Liam said.  “He said he’d tell me the one about the beanstalk and the giant and his first ‘venture with Grandma.  He’s the best Grandpa ever, isn’t he, papa?”

Charles put a hand on older Killian’s shoulder.  “That he is, Liam.  My dad is the best father and grandfather I know.”

Killian gasped, turning to look at his guide with new eyes.  “You’re…you’re my son?”

Charles grinned.  “The very same.  You haven’t officially met me yet, but I’ll be born in just over a month.”

The emotions rose up and nearly overwhelmed Killian.  This man, this happy, well-adjusted man with a loving wife and a beautiful son was the first child born of his and Emma’s love.  “So…I didn’t fail you, lad?”

“Look around you, Papa,” Charles said, gesturing at the happy, if slightly chaotic, sight around him.  “Look at the family you and Mama built.  This is hardly failure.  This is just about the greatest example of success I could imagine.  I wouldn’t have traded my life with you and Mama for anything in any of the realms.”

~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~

“Killian?”  He woke slowly, feeling a gentle shaking of his shoulder.  “Killian, are you alright?”

Swan.

He smiled, reaching for her and pulling her in for a quick kiss.  “Aye, love.  I’m quite fine.”

Killian looked around, noticing the first soft rays of the sun beginning to peek through the front windows.  “What day is it, Swan?”

She gave him a strange look.  “Um…well it was Christmas Eve when we went to bed last night, so that makes today Christmas.  That’s how these things work.”

“So they did it all in one night,” he muttered to himself, thinking of his three ghostly visitors and all the many places—and times—he’d seen.

“What?” Emma asked.  “Killian, are you sure everything is okay?  I woke up and you were gone, and your side of the bed was cold.  It’s not like you to leave our bed in the middle of the night.”

Killian smiled tenderly at her, caressed her cheek and pulled her in for another long, slow kiss, his hand caressing her belly.  When the kiss came to an end, he pulled away only far enough to press his forehead to hers.  “I was afraid,” he admitted.

Emma started and pulled away.  “Afraid?  Of what?  Don’t tell me we have a new villain in town!  It’s Christmas!  Can’t they at least wait until after the holiday to make our lives hell?”

Killian chuckled.  “Calm yourself, love.  Nothing like that.”  He rubbed her belly once again.  “We’ve only a month yet before this little one comes, love, and I suppose I feared my ability to be the father our son deserves.”

“Killian…” she said gently, but he stopped her with a raised hand.

“Don’t worry love,” he said.  “Last night my fears were put to rest, thanks to some very persuasive guests.”

“Well this sounds like it will be quite the story.”

“Indeed,” he admitted, getting to his feet, “suppose I tell you the entirety of it as I make you a Christmas breakfast?”

NEXT CHAPTER->

[secretly-a-catamount]

  Water is eternal. It cannot be created. It cannot be destroyed.

  Water is ancient. It fell from the heavens at the beginning of the world encased in rock, and, once it was freed, drowned the flames and ash. It falls to the earth still, a cycle that cannot be broken, an ouroboros eating its own tail.

  Water is all-encompassing, everywhere. It is present in ever living thing. It seeps into that which is believed to be dead but is not.

  Water births.

  Water sustains.

  Water kills.

  The man walked up the misted dock with an assurance that could only be granted by absolute power; someone who was used to taking what he wanted, the very mountains crumbling beneath his will. His skin was paler than sun-bleached bone, and his hair was the color of burnished gold and fell in tousled waves to his coat collar. He wore black clothing, blacker boots, and a dark gray jacket that accentuated his musculature well, silver buttons neatly fastened through ever hole atop his wrists and up the deceptively delicate, almost swan-like curve of his throat. His blood ran slowly through his veins, each beat of his heart punctured by a wound that would never heal.

  He stopped halfway down the dock, hellfire-green eyes scanning the partially obscured surface of the lake, and spoke.

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  The trees did not answer, gnarled roots and trunks bent, arms burdened with leaves bending down to be swallowed by the water, but the man had not expected them to. The mist did not answer either, but he had not expected it to, anymore than the trees. The wind, faint and weak, running the incorporeal tendrils of its fingers down his neck, didn’t answer, but he had not expected it to anymore than he had the trees and the mist.

  “I said: I need you to do something for me.”

  We heard you the first time, the response came from everywhere and nowhere, a thousand voices speaking as one but slightly overlapping, the angry buzz of bees, the deafening patter of raindrops against a metal roof, the howl of a hurricane, waves crashing against the shore, who are you, to think you can command the Element of Water?

  “I’m the Enemy of Death.”

  A moment of silence, then a loud crack as the end of the dock splintered off, then a thump as a mangled corpse pulled itself from the churning depths and heaved itself onto the splintered end of the dock.

  The mage gasped and staggered back, watching as the animated corpse dragged itself towards him with the nasty scraps of bone against wood, and the wet slaps of wood against rotted flesh. The water, splintered boards, rusted nails, vegetation, and silt, came with it, reconstructed its body as it went.

  By the time the Devoured was erected and whole, the Enemy of Death had composed himself again to the point of neutrality.

  The Devoured smiled like a predator, the vines wrapped around her bones and ruptured flesh acting as muscles and ligaments, her remaining bits of skin splitting at the movement, peeling away from her ruined body. Blood and oil leaked from her empty eye sockets, and her black hair twisted around her form like a shroud. She was vaguely humanoid, vaguely feminine, and vaguely young. She wore the tattered remains of a Golden Year uniform and a Magisterium wristband.

  “Hello, Tamara.”

  Hello, Aaron.

[oopsitsnothingcreative]

SUNLIT MEADOW

Summary: Beau Swan-Torres moves to a small town to live with his father and finally have the regular life of a high schooler. Instead, he meets a mysterious, charming boy who flips his world upside-down. Beau's determined to uncover all of this town's secrets and it might end badly for everyone involved. Twilight (Life&Death, Twilight Reimagined, and Midnight Sun) rewrite!!! I changed and added to the lore and world building.

Aka Twilight but make it gay and not toxic. No stalking, no watching people in their sleep. They will actually date/have a relationship and have personalities. Everyone has trauma.

Parring: Edward Cullen/Beau Swan

CHAPTER 1: FIRST SIGHT

My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. It was seventy-five degrees in Los Angeles, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. I was wearing my favorite shirt,—an oversized, white button down—a tank top underneath, and a pair of high-waisted black shorts, which I was wearing as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was a dark green parka and I’d change into jeans during my layover.

I absently fiddled with the charms on my necklaces as I tried to memorise that familiar way the heat felt on my skin. My eyes traced the landscape outside—the palm trees swaying lazily in the breeze, the endless sprawl of stucco houses and sun-bleached billboards, the sharp glint of glass and chrome in the distance. I wanted to hold onto it all: the golden haze of the afternoon, the way the city seemed to hum with life, and the bittersweet ache of leaving it behind.

In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this inconsequential town more than anywhere else in the United States. It was from this town and its gloomy, omnipresent shade that my mother escaped with me when I was five years old. It was in this town that I’d spend every summer and every other holiday. And it was where I’d spend the remaining years of high school. 

I loved LA I loved the sun, the dry heat, and the sprawling chaos of the city. Even though living with my mom could be quite… challenging, I always felt like she needed me there. Unlike her, I didn’t actually hate Forks, though she loved to assume I did.

“Beau,” my mom said for what felt like the thousandth time as I stood by the gate. “You don’t have to do this.”

My mom says we look so much alike I could use her as a shaving mirror. That’s not entirely true, though I don’t look much like my dad, either. Her chin is sharper, her lips fuller, always curling into a smile that makes her look younger than she is. Mine are thinner, more serious—even when I try to smile. My skin is lighter than hers, more like my dad’s. But we do have exactly the same eyes. On her, they’re childlike—wide and deep brown—which makes her look like my sister rather than my mother. We get that sometimes (actually happened maybe twice) and though she pretends not to, she loves it. On me, the deep brown is less youthful and more… unresolved.

Staring at those wide, worried eyes so much like my own, I felt a familiar panic. I’d been taking care of her my entire life. The time when I wasn’t in charge of the bills, paperwork, cooking, and general level-headedness my parents were still together.

Was I really about to leave her to fend for herself? It had seemed like the right decision over the summer when I’d made it. But it felt all kinds of wrong now.

Of course, she had Phil now. That was still surprising, considering her track record. At least with him around, the bills would probably get paid on time, there’d be food in the fridge, gas in the car, and someone to call when she got lost. She didn’t need me as much anymore. And, honestly, I needed structure and stability in my life.

“I want to go,” I said, hoping she’d finally believe me.

“Okay, honey. Tell Charlie I said hi.” I noticed the way her lips twitched every time she spoke his name.

“I will.”

“I’ll see you soon,” she promised. “You can come home whenever you want—I’ll come right back as soon as you need me—”

I almost laughed. “Don’t worry about me,” I had to interrupt her, or she would probably spiral until I agreed to stay. “It’ll be great. I love you, Mami.”

She hugged me so tightly I couldn’t breathe, and then I walked through security. When I turned back, she was already gone.

It’s about a three-hour flight from the LAX to Seattle, another hour in a small plane up to Port Angeles, and then an hour drive back down to Forks. Flying never bothered me; the hour in the car with dad, though, I was always a little worried about. I love him, and we talk regularly, but neither of us was what you’d call outgoing—probably a necessary thing for living with my mother.

He had really been pretty decent about the whole thing. He seemed genuinely pleased that I was coming to live with him sort of permanently for the first time. He’d already gotten me registered for high school, and was even going to help me get a car.

When I landed in Port Angeles, it was raining. It wasn’t an omen, just inevitable. I’d said my goodbyes to the sun.

Dad was waiting for me with the cruiser. This I was expecting, too. My father is Police Chief Swan to the good people of Forks. My primary motivation behind buying a car, despite my serious lack of funds, was that I hated driving around town in a car with red and blue lights on top. Nothing slows down traffic like a cop.

I stumbled off the plane into Dad’s awkward, one-armed hug.

“It’s good to see you, son,” he said, smiling as he automatically steadied me. We patted each other’s shoulders awkwardly, both of us embarrassed, and then stepped back. “You haven’t changed much. How’s Renée?”

I thought, Yeah, Dad, it’s been a month. Not a decade. But I just said, “Mom’s… great. It’s good to see you too.”

I only had a few bags. I mailed most of my stuff weeks ago, and my “winter” clothes were already at Dad’s house. My California wardrobe was mostly useless here anyway.

“I found a good car for you, really cheap,” he announced once we were strapped into the cruiser and on our way.

“What kind of car?” I asked, suspicious of the way he said ‘good car for you’ as opposed to just ‘good car.’

“Well, it’s a truck actually. A Chevy.”

“Where did you find it?”

“Billy Black down at La Push.”

La Push is a small Native American reservation on the nearby coastline.

I didn’t respond to that, just stared at him. Honestly, I needn’t have asked. Of course, it was Billy, Dad’s best friend and my godfather. They would go fishing in the summers, and I was forced to tag along. I remembered riding in that truck when I was little, wedged between Billy and Charlie, with Jake, the windows down as we bumped along the dirt roads. The truck had always felt too big for me back then, like it was swallowing me up with its massive, rattling engine.

“You know, since he’s in a wheelchair,” Dad continued when I didn’t respond, “he can’t drive anymore, and he offered to sell me the truck cheap.”

“What year is it?” I asked, already sensing this wasn’t going to be a good answer. I could see from the change in his expression that this was the question he’d hoped I wouldn’t ask.

“Well, Jacob’s done a lot of work on the engine—it’s only a few years old, really.”

Did he really think I would give up that easily?

“When did he buy it?”

“He bought it in 1984, I think.”

“Did he buy it new?”

“Well, no. I think it was new in the early sixties—or maybe fifties…” he admitted sheepishly.

Dad had a way of making things sound newer than they were, like that truck hadn’t been ancient the last time I saw it. I remembered clambering into the cab, my legs too short to reach the floor, as I sat between them. The seat had smelled like old leather and engine grease, and Billy would joke that it had more character than any of the shiny new cars the tourists would roll through town in.

“Dad, I don’t really know anything about cars. I wouldn’t be able to fix it if anything went wrong, and I couldn’t afford a mechanic—”

“Really, Beau, the thing runs great. They don’t build ‘em like that anymore.”

The thing, I thought to myself. Yeah, I can totally see that as a nickname.

“How cheap is cheap?” After all, that was the part I couldn’t compromise on.

“Well, son, I kind of already bought it for you. As a late birthday gift.” Dad glanced sideways at me with a hopeful expression.

Wow. Free.

“You didn’t need to do that, Dad. I was going to buy myself a car.”

“I don’t mind. I want you to be happy here.” He was looking ahead at the road when he said this. Dad had never been good at expressing his emotions out loud, and I’d definitely inherited that from him. So, I kept my gaze forward too as I responded.

“That’s amazing, Dad. Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

“Well, now, you’re welcome,” he mumbled, embarrassed by my thanks.

We exchanged a few more comments on the weather, which was wet, and that was pretty much it for conversation. We both stared out the windows, saying nothing.

It was beautiful, of course. Everything was green: the trees, their trunks covered with moss, their branches hanging with a canopy of it, the ground covered with ferns. Even the air filtered down greenly through the leaves. Someone could say it was too green—someone like my mother—but I kind of liked it. It was like an alien planet compared to LA’s endless, blinding sandy colors.

Eventually, we made it home. He still lived in the small, four-bedroom house that he’d bought with my mom in the early days of their marriage. Those were the only kind of days their marriage had—the early ones.

There, parked on the street in front of the house that never changed, was my new—well, new to me—truck.

It was a faded red color, with big, rounded fenders and a bulbous cab.

And I loved it. I wasn’t really a car guy, so I was kind of surprised by my own reaction. I mean, I didn’t even know if it would run, but I could totally see myself in it. Plus, it was one of those solid iron monsters that never gets damaged—the kind you see at the scene of an accident, paint unscratched, surrounded by the pieces of the foreign car it had destroyed. The thing definitely had a personality.

It felt weird to think about how much smaller it seemed now. When I was a kid, it had looked like a giant beast, ready to swallow me whole. Now, I could actually see myself behind the wheel, driving it.

“Wow, Dad, I love it! Thanks!” I was genuinely enthused about the truck. Not only was it perfect, but now I wouldn’t be faced with the choice of either walking two miles in the rain to school or accepting a ride in the Chief’s cruiser.

“I’m glad you like it,” Dad said gruffly, embarrassed by the attention.

It only took one trip to get my stuff upstairs. The bedroom I got faced the backyard. It had belonged to me since I was born. The wooden floor, light blue walls, and peaked ceiling were all so familiar. The faded, dark plaid curtains around the windows had been there forever, too. The only upgrades over the years were swapping out my crib for a bed and adding a desk when I got old enough to need one. Now, the desk held a laptop—a stipulation from my mother, so that we could “stay connected” or whatever. Most of the decorations were the same as when I’d left last summer: the posters, sketches, a rainbow flag pinned to the wall, books, trinkets, and fairy lights. Even the desk was still cluttered with my art supplies and random knick-knacks.

 The room, untouched, just as I left it. Well, mostly untouched, except for the boxes on the floor waiting for me to unpack. That’s how it always felt coming back—comfortable but slightly off, like my brain needed a moment to adjust to old routines. It was weird how even a familiar place could feel foreign when you’ve been gone awhile.

There were only two bathrooms—the smaller one downstairs, right next to the guest bedroom, and a slightly bigger one at the top of the stairs.

One of the best things about Dad is that he doesn’t hover. He left me alone to settle in, which would’ve been altogether impossible for Mom. I appreciated the quiet, the space to think, and the chance to process. It was nice to be alone. When I was younger, I used to be afraid of being alone, but I found out pretty soon that loneliness was less lonely than it seemed. It had a strange comfort of its own, like the hush after a storm. Now, I even preferred it sometimes.

That bittersweet train of thought kept me company as I carefully arranged my book collection on the shelf. The spines lined up in their usual neat rows, a comforting rainbow of familiarity amidst the chaos of unpacking. It felt a little like catching up with old friends, though if I told anyone that, they’d probably think I’d lost my mind.

I wasn’t even halfway done with unpacking when I saw the stack of textbooks waiting on my desk. Anxiety hit me like a truck. Starting a new school won’t be easy, especially a week after the school year began. Forks High School had just three hundred and fifty-seven—now fifty-eight—students; there were more than seven hundred people in my sophomore class alone back home. All of the kids there had grown up together. I probably went to kindergarten with them, but I didn’t exactly keep in touch with anyone. So, basically, I would be the new kid from the big city, something to stare at and whisper about.

Maybe if I had been one of the cool kids, I could work this to my advantage. But I certainly wasn’t that guy. I’ve always been… offbeat. Not the football star, the class president, or the bad boy on the motorcycle. I was the kid who looked like he should be good at basketball—until I started walking and shattered the illusion. The kid who got shoved into lockers until I’d suddenly shot up eight inches freshman year. The kid who was too quiet to be noticed, too sarcastic to blend in, too lost in my own head to care, too weird, too nerdy, and too queer. But if I was being fully honest—I didn’t really want to fit in. It all looked exhausting.

And don’t get me started on sports.

I wasn’t completely unfit—I was a ballet dancer, and I ran when I could (mostly in the mornings or when I couldn’t sleep, which was often, too often)—but if there was a ball involved, I was an absolute menace. My hand-eye coordination was so laughably bad it should come with a warning label. And despite the constant sunshine of California and being half Latino, I was paler than people expected me to be and had always been on the leaner side.

Once I’d finished cramming clothes into the old pine closet, I grabbed my bag of toiletries and headed for the bathroom to clean myself up after the day of travel.

The hot shower helped clear my head. Standing in front of the mirror, I ran my fingers through my damp curls. Maybe it was the light, or maybe it was the hot shower I just took, but my skin looked a bit darker and my usually barely seen freckles were somehow more visible.

Unlike other teenagers, I didn’t have a ton of free time. I had a checkbook to balance, a week’s groceries to shop for, meals to cook, a part-time job, and a very long list of after-school activities.

So I didn’t relate well to people my age. Maybe the truth was that I didn’t relate well to people, period. Even my mother never really understood me. Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the same things through my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through theirs. Like, maybe what I saw as green was what everyone else saw as red. Maybe I smelled vinegar when they smelled coconut. Maybe there was a glitch in my brain.

But the cause didn’t matter. All that mattered was the effect. And tomorrow would be just the beginning.

I didn’t sleep well that night, even after I had managed to calm myself down. The rain wouldn’t shut up, and the wind howled like it had a grudge against my window. I buried myself under the old quilt, and eventually, a pillow. It was well after midnight before I finally passed out, and only because the rain finally settled into a quieter drizzle.

Morning wasn’t much better. Thick fog wrapped the house like a damp gray cocoon, hiding everything. You could barely see the sky in Forks most days, but this was next-level gloom. Breakfast with dad was quiet. He wished me good luck at school. I thanked him, knowing his hope was a waste of time. Good luck tended to avoid me.

Dad left first, off to the police station that was his wife and family. After he left, I sat at the old square oak table in one of the three unmatching chairs and stared at the familiar kitchen, with its dark paneled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and white tiled floor. Nothing had changed. Mom painted those cabinets eighteen years ago, trying to bring some sunshine into the house.

Over the small fireplace in the family room was a row of pictures. First a wedding picture of Dad and Mom in Las Vegas, then one of the three of us in the hospital after I was born, taken by a helpful nurse, followed by the procession of my school pictures up to this year’s. Those were painful to look at—the bad haircuts, the braces years, the acne that had finally cleared up. I’d have to figure out a way to convince Dad to move them somewhere else, at least while I was living here.

It was impossible to be in this house and not realize that Dad had never gotten over Mom. It was kind of… sad, honestly. I’d always hoped he’d meet someone new, someone who’d make him happy. But for now, it was just the two of us.

I didn’t want to be too early to school, but I didn’t have anything better to do. So, I grabbed my jacket—thick, non-breathable plastic, like a biohazard suit—and stepped out into the rain. It was only drizzling, so I wouldn’t be soaked through immediately, but it was still Forks: wet was the default setting here. Reaching for the house key stashed under the eaves—my set of keys must’ve still been in one of the unpacked boxes that I pushed under my bed before sleep—I locked up. My dad’s old combat boots sloshed awkwardly as I walked. I kinda missed the normal crunch of gravel underfoot, but I didn’t have time to linger. The misty wet swirled around me, like it was personally offended that I dared to leave the house.

Inside the truck, it was blissfully dry. Someone—probably Dad—had cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline, and peppermint. The mix was oddly comforting. I inhaled slowly, and the scent tugged at old memories. I could picture Jake and me squeezed into this truck next to our fathers, listening to music on the radio, Jake cracking stupid jokes to make me laugh. That felt like a lifetime ago. The engine roared to life—loud, sure, but it quieted down with every second. Well, no one’s perfect, I thought wryly, not even this truck. On the plus side, the radio was newer than the rest of it, and I could connect my phone. Small victories.

Finding the school wasn’t difficult; like most things, it was right off the highway. It wasn’t totally obvious that it was a school; only the sign, which declared it to be FORKS HIGH SCHOOL HOME OF THE SPARTANS, clued me in. It looked like a collection of matching houses, built with maroon-colored bricks. Only the one in the front resembled a school; it was definitely the biggest building out of all. There were so many trees and shrubs I couldn’t see its size at first.

Where’s the institutional vibe? The chain-link fences? The metal detectors?

I parked in front of the first tiny building, which was attached to the bigger one. A sign over the door read FRONT OFFICE. No one else was parked there, so I was sure it was off limits, but I decided I would get directions inside instead of circling around in the rain like an idiot. I stepped unwillingly out of the toasty truck cab and walked down a little stone path lined with dark hedges. I paused outside the door, took a deep breath, and went inside.

The office was brightly lit and warmer than I’d hoped. It was small—a waiting area with a few padded folding chairs, orange-flecked commercial carpet, notices and awards cluttering the walls. A huge clock ticked loudly and plants in large plastic pots seemed to spring up everywhere, as if there wasn’t enough greenery outside. The room was cut in half by a long counter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly colored flyers taped to its front. Behind the counter were three desks, only one of them occupied. A large, red-haired woman wearing glasses sat there, typing something. She was wearing a t-shirt, which immediately made me feel overdressed for the weather.

She looked up as I walked in. “Can I help you?” she asked, her tone friendly enough.

“I’m Beau Swan-Torres,” I informed her, bracing myself for the inevitable flicker of recognition. Sure enough, her eyes lit up with awareness. I was expected. Great. She’d clearly heard the gossip. Son of the Chief’s flighty, insane ex-wife, came back home at last.

“Of course,” she said, rifling through a precariously stacked pile of papers on her desk. After a moment, she pulled out what she was looking for. “I’ve got your schedule right here, Beauregard, and a map of the school.” She brought several sheets to the counter and laid them out for me.

“Um, it’s Beau, please,” I corrected gently.

“Oh, sure, Beau.” She didn’t miss a beat, though I could tell she’d already mentally filed me under Beauregard.

She went through my classes for me, highlighting the best routes to each class on the map. Then she handed me a slip I’d need to get signed by every teacher and return by the end of the day. She smiled at me in that overly bright way people do when they feel awkward. “I hope you’ll like it here,” she said, echoing Dad’s earlier sentiment.

“Thanks,” I replied with a polite smile of my own. Because what else could I say? “Can’t wait to be the awkward new kid everyone stares at” didn’t seem appropriate.

When I got back to my truck, other students were starting to arrive. I drove around the school, following the line of traffic. To my relief, most of the cars were older models like mine. In California, it was a common thing to see a new Mercedes, Porsches, or even Teslas in the student lot. The nicest car here was a shiny Volvo, and it stood out.

I parked quickly, cutting the engine so the truck wouldn’t draw too much attention. Sitting there for a moment, I stared out at the rain-slicked lot and the clusters of kids walking toward the buildings. My stomach twisted, and I pulled out the map, trying to memorize it now; hopefully, I wouldn’t have to walk around with it stuck in front of my nose all day. Satisfied that I at least knew where to start, I stuffed everything in my messenger bag, slung the strap over my shoulder, and sucked in a huge breath. “It won’t be that bad.” I tried to calm myself. “This wasn’t life or death—just high school.” It’s not like anyone was going to bite me.

I finally exhaled and stepped out of the truck. I pulled my hood down over my face as I walked to the sidewalk, crowded with other students. My plain black jacket blended in, which was comforting.

Once I got around the cafeteria, building three was easy to spot—there was a giant black “3” painted on a white square on the corner. I felt a knot in my stomach tighten as I approached the door. I took another deep breath as I followed two unisex raincoats through the door.

The classroom was small. A few students in front of me stopped to hang their jackets on a long row of hooks. I followed their lead, awkwardly mimicking them. They were two girls—one a porcelain-colored blond, the other just as pale, with light brown hair.

I made my way up to the teacher’s desk. The nameplate identified him as Mr. Mason. He was tall and balding, and gawked at me when he saw my name—not an encouraging response—and, of course, I felt my face heat up as he gave me a once-over.

Thankfully, he didn’t make me introduce myself. Instead, he waved me toward an empty desk in the back. I sank into the chair, trying to make myself as invisible as possible. It didn’t work. It was harder for my new classmates to stare at me in the back, but somehow, they managed.

I stared down at the reading list Mr. Mason handed me, doing my best to ignore the unwanted attention. Brontë, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Dickinson—comfortingly familiar… yet boring. I’d read all of it before. While the teacher droned on, I let my mind wander. Maybe Mom would send me my folder of old essays, or maybe she would think that was cheating. I started mentally rehearsing my counterarguments.

When the bell rang, a nasal buzzing sound, I wanted to pack up quickly. But before I could escape, a beautiful, skinny girl with brown hair quickly and gracefully walked towards me and leaned across the aisle to talk to me. The girl was utterly unique. She was short and pixie-like, with sharp, delicate features. Her short hair messy, pointing in every direction with perfectly cut bangs. The short, choppy strands framed her face like a crown of controlled chaos, with each jagged edge adding to the punkish, untamed look she wore so effortlessly. It was the kind of hair that seemed to defy gravity, perfectly matching the fierce independence in her eyes.

“You’re Beauregard Swan, right?” She gave off the vibe of the popular but nice, overly helpful kind of popular. Her voice was cheerful and as unique as she looked.

“Beau,” I corrected, trying not to cringe as everyone within earshot turned to look at me.

“Where’s your next class?” she asked, completely unfazed.

I fumbled with my bag, pulling out the schedule. “Um, Government with Jefferson. Building six.” There was nowhere to look without meeting curious eyes.

“I’m headed toward building four, I could show you the way…” Definitely helpful. “I’m Alice,” she added.

I smiled tentatively. “Thanks. That’d be great.”

We grabbed our jackets and stepped back into the rain, which had picked up. I could have sworn several people behind us were walking close enough to eavesdrop. I hoped I wasn’t getting paranoid—more than I already was.

“So,” Alice said, making casual conversation, “this must be a big change from California.”

“You could say that.”

“It doesn’t rain much there, huh?”

“Five or six times a year.”

“Wow, what must that be like?” she wondered.

“Sunny,” I told her, and she laughed, a soft, quiet sound I almost missed.

“You know,” she said, “I was new here once, too. We moved here my freshman year.”

“We?” I asked, surprised. “How’d you adjust?”

“I’ve got a big family,” she said, waving it off. “And it was a little rough at first, but people warm up eventually.”

We circled around the cafeteria and headed toward the south buildings near the gym. Alice walked with me all the way to the door, even though it was clearly marked.

“Well, good luck,” she said, her tone cheerful, as I touched the handle. “Maybe we’ll have some other classes together.” She sounded more certain than hopeful.

“Thanks,” I said, offering a faint smile. I could see myself becoming friends with her.

The rest of the morning passed in much the same fashion. My Trigonometry teacher, Mr. Varner, who I would have disliked anyway just because of the subject he taught, was the only one who made me stand in front of the class and introduce myself. Cue the stammering, blushing, and tripping over my own boots on the way back to my seat. A real highlight of the day.

After two classes, I started recognizing a few faces here and there. There was always someone braver than the others who would introduce themselves and ask usual questions: How did I like Forks? Wasn’t the weather awful? Did I miss California? Most were surprised when I mentioned I’d spent a lot of time here growing up. It was just the school that was new to me. At least I never needed the map.

In every class, the teacher started out calling me Beauregard, and though I corrected them immediately, it was frustrating. It had taken me years to live down Beauregard—thank you so much, Grandpa, for dying just months before I was born and making my father feel obligated to honor you. No one back in California even remembered that Beau was just a nickname anymore. Now I had to start all over again.

I had to sprint to my next class because Mr. Varner refused to let us leave until someone solved the problem on the board. Fortunately, it was also in the main building, so I didn’t have to run that far. The classroom was filled with art supplies—paintbrushes, easels, stacks of paper—and the walls were covered in art pieces, some of them probably made by my new classmates. I noticed all of them were girls. Judging by the stares, I figured I might be the only guy in this class. They really looked at me like I was lost or something. Art clearly wasn’t a big draw for Forks’ male population.

I put my bag on the free table and looked for the slip for the teacher. She hadn’t noticed me come in, too focused on whatever she was typing on her laptop. She was pale—like everyone else around here—but maybe a little more so.  She was small, with round features, wearing a dark green dress and a dark, almost black cardigan over it, she looked exactly like you’d imagine an art teacher to look like. Something about her heart-shaped face, her billows of soft, caramel-colored hair, reminded me of the ingénues of the silent-movie era.

When I reached her desk, she startled slightly and looked up, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and nervousness. “Oh! Mr. Swan-Torres,” she said, her voice soft and musical. “I’m so happy to have you in my class.”

She took the slip from my hand before I could say anything and signed it, then grabbed a stack of things from her desk and handed them to me one by one.

“This is for your work—don’t lose it,” she said, passing me a sketchbook with my name neatly written on the cover. Then came a pack of pencils and a thick art history book. “Don’t worry, we haven’t started any projects yet. Right now, we’re doing an introduction to art history. And this—” She handed me a small canvas. “This is for the graded project this semester, which we’ll discuss next week. You only get one, so if something happens, you’ll have to buy your own, all right?”

“Y-yes, Thank you.” I managed, clutching the supplies like they might vanish if I moved too quickly.

She looked at me, then at her desk, then back at me, her brow furrowing slightly. “Am I forgetting something?”

At first, I thought she was asking me—like I was supposed to know—but then I realized she was just thinking out loud as she looked around trying to jog her memory. “Oh, of course,” she murmured, opening the cabinet and pulling out a folder. “Your father left me some of your work to assess to get you into this advanced class.”

The bell rang, cutting off any chance for follow-up questions, and she waved me toward the table I’d left my bag on. I quickly dropped everything on my table, as she launched into a lecture about Renaissance art. I realized I didn’t get her name. I looked at her signature on the freshly signed piece of paper—Esme Cullen.

I was still a little confused about how I’d gotten into this class, but I wasn’t going to complain. The girls who had been staring at me earlier kept it up, though I pretended not to notice. Instead, I opened the thick art history book and flipped to the right page, letting Esme’s enthusiasm for the Renaissance wash over me.

After class, I finally found my locker, crammed my new supplies into it, and tried to memorize its location. Then it was time to leave the warm, dry halls of the main building and find my next class.

Alice was waiting outside the Spanish classroom, her face lighting up when she saw me. It seemed like she had been waiting for me. She looked so genuinely happy.

We sat next to each other and spent most of the lesson talking without ever getting caught. It was like Alice had a sixth sense for when the teacher’s attention was about to shift to us. I took Spanish for the easy A, so I wasn’t going to pay that much attention anyway.

The conversation was nice. She was funny—surprisingly sharp, too—and apparently obsessed with fashion. She was interested in my outfit, particularly my shoes. “I like vintage things,” she said.

Alice walked with me to the cafeteria for lunch. Her bubbly, energetic personality contrasted sharply with my dry, sarcastic one, but somehow, the conversation flowed. She had this way of making you talk, even if you didn’t want to.

We sat at the end of a full table with several of her friends, who she introduced to me—couldn’t complain about the manners here. Overwhelmed by the rush of new information, I forgot all their names almost immediately. It was a lot to take in. They seemed impressed by her bravery in speaking to me. A boy from Trig—I think his name was Eric—waved at me from across the room.

It was there, sitting in the lunchroom, trying to make conversation with seven curious strangers, that I first saw them.

They were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away from where I sat as possible in the long room. There were four of them. They were talking and laughing and eating. They weren’t gawking at me, unlike most of the other students, so it was safe to stare at them without fear of meeting an excessively interested pair of eyes. But none of that was why they caught my attention.

They didn’t look anything alike. There were three guys. One was huge—muscled like a serious weight lifter, at least six-five, maybe taller, with skin about the same tone as mine and short, dark, curly hair. Probably the school’s star-athlete. The one sitting next to him was slightly shorter, though not by much, but still muscular, with honey-colored hair. There was something intense about him, edgy. The last one was lanky, less bulky, with untidy, bronze-colored hair. He looked younger, more boyish than the others.

The girl was taller than average. She had a beautiful figure, the kind you saw on the cover of a magazine, the kind that made every girl around her take a hit on her self-esteem just by being in the same room. Her hair was golden, gently waving to the middle of her back.

Totally different, and yet, they were all exactly alike. There was something about them making them the same, although I couldn’t quite place it. They all had very dark eyes—from here they looked black—despite the range in their hair colors.

But all this is not why I couldn’t look away. They looked like normal teens, yet they were all insanely attractive. They were faces you never expected to see except perhaps in a museum, painted by an old master as the face of an angel or a Greek god. It was hard to believe they were real.

I decided the most beautiful of all was the bronze-colored haired guy, though I expected the female half of the student body would vote for the movie-star blond guy. They would be wrong, though. I mean, all of them were gorgeous, but there was something about the bronze-haired one—something that made my stomach twist. He was absolutely perfect.

“Who are they?” I asked the girl sitting next to me, whose name I’d forgotten.

As she looked up to see who I meant—though she could probably guess from my tone—suddenly he looked at us, the perfect one. He looked at my neighbor for just a fraction of a second, and then his dark eyes flickered towards mine.

He looked away quickly, more quickly than I could, though in a flush of embarrassment I dropped my eyes at once. In that brief flash of a glance, his face wasn’t interested at all—it was as if she had called his name, and he’d looked up in an involuntary response, already having decided not to answer.

My neighbor gave a nervous little laugh, looking back down at the table. I followed her lead, feeling the tips of my ears heat up. Great. Nothing like getting caught staring.

“That’s Edward and Emmett Cullen, and Rosalie and Jasper Hale,” she said, her voice low like she was sharing a secret. “Alice’s family. They all live together with Dr. Cullen and his wife—she teaches here.”

Alice, sitting across from us, glanced up at the mention of her name, giving the girl a mildly amused look.

Of course. It made perfect sense that the unique, beautiful girl was related to the other unique, beautiful people.

I stole another at the beautiful boy, his attention was fixed on the tray in front of him as he tore apart a bagel with long, pale fingers. His mouth was moving very quickly, his perfect lips barely opening.

Strange, unpopular names, I thought. The kinds of names grandparents had. But maybe that was in vogue here—small town names? I finally remembered that my neighbor was called Jessica, a perfectly common name. There were two girls named Jessica in my History class back home.

“They’re all… very good-looking,” I said, struggling to find words that didn’t sound completely ridiculous.

“Oh, yeah!” she agreed, suddenly louder. “And they’re all together—Emmett and Rosalie, and Jasper and Alice.”

Jessica giggled as Alice kicked her under the table. But that only made her laugh harder.

“Are you gossiping about my family again, Jess?” Alice teased, shaking her head. Then she turned to me, her grin still firmly in place. “It’s fine, Beau. I would’ve told you about them eventually. My parents fostered Rosalie and Jasper a little over a year ago, but my brother and I had already been dating the twins long before that.”

“Wait—so you’re not all…?” I trailed off, not sure how to phrase it.

“Related? No, not really. It’s complicated,” Alice admitted with a shrug. “When we moved here, we were all the people talked about. Like this one, over here.” She jabbed her fork in Jessica’s direction, earning a mock gasp of outrage.

Just then, Jasper—at least, I assumed it was Jasper—stood up and walked towards our table. He passed behind me, leaned down to kiss Alice on the cheek before heading out of the cafeteria without a word.

 Alice smiled widely, her cheeks weirdly, palely blushing. “Gotta go! See ya, guys!” She was gone before I could even say goodbye, her bag nearly slipping off her shoulder as she hurried away.

I glanced back at the Cullen-Hale table. Rosalie and Emmett had left, joining a group of what looked like seniors sitting closer to the exit, leaving their brother alone at the table. He didn’t seem to mind—or maybe he didn’t notice.

“What was the name of the boy with the reddish-brown hair?” I asked Jessica, keeping my tone neutral.

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, and he was staring at me again, but not gawking like the other students had today—he had a slightly frustrated expression. I looked down again.

“Edward,” Jessica said with a sniff, her tone sharpening. “He’s gorgeous, of course, but a complete waste of time. He doesn’t date. Apparently none of the girls here are good-looking enough for him.” The bitterness in her voice was practically palpable. I wondered when he’d turned her down.

I bit my lip to hide a smirk. Then I glanced at him again. His face was turned away now, but I could’ve sworn the corner of his mouth was curved, like he might’ve been smiling too.

A few minutes later, he got up and left without a word, moving with that same weird fluidity as the others.

I ended up sitting at the table with Jessica and her friends longer than I normally would’ve. Honestly, if I were alone, I’d have ditched the cafeteria five minutes in. I was anxious not to be late for class on my first day.

One of my new acquaintances, who considerately reminded me that her name was Angela, had Biology II with me the next hour. We walked to class together in silence. She was shy, like me, and didn’t seem interested in forcing awkward small talk.

When we entered the classroom, Angela went to sit at a black-topped lab table exactly like the ones I was used to. She already had a neighbor. In fact, all the tables were filled but one. Next to the center aisle, I recognized Edward Cullen by his unusual hair, sitting next to that single open seat.

My heart started hammering for no good reason, and I had to focus on not tripping over my own feet as I walked down the aisle to introduce myself to the teacher and get my slip signed. I was watching him surreptitiously. Just as I passed, he suddenly went rigid in his seat. He stared at me again, meeting my eyes with the strangest expression on his face—it was more than angry, it was furious, hostile.

I looked away quickly, my face heating up, and managed to trip over someone’s book in the aisle. I caught myself on the edge of their table, and the girl sitting there giggled. Perfect.

I had been right about his eyes. They were black—coal black.

Mr. Banner signed my slip and handed me a book with no nonsense about introductions. I could tell we were going to get along. Of course, he had no choice but to send me to the one open seat in the middle of the room.

I kept my eyes down as I went to sit by him, bewildered by the antagonistic stare he’d given me, trying to ignore the fact that my palms were suddenly sweaty. And of course, because I wasn’t paying attention, my hip clipped the corner of someone’s desk on the way. Smooth, Beau. Real smooth.

Without looking up, I slid into the seat and shifted as far to the right as the chair would go, putting as much space between us as humanly possible. I saw his posture change from the corner of my eye. I ran my fingers through my hair nervously and leaned forward, propping my head on my hand to block my face from his view. I angled myself away, too, for good measure. I tried to pay attention to the teacher.

Unfortunately, the lecture was on something I’d already studied. I took notes carefully anyway, always looking down.

Still, I couldn’t stop myself from sneaking a glance at the strange boy next to me now and then. During the whole class, he never relaxed his stiff position. I could see his hand on his left leg was clenched into a fist, tendons standing out under his pale skin. This, too, he never relaxed. He had the long sleeves of his white shirt pushed up to his elbows, and his forearm was surprisingly muscular beneath his light skin. Not that I cared. It was just… an observation.

The class seemed to drag on longer than the rest. Was it because the day was finally coming to a close, or because I was waiting for his tight fist to loosen? It never did; he continued to sit so still it looked like he wasn’t breathing. What was wrong with him? Was this his normal behavior? I questioned my quick judgment on Jessica’s bitterness at lunch today. Maybe she was not as resentful as I’d thought.

It couldn’t have anything to do with me. He didn’t know me from Adam.

I peeked up at him one more time, and immediately regretted it. He was glaring down at me again, his black eyes full of revulsion.

As I flinched away from him, shrinking against my chair, the phrase if looks could kill suddenly ran through my mind.

At that moment, the bell rang loudly, making me jump, and Edward Cullen was out of his seat. Fluidly he rose—he was maybe a couple of inches taller than me—his back to me, and he was out the door before anyone else was out of their seats.

I sat there, frozen, staring blankly after him. What was his problem? He was so unnecessarily rude. I began gathering up my things slowly, trying to block the confusion and anger that filled me. I felt tight knots in my stomach. I hadn’t done anything wrong. How could I have? I hadn’t even talked to him.

Was he racist or something?

“Aren’t you Beauregard Swan?” a male voice asked. I looked up to see a cute, baby-faced boy, his pale blond hair carefully flat-ironed, smiling at me in a friendly way.

“Beau,” I corrected him with a small smile, trying not to sound too irritated.

“I’m Mike.”

“Hi, Mike.”

“Do you need any help finding your next class?”

“I’m headed to the gym, actually. I think I can find it,” I replied, trying to keep it short.

“That’s my next class, too.” He seemed way too excited about this coincidence. I wasn’t sure if it was just because our school was small, or if he was always this... eager.

We walked to class together; he was a chatterer—he supplied most of the conversation, which made it easy for me. He’d lived in California till he was ten, so he knew how I felt about the sun. It turned out he was in my English class also. He was the second nicest person I’d met today. It was kind of weird that someone as nice as Alice was related to someone like Edward. But then again, I wasn’t even sure if they were actually related.

As we entered the gym, Mike asked, “So, did you stab Edward Cullen with a pencil or what? I’ve never seen him act like that.”

I cringed. So I wasn’t the only one who had noticed. And, apparently, that wasn’t Edward Cullen’s usual behavior. I decided to play dumb.

“Was that the guy I sat next to in Biology?” I asked, pretending to be clueless.

“Yeah,” he said. “He looked like he was in pain or something.”

“I don’t know,” I responded. “I never spoke to him.”

“He’s a weird guy.” Mike lingered by me instead of heading to the dressing room. “If I were lucky enough to sit by you, I would have talked to you.”

I smiled at him, and he quickly walked through the locker room door. I followed, slightly embarrassed. He was friendly and possibly liked me—maybe even a bit too much. But it wasn’t enough to make me forget the last hour.

The Gym teacher, Coach Clapp, found me a uniform but didn’t make me dress down for today’s class. At my old school, only two years of P.E. were required. Here, P.E. was mandatory all four years. Like I said this morning—good luck tended to avoid me.

I watched four volleyball games running simultaneously. Thinking back on the injuries I’d sustained—and inflicted—playing volleyball made me feel vaguely nauseous. Still, I kind of liked it. Once I focused enough, I was pretty good at it... or so I’ve been told. Unfortunately, I had a habit of spacing out.

The final bell rang at last, and I walked slowly to the office to return my paperwork. The rain had drifted away, but the wind was strong and colder. I wrapped my arms around myself.

When I walked into the warm office, I almost turned around and walked back out. Edward Cullen stood at the desk in front of me. I recognized again that tousled bronze hair. He didn’t seem to notice me enter. I stood pressed against the back wall, waiting for the receptionist to be free.

He was arguing with her in a low, attractive voice. I quickly picked up the gist of the argument. He was trying to switch from seventh-hour Biology to another time—any other time. I just couldn’t believe that this was about me. It had to be something else, something that happened before I entered the Biology room. The look on his face must have been about another aggravation entirely. It was impossible that this stranger could take such a sudden, intense dislike to me.

The door opened again, and the cold wind suddenly gusted through the room, rustling the papers on the desk, swirling my hair around my face. The girl who came in merely stepped to the desk, placed a note in the wire basket, and walked out again. But Edward Cullen’s back stiffened. He turned slowly, glaring at me—his face was frustratingly, absurdly handsome—with piercing eyes. I felt the anxiety rise inside me. The look was more of irritation than hatred and only lasted a second, but it chilled me more than the freezing wind. Then, just like that, he turned back to the receptionist.

“Never mind, then,” he said hastily in a voice like velvet. “I can see that it’s impossible. Thank you so much for your help.” He turned on his heel and strode out the door without sparing me another glance.

Okay. Cool. Definitely not about me.

I walked up meekly to the desk, my face white for once instead of red, and handed the receptionist my signed slip.

“How was your first day, dear?” she asked, her tone warm and maternal.

“Fine,” I lied, my voice cracking like a bad radio signal.

Her expression said she didn’t buy it for a second, but mercifully, she didn’t push.

When I got to the parking lot, my truck was one of the last vehicles left. I climbed inside and just sat there for a while, staring blankly out the windshield. I tried to sort through the tangled mess of my thoughts, but every time I even brushed up against Edward Cullen’s name in my mind, my stomach twisted itself into another knot.

Eventually, the cold crept in, and I gave up on pretending I was fine. I turned the key, and the truck’s engine roared to life like an old friend trying to cheer me up. The heater kicked in, and I drove home, forcing myself to focus on the road, trying to think of nothing at all.

It wasn’t working, but at least I was trying.

Check out the next chapter: here or on ao3

[girlblogkiller]

“and i watch you; like prey to a hawk but like love to me” 💝

sweet, sweet, infatuation. i found my religion in the stretch of your skin, the wave of your hair, the shine of your eyes.

to love is to devote myself to you, to be on my knees in prayer, repenting my heart and confessing your name. to love is to be devastated, to be desperate and lustful, to burn for you from deep inside.

touch me, taint me with your hands, condemn me to my own damnation until i can no longer fight the tears that are falling. god knows whether my love for you is optimism or mere ignorance but the less i know the better, rose tinted glasses perched on the bridge of my nose.

i exist only within this lovesick haze, sticky skin, long limbs, and words for you that i cannot speak aloud. my bible is every thought of you that fills my lovelorn mind, the image of a cross sitting in the dip of your neck. you’d be my crucifix and i your believer, wait for the fever to break but it never does.

i fear i’ll long forever, condemned to pine for the forbidden fruit, the sweet sacrifice only we would make. it tastes of citrus, sweat, and my tears. my heart pumps your blood and yours mine, we are all and nothing and nothing and all.

i’ll kiss your back and trace stars, grieving us with the grace of a swan and the face of a lover. you taste of all things sweet and smell of a heaven that i still don’t believe in. although you are still my faith, i have my doubts in my heart of hearts and my mind of minds. a kiss would submit my soul to yours but would not ensure the truth of all the pretty things i don’t believe.

my hand brushes against your hip, a quick motion, a simple touch, but my love burns with the heat of a thousand fires when your atoms are close to mine. nimble fingers, they twirl with the hair at the nape of your neck, i splay my hands along your back, we indulge ourselves.

you are an arrhythmia i would rather die than ever be without, a dream that i forgot about after i woke up. this is my testament, my love letter to you, a yearning that will be felt from beyond the horizon. this is my damnation, my salvation, and my crucifixion, all in one.

is it possible that you will be my greatest love of all?

is it fair?

they say all’s fair in love and war but for now, i can’t tell the difference between the two.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　

[swan2swan]

THIS IS NOW

THIS IS NOW

THIS IS NOW

[atamascolily]

first lines meme

Thanks to @virusq for tagging me! Skipping over multichapters and nonfiction/meta here to focus on shorts and one-shots.

Too weak to stand, Xie Ying Luo crawled. - Of Use (Thunderbolt Fantasy)

After Maomao had left the Inner Palace for good, Gaoshun found Jinshi huddled on his knees in the corner of his office surrounded by a sickly purple aura. - Mushroom Hunting (The Apothecary Diaries)

Homura woke before her alarm, as she always did--somehow, she knew what time it was without needing a clock and would jerk from a sound sleep to full alertness in seconds at precisely the right moment. -wake me up before you go-go (PMMM)

Ichigo Kurosaki never thought he'd see the day where he was grateful for the end of summer vacation, but the first week of the fall semester came as an immense relief. - Catching Up (Bleach x PMMM)

Your name is Mai Kawasumi and though you are a senior in high school, you are also an accomplished demon hunter who keeps the city safe by dispatching the monsters that no one else can see. -Demon's Serenade (Kanon x PMMM)

Which came first, the chicken or the egg? - Chicken and Egg (Null Magical Girl)

"Are you sure about this?" - Puppetmaster (Thunderbolt Fantasy)

"Mistress Frieren," Fern said sternly to the small figure crouched expectantly in front of a suspicious-looking wooden treasure chest tucked away in a corner of the dungeon. "You do realize that's a mimic, right?" -Improbable Odds (Sousou no Frieren)

The wild swans came down from the north in early autumn, the whistling of their wings echoing across the lake in the growing twilight. - Transmigration (Princess Tutu)

For a region supposedly devastated by the War of Fading Dusk, the Wasteland of Spirits contained no end of hostile inhabitants, all of them out for blood. -Unexpected Interference (Thunderbolt Fantasy x PMMM)

As you can see, I try to make sure my first line either functional (i.e., tells you who it's about and where in canon we are, if relevant) OR thematic. In other words, it explains either the setting or the what it's about--and sometimes, if I'm very lucky, both at once, as in the Homura one.

Stories are fractal, so I find it pleasing when the first sentence encapsulates the whole of the story in microcosm. I don't always achieve that, of course, but it's nice when it happens. So the fic about consent play begins with a question about consent; the story about wild swans and seasonal migration begins with their appearance; the story about fighting monsters in a wasteland begins with the dry observation that there's actually quite a lot going on in a supposedly empty landscape. And so on.

Because of this, I have a tendency for wordy first sentences, so it's nice to see I actually do vary my pacing a bit. I recall someone telling me once that you should never start with dialogue or a question, which, like most writing rules, can be safely ignored.

That said, I usually think of it more as "first paragraph" rather than first sentence, as you can see with the Frieren one. Anything I can't cram into the first sentence goes later in the paragraph if possible:

The wild swans came down from the north in early autumn, the whistling of their wings echoing across the lake in the growing twilight. Fakir stood on the dock with his neck craned and admired their fluid grace. In the water beside him, Ahiru watched too with her usual anatid inscrutability. Still, he couldn't help wondering if she wished she might follow them--if this little lake and his company weren't enough for her compared to the wide world beyond.

Here is the whole conflict of the story laid out--post-canon Fakir looks up at the swans, and he's wondering what Ahiru is thinking, and projecting his own ideas onto her because she cannot communicate in words. Everything that follows comes from this, and this is the image we ultimately return to at the end, with Fakir looking up at the swans once again--this time, hoping to see Ahiru and hoping she'll return, and the question of whether he is "enough" for her is finally resolved with her (non-verbal) answer.

In journalism, first lines/paragraphs are called "ledes", which I think is a great word, because you want to lead the reader along with you. Ledes can be any length--in a longer essay, the lede might be several paragraphs vs. a sentence in a short article--but they perform exactly the functions I've described above of explaining what the story is about and where it's going. Sometimes ledes are perfunctory, sometimes they're clever, sometimes the writer accidentally "buries" their lede by putting it later in the article. The lede may not necessarily be the first line, but it often is, and "find the lede" is a great exercise for writers in general.

Learning how to write ledes was the moment I really "clicked" as a writer--up until that point, I'd written thousands if not millions of words, but the spark wasn't there. Suddenly, I got it, and it completely changed my writing and my life. So I have a special fondness for them and they are also one of the hardest things to get "right" in a piece. I don't always succeed, but I keep trying!

[runner-owen]

Proud of this so, here:

Halfway down a hall, a scent brushed against my nose. My stomach churned. Sterile alcohol, strong soaps, broth tea. I glanced towards Nora but she seemed to not notice the look on my face. I dragged in a deeper breath, my fingers curling into gentle fists.

Hard to mistake them as anything other than a sickroom, that room, with those doors. The white paint on the door looked crisp as any bleached sheet, two swans with glinting gold feathers on the tips of their spread wide wings guarding the souls of the ones lingering within. The white ravens carved into the doorframe watched us with empty eyes.

Silver bells dangling from the door handles chimed as Nora opened the doors.

"Mr. Hepatica?" She stepped in before me. "The Runner is here."

The smell that wafted past her eased the tension in my back. Not the rot of old wounds, not the slow, painful decay of the internals. Just tea and soap and firewood, that same fire crackling with cheer in the dark old fireplace. Across the room from us, a white cloth partition hid what I guessed was the bed from sight. Before the fireplace, a low table without cloth sat between chairs and a reclining couch of soft, simple brown fabric.

The man on the couch lifted his head towards the door. I paused beside Nora, looking at him. I'd never seen a man as pale as him, at least not that wasn't a vampire. A stranger to me, one lean and worn with age, he looked handsome as anyone could be, with his dark hair tied back with a red ribbon, and eyes that watched me right back.

His hands shook. They clutched the mug within his grasp as if it would drop at any moment.

He said nothing.

I stepped forward, placed my hand over my heart, and bowed. When I straightened, I found him smiling now. With steady hands, he set the mug down.

[witchvvolf]

WIP INTRO: Sea Angel

Hey, I just woke up... so have a wip intro!

disclaimer: this is an original work, and any sort of plagiarism will not be tolerated.

Genre: Adult literary fiction (?) again i don't know. anyways, take it.

Synopsis: Ryland sets eyes on Thalia and Pru, and cannot escape how enchanted he has become.

Setting: somewhere in Portland Maine

Trigger warnings: violence, blood, animal death, cannibalism, drowning, death

The vibes: the light house flashing over the docks, crashing waves, thunder storms, the scent of sea salt, girl that smell like britney spears, glitter, the scent of bleach in the bathroom, microkinis, chrome, vanilla ice cream, bare feet in the sand, chapped lips, sapphires, long nails, snake skin, tide pools, dancing at the club, eating ice cream on the sidewalk

click me for the pinterest board! and click me for the playlist!

Snippet from the first chapter in Thalias perspective (which is unnamed) below the cut!

Tw for mention of vomit

Thalia hardly registers the touch of fingertips brushing her skin through her sweat drenched curls as she retches into the toilet, her small body trembling as she blinks back the tears in her eyes. “You shouldn’t have had so much to drink, girly,” says a voice above her. It’s deep, melodic, soft and luring. She can hear the sound of a lighter sparking a flame to life and within some seconds, the stall is full of cigarette smoke. As if it didn’t smell bad enough in the bathroom. Her bare knees pressed into the tile, the powder blue heel of her nine inch pleasers dug into her bottom. She got the fucking memo, tasting the bile in her mouth, wiping the tears of mascara from her cheeks. Thalia lifts her chin, a pout on her full lips, stained a berry red, brown eyes framed by faux wispy lashes. “Blonde looks good on you,” the fingers in her hair retreat, the green chrome shining like snake skin in the dim bathroom lighting. “Thanks, Pru,” Thalia mumbles, wipes her lips on the back of her left hand and reaches to flush the toilet when she would usually do so with her foot. Pru leaves the stall first, the heavy door slamming the stall next to it. Pru is taller than her, especially in heels, paying the club a visit on her off day to see how the new Swan was fairing. She was beautiful in a way that wasn’t textbook, her features sharper, especially those eyes of hers. The cigarette hangs between her lips, glossed a cherry red as she watches Thalia wash her hands in the sink. Thalia was still getting used to this lifestyle, leaving the mascara trails to dry on her cheeks—because some guys liked that, right?

lmk if you wanna be added to a tag list or something. otherwise, mwah!

[keepyourpantsongohan]

Random ask, who are your favorite romantic relationship's couples in any media, like anime/manga, tv series, books, etc (can be canon or non-canon)? Feel free if you want to write the reasons or not of why you love them....

Ohhh, I do love a romance so I kind of have endless answers to this question. I'll try and start with shows that I still regularly engage with and post about:

Ida/Aoki from Kieta Hatsukoi (both the JDrama version and the manga).

Adachi/Kurosawa from Cherry Magic (JDrama version; I have not read the manga or watched the anime yet LOL)

Pat/Pran from Bad Buddy

Fleabag/the Hot Priest from Fleabag (they live in my head rent free)

Jason/Janet and Chidi/Eleanor from the Good Place (also Tahani/Eleanor tbh. Everyone in that show has chemistry with each other)

Cheoljong/Bong-Hwan (as So-Yong) from Mr. Queen

Kakashi/Yamato from Naruto (obviously LOL) and also Minato/Kushina (I also love Naruto/Sasuke/Sakura but I think way more about Kakashi's gen than theirs LOL)

Ichigo/Rukia (mainly) but also Orihime/Tatsuki and Orihime/Uryu from Bleach

Makoto/Haru from Free! Also Sosuke/Rin

Maou/Emi from Devil is a Part-Timer! (it's the manga I follow the most closely, but I have seen the anime; although I have not read the light novels and actively avoid spoilers for those LOL)

Recently, I've fallen into Megumi/Yuji and Nanami/Gojo from JJK (also anime only; have not read past Hidden Inventory)

Roy/Riza and Greed/Ling/Lanfan from Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood (if we are counting throuples)

Scott/Allison/Isaac from Teen Wolf (yet another throuple LOL)

I could write for ages about what I like about each couple but some common themes are friends-to-lovers or enemies-to-friends-to-lovers, repressed longing, a fun and funky supernatural theme to the relationship (body swaps; power swaps; mind-reading; etc.). Bonus points if it involves a bisexual character (canonically like Aoki or Bong-Hwan or Eleanor or someone who is Bisexual to Me like Scott or Kakashi.)

Also if we're talking about shows I don't necessarily post online about but that live in my brain affectionately:

Captain Hook/Emma Swan from Once Upon A Time

Laura/Carmilla from the Carmilla webseries

Chad/Sonny from Sonny with a Chance (don't look at me; I love Chad Dylan Cooper)

Lucy/Amy from the D.E.B.S. film

Rory/Jess from Gilmore Girls

Nathan/Haley from One Tree Hill (though I still haven't seen the last few seasons)

Seeley Booth/Temperance Brennan (Bones) from Bones (also haven't seen the last few seasons)

Also it's been a while since I've read something other than light novels, manga, or tie-in works, but I do still love Peeta/Katniss from The Hunger Games

Common themes here: Semi-contentious beginning to their relationship, long-game flirting, big kiss moments, falling in love with someone your loved ones don't like at first, working together as a team, big banterers, protecting each other, one half of the relationship being a bit bolder and cockier, working in the same general field (LOL @ how that applies to a few of these couples; do Lucy and Amy work in the same field because one is a thief and one is a spy?) Anyway, this is not an exhaustive list but definitely covers more than a few of my favourites. Thanks for asking!

[colorfuldreamsmkg]

Duck, Duck, Swan | Swan Song | 1.1 | ATTN: Lau Fei, Crimson

How odd. His hands come up to scratch at his neck, frowning slightly at the bared skin.

His scarf. He missed the comfort of a noose around his neck. 

When he was embarrassed, or considering what to say, he had a habit of burying his face away into the fabric to get his bearings. His scarf, a gift from his step-father, or so he liked to tell people, because really, it wasn’t all that sentimental. Just a whimsical purchase he threw on his performing outfit, but he liked people to think it had more meaning that it did, that he had more meaning than he did, more sentimentality than his existence really had to offer.

And now that pure white cotton lie had been stained red with a life he failed to save. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to wear that scarf again. Not even if he bleached it to frays and strands would he ever don it again. He’d never wanted to bury his face away more than he did now, an unspoken apology caught between gritted teeth. He’s sorry he couldn’t save her. He’s sorry how little his efforts amounted to. He’s sorry she’s gone, and all he could do was watch.

But he’s a showman at the end of the day, and there’s a performance to put on. So those gritted teeth grin and bear it instead.

“Well then.” Allow him to cut in, why don’t you? He might not have much at all to say, but bend your ear for a second, if you please. He won’t say anything too controversial or upsetting - just the facts.

“I’d like to start out with clearing mine, Lau Fei, and Crimson’s names. Lau Fei and I were together the whole time, and we were also with Crimson in the orchestra room with Dahlia up until around…” He clicks his tongue, waving a hand vaguely. He hadn’t been paying attention to the time in the slightest. Maybe Lau Fei or Crimson could fill in some blanks for him. “Anyways. We were in the room together, all four of us, when Dahlia disappeared. Disappeared, not left. That means Dahlia had to have to gone into a fear zone or a SEKAI. And considering I didn’t see her with her phone out…Well. I won’t sully the topic with opinions just yet. But I’m willing to place my life savings on knowing exactly which of the two she went to. Don’t get too excited, though. It’s only three dollars and some change.”

Did he have to this now? Of all times? Believe him, he’s the one asking the questions right now.

His arms fold across his chest, fingers tapping against a forearm. Want to know a secret? He had been somewhere else entirely during the investigation. Physically, he moved with the others, but internally, he was somewhere so far away, he didn’t have a prayer of being reached. The performance took over. The show had already started. So a piece of him regulated itself to a member of an unseen audience, eyes screwing shut, hands clasped over their ears, refusing to acknowledge the reality.

And that piece of him was still tucked away on a shelf. Preserved so perfectly. While every other iteration of who he was, who he had been, and who he will be were trusted to carry things out from here, he would close his eyes and remember. Remember this was happening, because like hell he could forget, remember and feel such shame at his own cowardice.

When he spoke again, it was in a voice so unfamiliar to his own ears, the words clumsy and stale on his tongue. He wasn’t used to being the one speaking. Stars above, he was a performer for fuck’s sake. Pull it together.

“We also were in the orchestra room when she came back.” His voice sunk an octave. “All three of us. None of us left from the time she disappeared to the time she came back.” So none of them could have possibly been the one to do this. He hopes that’s enough to convince others of their lack of involvement. He hopes, and yet…His gaze drifts somewhere entirely too far away.

He hadn’t known Dahlia all that well, but she deserved better. Much better. He’s sorry this was all of him you would get.

“Lau Fei, Crimson, and I watched her fall.” Such an unpleasant memory. The words like ash against his tongue, burning cinder. “So all three of us can attest to the fact that she was definitely injured prior to that. Likely after she went into a fear zone or SEKAI. She was completely fine before disappearing from the orchestra room.”

His own voice resonates with a weight that’s entirely unfamiliar. It burdens his tongue like lead. It’s hard to speak. The syllables gunk up his airways. He blinks, too quickly to be natural. He’s just sorry.

He’s a performer. He’s a performer. He snaps back to it with a light thumping to the side of his head with his fist, facing the rest of the trial-goers with a sheepish smile. “Apologies. Allow me to continue.” If he can just say this much, maybe he won’t have to speak on this anymore. Maybe he could sink somewhere within himself - after this, he doesn’t know how much faith he has in the water anymore.

“I was thinking, it might be good to get everybody’s alibis out on the table, no? Before we get too caught up in details.”

Let him duck his head away for a spell.