#so in the end not only was the writing dull and contrite but both characters were annoying

[foggysirens]

been lucky so far this year with my reading but i just finished a book that made me both enraged and bored at the same time and now i feel like i need to start a new book immediately to wash the taste of that 2 star baloney outta my mouth

[kylorengarbagedump]

Defy Your Authority: Chapter 2

Read on AO3. Part 1 here. Part 3 here.

Summary: So, like, what's the big deal, buddy?

Words: 3800

Warnings: None. Yet.

Characters: Kylo Ren x Reader

A/N: Hello!! Firstly, thank you so much to @bastila-ren​ and @elmidol​ for listening to me talk so much about this fic, for reading the first two chapters, and helping me with their generous feedback.

Secondly, I want to thank all of you for your EXTREMELY generous response to this fic. I admit I was very nervous to post this, and still am very nervous to write it, but I can't explain how helpful it is to know that people still enjoy the story and want to read more. It's definitely a story I want to write!

Y’all have truly been too kind to me. I don't have a posting schedule, just yet--I'm hoping every week or every other week. :) Love y'all SOOOOO MUCH.

Like the smarmy bastard he was, Hux fought off a smirk. But Allegiant General Pryde gazed at you with what some might refer to as sheer, indignant horror.

Kylo Ren stopped feet from the throne, his gaze wandering your grungy hair, dirtied uniform, the cell filth on your face.

“Hm,” he said. “That’s one way to greet your Supreme Leader.”

Embers tickled your cheeks. Your Supreme Leader.

You looked at the two other men. What was on your tongue: Would you prefer I get on my knees instead?

What you ended up saying: “Uh, sorry. Sir.”

“I believe the Supreme Leader requires an apology a little more comprehensive than uh, sorry.”  Pryde stepped forward, as if to explain. “Sir, this woman was brought aboard by General Hux without prior approval.”

Kylo glanced between the older men, stare drifting to you, the darkness in his eyes reviving an animal within you that had been placed on life support. 

“Yes,” he replied. “I don’t recall providing authorization for this.”

“Supreme Leader,” Hux said, “we both know your TIE has been out of commission for several cycles. I thought it prudent to--”

“You thought it prudent to ask a manager of a remote outpost to come aboard the flagship of the First Order. I assume that’s what you’re about to say.” Pryde paused, waiting for Hux’s contrition--but none came. He turned to Kylo. “Sir, again, please forgive me. Had I known he’d be bringing aboard a rim-dweller who would defy your authority, I would’ve denied his request, entirely.”

“Defiance.” Kylo’s gaze drilled you. Much like you had dreamt of something else of his drilling you. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Pryde balked. “Well, I hardly find it appropriate to address the Supreme Leader of the First Order as dude, for starters.” He spat the word onto the floor like poison. “Really, General, you and her both should be begging for his pardon.”

You swallowed, attention on Kylo, trying to hide your glee. “Please, please forgive me,” you murmured. “Supreme Leader.”

Hux cleared his throat. “My apologies as well, sir.”

“Hm.” If he’d understood your tease, he didn’t acknowledge it. You frowned. Kylo looked to the cloaked mercenaries behind you. “Escort her back to Orinda.”

Disbelief smacked you across the face. “I’m sorry, what?”

Sputtering, Hux stepped forward. “Supreme Leader--”

“You don’t belong on this vessel,” Kylo said, glimpsing you, then the cloaked figures again. “Report is postponed. Prepare the Buzzard for departure.” 

Like droids, they activated and brushed past you, stalking toward the turbolift. The Supreme Dickhead gazed at you expectantly.

“They’re not patient.”

You shook your head, crossing your arms. “If you think I’m leaving--”

“Supreme Leader,” Hux said again. For once, you felt like both of you were stuck in the same flabbergasted pod. “Repairing your fighter has already wasted the time of numerous engineers, we don’t need to add--”

“Perhaps every engineer aboard deserves to have their time equally wasted, General.”

Hux’s jaw tensed. “If you wish, sir,” he replied. “But we could resolve the issue now.”

“We won’t.”

For whatever reason, Kylo Ren seemed dedicated to preventing you from working on this ship, as if he didn’t know your skill level. As if he believed other engineers deserved a shot at it over you. Ignoring the furious trembling of your fingers, you dug them into your sleeves. 

“What, you don’t think I’m capable?” you asked, frowning.

Pryde sighed. “Supreme Leader, the Council--”

Kylo pivoted to you. “No.” There was no hint of mockery or deception in his tone. “You’re capable.”

You swallowed, shrugged your shoulder. Tried not to sound hurt. “Then why won’t you let me try?”

Hazel eyes lingered, held you in silence for deafening seconds. There was something very, very tired inside of them. 

“Sir,” Pryde said, “as much as I love the rousing debate over whether or not this rimrat should be deemed worthy of working on your starfighter, the Supreme Council meeting is in minutes.” He turned to you. “I believe you’ve been directed to leave.”

You furrowed your brow, but miraculously managed to say nothing. The muscle under Kylo’s nose twitched. 

“You’ll get two hours.” He didn’t seem excited about the idea. “After that, you will return to Orinda.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” you sighed. “Sir.”

A huff escaped him. “The Supreme Council meeting.” He turned, strode to the exit. “Come.”

Pryde frowned. “Sir, shouldn’t Hux return her to the hangar?”

“No.” Kylo’s voice ricocheted in the chamber. “She’s coming.”

Something like joy sparkled in your heart. Hux jutted out his chin, smirking at Pryde, who frowned and looked to you. You resisted the urge to stick your tongue out at him. There was a puzzle in his mind regarding your identity, a puzzle he was struggling to put together without the missing pieces. You weren’t interested in offering them. 

The three of you followed Kylo into the turbolift. Out of irritation, you stood as far away from him as possible. Awkward quiet settled in the air, and you grit your teeth, ignoring the sting of humiliation at your cheeks. Sure, it was nice he was inviting you to his little meeting, but that hardly compensated for the fact that it had been four entire months since you’d seen him and he was intent on booting you without so much as a parting fuck. 

Not that you wanted to fuck him after that stunt. 

Mostly.

The lift descended. Kylo hadn’t even looked at you, despite your best attempts at petty distancing. Hundreds of words hung on your tongue, and so few of them were appropriate for the ears of Hux and Pryde. Luckily for you, you could think them, instead.

Jackass.

The blast door slid open, and Kylo exited without response, the two generals on his heels. You lagged behind them, glare boring into the broad-shouldered bastard with the flowing cape.

Can’t believe this asshole was here the entire time, knowing everything, with all of the power in the galaxy, just doing bantha-shit about it.

Stormtroopers passed in formation, nodding in deference to the men in front of you as you turned a corner. The clomping of boots was the only sound for meters.

Leaving you for four months, horny as hell, lonely as hell, all while he was here doing what? Jerking off? As if he hadn’t begged you to stay. Please.

At the end of the hall, a set of blast doors parted, and you trailed the group inside, greeted by a massive, jet-black table with a hologram projector buried in the center. The occupants of about a dozen chairs turned, their eyes stuck to you, assessing you. Kylo crossed to the head of the table, Hux and Pryde taking spaces near him. The only open seats were at the back, relegated for only the most irrelevant attendees. You slunk over to one, sinking into it.

Apparently you’re not relevant to anyone in this room, anyway.

“Who’s this?” A balding officer of high-rank stared at you. “Supreme Leader?”

Pryde leaned forward. “She’s the Chief--”

“Who she is,” Kylo drawled, “is none of your concern.” 

Blood heated your face. The room rumbled with uncertainty, but only for seconds. 

“Sir,” said an older woman with slick blonde hair, “Multiple locations on Kamino refused entry to officers seeking out junior recruits. Our entry-level ranks are suffering. Requesting additional--”

Kylo glanced at her. “Yes.”

She nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“Supreme Leader,” said an older, white-haired man. “Surveillance indicates that a fuel depot located in the Inner Rim has received communications from Resistance starships.”

“Have they responded?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Eliminate them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Another, dark-skinned woman inched to the edge of her seat. “Supreme Leader, ground troops found no evidence of Resistance sympathizers on the most recent patrol of Aeos Prime.”

“And the infrastructure.”

“Seems salvageable, sir.”

Kylo blinked, as if the answer hadn’t even mattered. “Move to the next outpost in the system.”

“Of course, Supreme Leader.”

Yet another man cleared his throat. “Supreme Leader, if I may…”

Swallowing, you stared into the gleaming tabletop, tracing the rivets of white light bordering the projector. Voices rose, offering status updates and seeking approval of the man at the head of the room. Obviously, there was nothing attractive about how competent and powerful Kylo Ren appeared in this setting. And this definitely did not tingle pride in your belly watching every single person in this room vie for his favor, knowing that out of all of them, the one he’d fucked was you.

Then again, maybe that was the very crux of the issue. His time and attention was desired and demanded and split between thousands--he directed and delegated an entire, galaxy-wide government. He commanded armies. Strategized operations. Balanced every need, tangible and intangible, with only two hands.

You spent your days bathing in ion dust.

The Allegiant Asshole cleared his throat, breaking you from your pity party. “General Hux,” he said, “didn’t you have your pet project to present?”

All eyes turned to Hux, his face dull with irritation. Lips pursing, he straightened his spine, fingers whizzing over the data screen at his seat. One swipe, a quick field entry, and the projector hummed to life, shooting a blue hologram of a TIE fighter above the table. It flickered, rotating like a display.

“The First Order has regularly demonstrated deficient performance during naval engagements, despite our superior numbers and resources,” Hux said. “After gathering data, we discovered that during our most recent missions, the TIE fighter is regularly out-piloted by Resistance sympathizers.” He tapped the screen, and the hologram split into a cross-section. “Thorough research indicates the TIE model is obsolete.”

The room crackled with whispers, officers turning to each other and looking to Hux, their faces twisted in disbelief. Kylo Ren sat, saying nothing, trained on the display. 

Sighing, you gazed at your hands and cleaned your nails. To you, this was obvious. Of course the basic TIE models--the TIE/fo models--were obsolete. The ships were highly inflexible, carried little firepower for their unwieldy construction, and had no hyperdrive application. In comparison to the model used by the Special Forces, the TIE/fo was practically useless. 

It was less obvious why these high-ranking strangers seemed unable to handle the truth.

“General,” said a dark-skinned man. “Are you proposing we abandon the TIE corps?”

Hux pressed the screen again, and it zoomed in on an exposed ion engine. “At the very least, the most basic TIE corps is woefully unequipped in comparison to Resistance fighters.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he replied, “our pilots are extensively trained.”

Pryde sneered. “Admiral Griss is correct,” he said. “Our elite troops don’t demonstrate any issue with crushing Resistance burrows.”

“Elite troops are never the ones defending a new occupation.” Hux gestured to the engine blueprint. “We sacrifice our progress because of this antiquated construction.”

“And what’s so antiquated about it?” Pryde sneered. “The construction is based on the Imperial TIE. These ships were a well-known symbol of naval superiority.”

“Updated for modern needs,” added Griss. 

Hux’s voice rose a decibel. “Not modern enough, given how frequently a single X-wing will decimate an entire unit.”

You wanted to groan. Against your will, you had to admit Hux was right. Orinda regularly saw straggling, crippled TIEs smash into the valley outside the hangar in attempts to land for repair. Mirna had pulled more pilots than you could count out of blazing wreckage.

“Do you suggest we change the basic TIE unit, then?” Griss asked.

“Perhaps,” Hux replied, “or we move to a different construction entirely.”

The other officers chuckled, murmurs rippling through the ranks again. 

“Supreme Leader,” Pryde said, “what he’s suggesting is absurd. Sienar-Jaemus manufactures perfectly appropriate and functional fighters at an affordable price to the First Order. It’s been done this way since the Empire.”

Rolling your eyes, you sat back in your chair. For a General of a government allegedly interested in innovation and progress, Pryde seemed to love sucking the Empire’s dick. The fact that they were refusing to even entertain Hux’s idea was, well…

“Perhaps we should place a double order for the basic fighters, sir,” Pryde continued. “To demonstrate their capability.”

You snorted. “Now that’s absurd.”

Every voice in the room died. Leather squelched, and you glanced up from your nails in time to see a dozen bodies shifting in their seats to turn and look at you. Inwardly, you cursed--you hadn’t had to practice volume control in months. 

At the head of the table, Kylo Ren stared. His expression, even to you, was indiscernible. But even if he was mad, you wouldn’t have cared. Not as long as he still intended on kicking you off the Steadfast without another word.

Shrugging, you said, “General Hux is right. The original TIE model is flawed. They lose out one-on-one almost every time.” Kylo still said nothing, the rest of the room too confused to interrupt you. “I guarantee there’s more credits spent on replacement models than it would cost to invest in something more versatile.”

Griss’s nose wrinkled, and he looked between you and Kylo. “I…” When Kylo offered no response, Griss settled on you. “I’m not sure what brought you here, ah… Lieutenant, but regardless of your purpose, you’re surrounded by superiors of the First Order. Don’t speak out of turn.”

“Right,” you said, “I do apologize, sir.  But you have to admit that this all is a little absurd. I see busted up basic TIEs all the time. They’re a failure.”

“Yes,” he replied, “and you are?”

“Chief of Operations on Orinda.”

“An outpost?” The room echoed with laughter, and you bristled. Griss gestured to you. “Supreme Leader, please, why is this woman here?”

Pryde nodded. “I know you have your reasons, sir, but surely she doesn’t belong in this room.”

“Maybe this woman knows what she’s talking about,” you mumbled.

“Excuse me?” Griss whipped around, leering at you. “Mind repeating yourself, Lieutenant?”

Volume control. Really needed to get better with that. 

Gathering a breath, you swallowed your ire. You could not spend all two hours on the Steadfast immediately making enemies with the military leaders of the First Order. Given Kylo’s state, you doubted he’d encourage your attitude. 

“My apologies,” you said, bowing your head, “I’m just. Nervous. Being on this ship for the first time.”

“Perhaps you’ve spent too much time on Orinda,” said Griss. “You’ve forgotten the hierarchy.”

“She needs re-education,” said the balding man.

The dark-skinned woman huffed. “Or a demotion.”

“Some form of discipline, surely.”

“Yes,” said Pryde with a glare. “Perhaps that should be arranged.”

Your heart skipped.

“Enough.”

Every person in the room spun, attention on Kylo Ren.

He was still inscrutable. Still gazing directly at you. 

A shiver spilled over your spine. Like instinct, your thighs pressed together. 

“General Hux,” he said. “Prepare a plan for the replacement of the basic TIE model.” A pause. No one spoke a word. “Dismissed.”

You remained in your seat as the other officers rose, their lips sealed as they filed out of the room. Hux scowled at you--ungrateful prick--and acknowledged Kylo’s order before leaving. Pryde scrutinized you, his focus flipping between you and his Supreme Leader as he stood from the table. 

“It’s time to leave, Lieutenant,” he said.

“I need a moment,” you replied, glancing at him. “Sir.”

Pryde turned to Kylo. “Sir?”

Kylo’s face was blank. “Dismissed, General.”

Whatever Pryde was thinking, he didn’t say. He offered deference to the Supreme Leader before strutting out, the blast door shutting behind him.

The moment it closed, the room thickened with heat, like stars vaporized the air. Sweat beaded your hairline, your tongue drying to paper. Every movement you thought to make was paused, paralyzed by confusion. Had it been four months ago, you’d be getting railed on top of the table or in his chair, you were sure of it. But Kylo seemed almost indifferent now. It neutered every response that came to mind.

Here you were, alone with Kylo Ren for the first time since you’d left. He was only meters away from you. And you had absolutely no idea what to do.

“Your time is limited, Lieutenant.”

A reminder he wanted you gone. You shook your head, chewing the inside of your lip. 

“The silencer is free to be inspected.”

Indignance tightened your chest. Your face was on fire.

“Or perhaps,” Kylo said, “you’d rather travel directly to Orinda.”

You whirled on him. “So you knew I was on Orinda the entire time?” Your frustration was unfettered. “You knew and just didn’t do anything about it? For four months?”

His stare didn’t yield. “Yes.”

“Yes?” you said. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say for yourself? How do you expect me to respond to that?” More heat gripped your neck. He was still. “Why do you want me gone so badly? You act like you don’t even want me around.”

“I don’t.”

The words were switchblades to your chest. You shook your head, gulped your pain.

“Uh. Okay. Wow.” Sighing, you continued, “But don’t you--I mean. You pleaded with me to stay.”

He said nothing.

“You... I know how you feel. You can’t hide that from me. Do you…” Your throat was tight. “Did something change?”

For four months, you had wondered what had been going on in Kylo Ren’s mind. Seeing him draped in the responsibility of the Supreme Leader of the First Order, hesitation crept into your gut. Within his gaze, perhaps only apparent to you, there was a black, terrible emptiness, like shadows reined in by his rage. Exhaustion hung in dark circles under his eyes and at his cheeks. His presence was as breathtaking as it ever had been, only haunted with the weight of the galaxy. 

For four months, you had wondered. You didn’t know, now, if you wanted the answer.

“You don’t belong here.” Kylo paused, then stood, moving toward the door. “Your presence is not warranted.”

“Warranted? That’s not what this is about.” You shot to your feet, intercepting his path. “You knew where I was, and you never once came to me! You left me there! Alone!” He side-stepped you, and you followed him, keeping your eyes chained to his. “Didn’t you miss me?” you asked. “Didn’t you think about me?”

He stalled. Exhaling through his nose, he spoke through his teeth. “Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you find me?” you said. “You promised!” 

Kylo stood, trapped in your stare, his fingers furling into fists.

“I know how you feel about me.” You advanced on him. “I know it.” 

You were so near you could feel his breath, count the individual strands of his hair, bask in the warmth of his body. A short inhale, and memory slammed you like gravity--the scent of his skin, his palms gripping your waist, his lips brushing your ear. The ache in your hands at night when they were not full of him, the bedtime yearning in your limbs when they were not wound around his. You had known him, known him, as if his blood ran in your veins.  

This was the closest you’d been to Kylo Ren in weeks upon weeks. Somehow, you only felt further away.

“Why?” you asked. “Why didn’t you find me?” After all of it, he only stared. It lit you with rage, and you bumped your chest with his. “Say something!”

The muscle in his jaw tightened. His shoulders rolled. But he was silent. 

A peal of bitter laughter escaped you. Whatever issues he had didn’t mater. You deserved more than what he was offering.

“Wow. Okay.” You shrugged, stepping back. “I don’t know who I was thinking about for these past four months, but it definitely wasn’t you.” Shaking your head, you turned toward the door. “Whatever, dude. Fuck you.”

You took a single step, and Kylo snatched your wrist, whipped you against his body. 

“You say that,” he breathed, “as if you haven’t been thinking about getting fucked since you arrived.”

Oxygen fled your lungs. Every blood cell in your body piled onto your cheeks and between your legs. In seconds, you were a throbbing, pent-up, swell of lust. 

You swallowed. “Oh, please,” you muttered. “You can’t distract me that easily. You know I need answers.”

“Hm.” Kylo scanned your figure. “So you say.”

“You’re such an asshole.” You tried to peel your wrist free. “Why didn’t you do this weeks ago, huh?”

His face darkened, his hold on you tightened. 

“You ask questions that have no answers.”

“Ugh. Get off.” Grunting, you shouldered him, body buffeting his like a flaccid wave. It would’ve been arousing, his strength, how utterly solid he was, if he wasn’t making you miserable in this moment. “You’re so full of it, man. Let me go. I’ll go repair your dumbass ship and you can send me back to Orinda, like you so clearly want.”

“You presume to understand what I want.” His voice was severe, a dull blade. “You will not stay here.” The ghost of a smirk fled his face. “But you won’t escape punishment when you’re gone.”

You shuddered, stuck out your chin. “Your punishments don’t scare me.”

Kylo growled. “Really.” A leather palm cupped the back of your neck, tugged you close. “Such confidence.”

You couldn’t help it. A tiny, excited whimper left you. Kylo shifted, his hand squeezed--

The projector in the table beeped. An incoming transmission. The both of you froze, staring at the blinking request on the interface.  You coughed, patted his chest as a signal to answer it. The knot in his throat bobbed, and he released you, crossing to the console and accepting the message.

Hux appeared in hologram form. “Supreme Leader,” he said, voice even more snivelly through the broadcast. “We received a distress signal from Orinda. Multiple Resistance fighters have been detected on radar. Requests for response from the officers stationed there have gone unanswered.”

The joints in your body locked. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“Permission to dispatch TIE units, sir,” Hux said.

Kylo was still. “Dispatch.”

“Yes, sir.”

The hologram winked out. Before you could process, your feet were moving you toward the door.

“I gotta go.” Your pulse pounded in your temple. The entirety of your crew was down there. By themselves. “I gotta go there. I gotta get there. I’m sorry, I know I said I would repair your ship but--”

“Stop.” 

“--it’s probably for the best anyway, I just gotta find some way there, I--”

He spoke your name like a command. You stopped. Stared into his tired, empty eyes. 

His chest fell in a small sigh. “We’ll take the Buzzard,” he said. “Come.”

Kylo Ren tread past you, through the blast doors, into the hallway. The tatters of your bewildered heart weren’t a priority right now. You followed him--your Supreme Leader.

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 9

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: Okay, sorry for the wait on this one! Life happened. As in, death happened and messed things up a bit, as a death in the family tends to do. But I think I'm back on track. Art at the end of the chapter is by @senoraluna

***

“All right, I’m writing this.”

“No, you’re not.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because your handwriting is too obviously not a grown-up’s.”

“You’re not to grown-ups either.”

“But we’re close enough!”

“We can fake it!”

“More or less.”

“We can try.”

Miguel huffed, crossing his arms. “Imelda is your sister. She’ll recognize your handwriting.”

“Not if we make it look like Héctor’s! We have seen it before. Let us try…”

They did try, all right, but none of their attempts came out looking even remotely like Héctor’s handwriting. Soon enough they were leaning against the fence with utterly defeated expressions, scattered pieces of paper around them and Dante snoozing contentedly across all of their laps. Miguel sighed, reaching to scratch his ears. They weren’t even sure if Héctor and Imelda knew each other’s handwriting well enough to recognize it, but they couldn’t risk it.

“We might have hit a snag,” he conceded.

“Maybe Cheech can do it?” Óscar suggested.

“Cheech can’t write,” Felipe droned.

“He can read.”

“Barely.”

“He’s always getting Héctor to read stuff for him.”

Silence.

“... Gustavo can write.”

“He’d never help us. No one is supposed to know it anyway, except for us and Sister Sofía and--” Miguel sat upright suddenly, eyes wide. “Padre Ernesto!”

“What?”

“Where?”

“No, no, he’s not here, I mean-- he will help us!”

“... He will?”

“I’ll ask him to try writing it! He just needs to see Héctor’s handwriting.”

The twins exchanged a glance before looking back at him. “He’s a priest.”

No he’s not, Miguel thought, but of course he knew better than saying it aloud. He had promised Ernesto that his secret was safe with him, and he would keep that promise. “So what? He said that if one isn’t sure about taking the vows, they shouldn’t do it. He’s on our side!”

“Wouldn’t faking a message amount to, you know…”

“Forgery?”

“That too. I was thinking more of ‘lying’. Does the Bible say forgery is a sin?”

“You mean, forgery specifically? I’m not sure, but if we check--”

Miguel shrugged and stood, causing Dante’s head to drop down on the ground with a dull - and quite hollow-sounding - thump. It didn’t stop him from wagging his tail furiously, thumping it against Felipe’s leg. “So what if it is? He can absolve himself,” he said. “Perks of the job. I think,” he added, and he sprinted towards the parish without waiting for a reply.

***

The English lessons had turned, if possible, even more boring.

And utterly useless, too, now that he had read what he’d been meant to read. But Father John was clearly glad for the company, so Héctor supposed he could endure it just for a little while longer. Especially since he had seemed so upset the previous day; he hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and Héctor knew better than prodding, but it was clear something had unsettled him greatly.

Even so, there were limits to what he could take, so he’d claimed to have a headache - he had made a point to show an uncomfortable expression when walking in, so that it wouldn’t seem to have come entirely out of the blue - and excused himself, heading towards his own room.

Only to see Miguel stepping out of the hallway leading to it, glancing around. Had he come to look for him? Probably, yes. He’d neglected him lately, and he was… sorry about that.

Well, time to make up for it

“Miguel!” Héctor called out, smiling. It had been some time since he and Miguel got to spend some time together, and he’d missed the chamaco. He’d missed their lazy afternoons without much to do, when they would just practice with their guitars, or Miguel would watch him writing a new songs, occasionally providing help with the lyrics.

He was almost as good at it as he was at playing, and Héctor planned to help him write his own songs when he was a bit old--

Miguel almost jumped in the air as his voice rang out, and turned, blinking at him for a moment before he gave a very, very wide smile. If not for the fact he was still mulling how how they had seen each other relatively little later, Héctor might have noticed something suspicious about that smile.

But he didn’t.

“Héctor! I wes, er. Looking for Padre Ernesto. Have you seen him?”

Actually, come to think of him, he hadn't - and as much as he liked him, he was rather relieved he did not. It wasn't that he was jealous that he seemed to have become Miguel's hero in a matter of weeks, but... all right, yes, so maybe he was a little jealous.

Had it coming for hardly speaking to the chamaco these days. Here's the chance to make up for it.

"No, I haven't. But hey, get this-- I was thinking of a new song! I have yet to write it, it's only sort of stuck in my head right now, but I think you'd like it. How about we got over to Cheech's, get our guitars, and try it out?" he added.

Until not too long ago, Miguel would have jumped on the chance; they would have made their way to Cheech’s place, laughing and joking, and then they would have practiced playing and singing until someone came looking for him, or for Héctor… or for both. Sometimes la Madre Superiora herself would come looking for them, and they would put up a contrite expression at her tirate, struggling not to smile at each other. Not this time, though.

"Great, great! We'll do that later. Got to find Padre Ernesto," Miguel said quickly, sprinting past him and around the corner. "Keep up the good work!" he heard him yelling as his footsteps faded away - leaving Héctor to stand there on his own, utterly confused and more hurt than he wanted to admit to himself.

It felt like the closest he’d ever had to family was slipping away from him, and he didn’t know what to do.

***

“You stole--”

“Borrowed.”

“... Right. You borrowed Héctor’s songbook because you want me to try doing his handwriting?”

“I want you to succeed at doing his handwriting!”

“Couldn’t you just write in upper case like last time? It worked.”

Miguel blinked. “Oh. I… er… I want it to look more authentic.”

Ernesto raised an eyebrow. “I get the feeling you didn’t think your brilliant plan all the way through,” he muttered, causing the boy to huff and cross his arms.

“Because you think all of your plans through,” he muttered, raising both eyebrows. That left Ernesto unsure whether to kick him under the table or grab him by the neck to shake him a little, given that Sofía was right by and listening, but in the end he opted to smile with clenched teeth.

“Fair enough,” he growled, shooting a glance towards Sofía. She was listening with her chin in hand, clearly not having caught the meaning behind Miguel’s remark. Granted, it would take quite a leap of logic and imagination to do so... but it was still a risk he didn’t want to take. He’d need to have a serious talk with Miguel about watching his words, remind him he held his life in his hands, and if he didn’t listen--

The thought of the pistol hidden away in his room flashed through his mind, and suddenly he could smell gunpowder, and taste bile. He quickly went to wipe his lips with the back of his hand and looked down at the songbook. Anything not to look at the boy. “... All right. I’ll give it a go.”

“Gracias!” Miguel exclaimed, then, “Sofía, about Imelda’s handwriting, would you try--”

“I’ll do it,” she said, and shrugged when both the kid and Ernesto blinked at her. “I practiced. I can fake the handwriting of every nun in town, and working on Madre Gregoria’s.”

“... Dare I ask why?”

“I consider it an insurance.”

Making a mental note to be careful not to leave samples of his handwriting within her reach, Ernesto looked back down at the songbook - though to be honest, he didn’t pay as much attention to the handwriting as he did to the words, and the notes. He hummed the beginning of one of the songs, low enough not to be heard and Christ, it was good.

Héctor had so much talent for songwriting that letting him join the church and never use it for anything would be a crime against music itself. Not that marriage was a much better trap, in Ernesto’s opinion, but at least it wasn’t mutually exclusive with secular music.

“Do you want me to slip the note in her room?” Sofía was asking, snapping Ernesto from his thoughts. He looked up just on time to see Miguel shaking his head, and grinning.

“Oh, no,” he replied. “I have a better plan.”

Ernesto and Sofía exchanged a quick look before glancing back.

“Define ‘better’,” he said.

“Define ‘plan’,” she added.

Miguel grinned. “No need to be worried! I’ve been working on this with Óscar and Felipe.”

“Now I’m terrified,” Sofía said drily, getting a shrug out of him.

“Don’t worry, all will work out,” he grinned. “Here’s what you need to write…”

It wasn’t that much of a great plan, all things considered, but Ernesto had to admit the niño was right on one thing: without a shove in the right direction, it was entirely possible that idiota would just never confess a thing. And that would be stupid, really.

If that songbook was anything to go by, he knew how to use words.

***

“What. Is. That.”

“Miguel’s dog. I… I think,” Sofía managed. One talent-- fine, one of several talents she prided herself to possess - was a  knack for keeping a straight face in the most unlikely situation. However, the sight of the Xolo pup chewing up his own leg, a flower crown stuck around his neck and a letter tied to his furiously wagging tail was almost too much even for her.

“What-- why--” Imelda groaned, and rubbed her temples. “Where do those flowers come from?”

The answer was ‘probably the cemetery’, but Sofía knew better than saying as much aloud. “Maybe he got his head stuck by accident. And, uh... There’ something tied to his tail.”

“I see that,” Imelda muttered, making no move to get it.

“... It might be something important.”

“This is far too stupid.”

“Would you bet on that?” she asked, and Imelda had no time to reply. The next moment Dante seemed to finally realize there was something stuck to his tail and began chasing it, spinning frantically and snapping his jaws at it. Both Sofía and Imelda were on him the next moment and the letter was saved, if at the price of muddy robes, slobbery hands, and petals everywhere.

By the time they pulled back, the slightly damp letter firmly in her hand, Imelda was scowling… and Sofía couldn’t stop laughing. Now that was off to a great start.

“I can’t see what’s so funny,” Imelda grumbled, unfolding the letter to read… and immediately going very still, her eyes the only thing that moved as she scanned the page.

Knowing exactly what it read - it was Héctor, there was something he needed to tell her, would she meet him at the bridge at four? - Sofía feigned curiosity. “What does it say?”

Imelda recoiled, and immediately crumpled the letter in her fist before looking at her with a grimace. “Nothing of any importance,” she muttered, and turned to leave without saying another word, leaving Sofía alone in the small vegetable patch that seemed to refuse growing anything that year. With a sigh, she turned to look at the puppy currently flopping and rolling into the remains of the flower crown, leaving pools of drool on the petals.

That didn’t seem to have gone well. Or maybe it had.

With Imelda, sometimes it was hard to tell.

***

“Ah, Héctor! What have you got there, amigo?”

Padre Ernesto’s voice rang out suddenly, causing Héctor to nearly shriek and jump out of his skin. He turned quickly, face burning and crumpling the letter in his fist. “Nothing!” he exclaimed, knowing full well that he wasn’t believable at all. Padre Ernesto raised an eyebrow.

“Looks like a letter to me.”

“No! I mean, it is-- a note-- to remember--” he looked over Padre Ernesto’s shoulder, to the crucifix on the wall. “... Jesus.”

“A note to remember Jesus,” he repeated, deadpan.

“Yes-- I mean-- to remember to pray to him, you know? And-- and I’m late!”

As he rushed past him, Héctor felt like an idiot. After all, Padre Ernesto was perhaps the only person he could turn to for advice right now… but his heart was beating so fast, his thoughts in turmoil, and he felt he could explode if he dared open his mouth to say anything of the message he’d just read.

I know there is something you need to tell me. See me at four at the bridge.

***

It’s something about the Revolution. He’s got to be, something must have happened. It must be urgent, or else he would have sent the message the usual way.

Of course, it was hard to believe that. The way the message had been delivered - tied to a dog’s tail, really? - wasn’t the only unusual thing about it. The handwriting was different, too - but it would only make sense if he used a different one for his anonymous messages to her, after all.

What if it wasn’t Héctor?

The thought struck her suddenly, as she stood alone on the wooden bridge crossing the stream. How had she not thought about that possibility? Was if someone else - someone who had found out what they were doing to aid revolutionaries - was trying to lure her away?

The answer - she had wanted it to be Héctor - was tucked somewhere in the back of her mind, but she ignored it and looked around. If no one came within five minutes she would leave, and take the long way around in case anybody was waiting for her to pass by--

“Imelda…?”

Hearing Héctor’s voice was more of a relief than she was willing to admit to herself. With an inward sigh, Imelda turned to see him walking up to her, looking… more than a little sheepish. “Héctor.” She nodded, and said nothing until he stopped - a few respectful feet from her. She looked up at him, because he was ridiculously tall, crossing her arms and forcing herself to ignore the acute awareness that they were entirely alone, with no one in sight.

To say it was breaking the protocol was an understatement… but then again, certainly he had something very important to tell her. “What is it you need to tell me?”

“Well…” Héctor hesitated and oh, that was not a good sign. Something in her stomach clenched and fluttered at the same time. “I needed to tell you that… that…” he cleared his throat, struggling to get words out. “Well…”

“Did something happen? Is this about the revolutionaries?” Imelda blurted out, almost without thinking, looking for an answer that would feel safe and make sense. He seemed taken aback, his skin reddened, but after a moment he nodded.

“Oh! Yes, o-of course!” he exclaimed. “So, uh… there were some instructions for…” he hesitated. “Some instructions. Well, you would know, I mean...”

Yes, she had found the note - they needed some food, and she would make sure they’d have it, even if they had little of it to begin with. “Yes. I will find a way,” she promised, then hesitated. “Was that… all?” she asked. When Héctor nodded without looking at her, it was a relief… but something she dared not name ached. She ignored it, and turned to look at the stream. It could run fast and deep when it rained, but there had been no rain in some time and there was little water flowing, slow and steady. It made the bridge itself almost entirely useless, really.

“... Was it real--” she began, but didn’t get to finish the sentence.

“Hey! Isn’t this where you convinced me to eat mud cakes?” Héctor exclaimed, just a bit too enthusiastically. It was a very obvious attempt at changing subject, and Imelda hated such nonsense… but this time, it felt better to play along. Safer. What would she even ask, anyway?

“It was a little further downstream,” Imelda replied. She looked ahead, in the direction of the water’s flow, and a smile curled her lips. She could still remember it - a bunch of kids on the stream’s banks, playing in mud left behind by a small flood that had since ended. She still remembered putting together that mud cake. “... Did you really think it was chocolate, or were you just trying to humor me?”

“Oh, I believed it!” Héctor exclaimed, reaching to put a hand over his heart. He’d always been kind of cheeky upon occasion, but this time there was a dramatic flair to the gesture that made her wonder if Padre Ernesto was rubbing off him. “Absolutely and wholeheartedly!”

She laughed, leaning her elbows on the wooden railing. “Are you going to have to confess to lying now,” she asked, resting her chin in her hand. Héctor grinned sheepishly.

“Maybe,” he admitted. There were a few moments of silence, peaceful and nowhere as tense as the previous one. Imelda found she didn’t mind it at all; it seemed to natural. She let her gaze wander across the water again, saw a fish jumping quickly out of water and back in.

“... My parents didn’t like me playing with you,” she recalled, smiling a little. “Or any other of the orphans. They said you had lice.”

“I did have lice,” Héctor pointed out.

“We all had had lice at some point,” she reminded him. “My mother went through my hair with a fine comb for what felt like ages.”

“Heh. If you think that was bad, we all had to shave, remember?”

“Oh, I do. You cried,” Imelda quipped. To her amusement, Héctor turned slightly redder, rubbing his arm in the way he always did when self-conscious.

“I looked like a vulture,” he muttered, making a face. “Bald head, sharp beak…”

Imelda blinked. “Beak?” she repeated, turning to look at him, and her gaze fell on his nose. She let out a laugh. “Oh! That. It’s better now than it was then,” she told him, turning back to look at the water below them. “You grew into it.”

“You look good too,” Héctor blurted out. If not for the fact it left her stunned, she might have even found it amusing how his expression turned into utter horror in a second. “I-I mean…” he stammered. “No! I mean-- yes you do but-- I-- you… uuuugh!”

With a groan, he leaned against the rail and burrowed his face in his hands. “Oh God this is hard,” he muttered against his palms.

Around there, time seemed to have come a to a standstill. Under the shining sun, there was no sound - not even the song of a single bird; even the murmur of the stream was very far away. Wrapped in a sense of utter unreality, Imelda stared.

“Héctor…?” she called out, barely hearing her own voice. She tried to think of something to say, anything, but as he turned to face her, her mind drew a blank. He swallowed, and gave her a look that was both terrified and determined.

"There is something I need to tell you,” he said. “Imelda, I--”

“Brother Hector! Sister Giselle! What is going on here??”

In the space of a breath, Imelda felt two things: relief, and an almost irresistible urge to bash Padre Juan’s skull in with a shoe.

“Two novices, out here alone!” the gringo was going on, his face almost purple. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Father John,” Héctor said quickly, stepping forward. “The fault is mine-- we just met, she was returning and… we were talking about old times.” He smiled, and suddenly he seemed perfectly at ease. Imelda almost smiled. There he was, the cheeky little liar she remember when they were kids. “Easier times, with fewer worries. We were children together, you see. We began talking - neither of us meant to be inappropriate. We didn’t think of it.”

“Oh.” Padre Juan hesitated, taken aback. Those unnervingly pale eyes shifted between the two of them, and he didn’t seem to take any notice of how Imelda had refused to lower her gaze. “... Of course,” he finally said, his expression and tone softening. “Omnia munda mundis.” Everything’s pure to the pure. “I do understand you meant no harm or blasphemy. However, it would be best to respect--”

“Of course, of course,” Héctor said quickly, nodding. “My apologies, Father John. The fault is mine - I did not think it through when we began to talk.”

He nodded, and looked at her. “Well then. The incident is closed. Shall I escort you back?”

Imelda gave a demure smile that hid her thoughts, half of which involved a blunt object and the gringo’s face. “If you please,” she said.

For the entire walk back, Padre Juan talked to Héctor of nothing but the upcoming celebrations for Easter, and said nothing at all to her as she followed them in silence. It was a relief.

And it was also incredibly frustrating.

***

“So you didn’t tell her.”

“I almost did, but--”

“But you didn’t,” Padre Ernesto muttered, leaning back in his chair. His head connected with the wall behind him with a dull thud, and he ran his hand through his hair. Had he been a bit less flustered, Héctor would have noticed he seemed the very picture of frustration.

“Yes. Father John got there just as I was about to tell her, and…” he sighed and looked down. The thought of the trouble he almost got Imelda into made him feel ill. She may have been the one to ask him to meet, but he was the reason why they had lingered there for so long: he’d just lacked the courage to get on with it right away.

As far as seizing moments went, he was a complete failure.

Unaware of his thoughts, Padre Ernesto grumbled. “Ugh, that gringo. Lectured you for being on your own with a woman, didn’t he?”

“Sí.”

He made a face. “Oh, of course he wouldn’t like that,” he muttered. For one absurd moment, Héctor wondered if he knew - but of course, that was impossible: he’d only told Imelda and Sofía that he was a convert, with no mention at all about his inclinations.

The thought he may have confessed as much did not cross his mind.

“Well, to be entirely fair, it’s what… most priests would say,” he pointed out, and shrugged at Ernesto’s unimpressed look. “You’re, uh, one of a kind. I am sure Padre Edmundo would have said the same in his place. Maybe not has vehemently, but--”

“It doesn’t matter what someone else would have said. He keeps sticking that pointy nose where it doesn’t belong, and I'll have none of that in my parish. Should do something about--”

“Maybe it was for the best,” Héctor said quietly, gaining himself several moments of silence and a look of pure disbelief. He squirmed a little. “I mean, maybe… maybe it would have been a mistake. Maybe it’s just not a good idea and I should just forget about it, take my vows-- she’ll take hers and--”

“And possibly regret a missed opportunity for the rest of your lives?” Padre Ernesto cut him off, and stood. “No. As your friend--” he paused, and blinked, as thought he’d just heard those words coming from someone else’s mouth. He looked back at him, frowning a little. “... We are friends,” he added. It somehow sounded like a statement and like a question at once.

Despite all the thoughts still storming in his mind - all that had just happened, Miguel slipping away, that war that threatened to strike Santa Cecilia any moment - Héctor smiled. “Of course.”

The oddly confused expression on Padre Ernesto’s face melted in a smile of his own, and he put a hand on his shoulder. “Great! Then take some friendly advice - don’t just give up. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been.”

That was… sound advice, really. The same he’d given him before, but maybe he needed to hear it again. “Right. I will tell her. Just… not right away. I’ll wait for--”

“The right moment, of course,” Padre Ernesto agreed, and it was reassuring, really. When he left his office, Héctor felt a lot better.

He never noticed the scowl on his friend’s face as the door closed behind him, nor he was there to see him storming out a few minutes later, heading for the chapel.

***

“Padre Juan. We need to talk.”

His words echoed in the empty chapel, causing the gringo to wince, snapped out of whatever bullshit prayer he was uttering. He glanced up, and one look at his face seemed to make him go, if possible, even paler. But it only lasted a moment: the next, that insufferable posh expression was back on his face.

“I am praying, Father Ernest. Whatever you have to tell me can wai--”

“Now, Juan,” Ernesto snapped. The posh expression was gone in an instant, wiped away like chalk from a blackboard, leaving behind something not far away from terror that he struggled to hide. He stood, slowly.

“If it’s something so urgent--”

“It is. We can discuss it here, or in the sacristy where we know no one will listen. You choose, Juan. And fast.”

“My name is Father Jo--”

“When was last time you confessed yourself, Padre Juan?” Ernesto cut him off. “I think I know the answer. I’d like you to tell me.”

Oh, that hit him like a blow. Padre Juan recoiled, and immediately glanced down; the look of shame on his face was unmistakable, as was the conflict going through his mind. In order to keep up his stupid act, he would have to lie… and of course, that was a sin.

“I… perhaps the sacristy,” he mumbled in the end, suddenly so meek, and Ernesto nodded before heading there with quick steps. He could hear Padre Juan walking after him, more slowly; by the time the door of the sacristy closed behind them, he seemed to have aged a decade… and his gaze kept resting on everything in the room except him.

“Very well.” Ernesto crossed his arms, revelling a little in the fact he could tower over him. “Easter is coming up.”

“I am aware.” The attempt at putting up a mask, again - at changing subject. “And I must say, this town’s fixation with pagan fetishes is positively barbaric. This whole… business of making an effigy of Judas just to burn it--”

Nope, not this time. Ernesto wasn’t going to let him turn the conversation away from the real issue there. It was time to knock the gringo off his pedestal. “Do you plan on taking part to the Eucharist on Easter, Juan?”

“I-- of course, how could I not--”

“Then you need to confess yourself, do you not? Last I recall you coming to confession, you rudely left midway.”

A very, very heavy silence followed. Now the color of chalk, Padre Juan kept his gaze fixed on the floor and said nothing; his eyes were wide and fixed, his hands gripping the crucifix hanging from his neck so tightly it was a wonder the skin of his fingers and palms did not break.

“I… did not…” he choked out, and finally looked up at him. The look on his face was suddenly so lost, so pleading. If he’d seemed aged by a decade when they walked in, now he looked all the world like a lost boy. Ernesto sighed, and put on his best Patient Padre voice.

“This charade has been going long enough, hasn’t it? I know it was you and you know that I know. Don’t lie to me and add another sin to the list. As the parish priest, I have a duty to--”

Father John Johnson burst crying. It was eerie, really, how fast it happened: one moment he was standing before him and the next his features twisted and he fell on his knees before him, still holding onto the crucifix and sobbing his heart out like Ernesto had just shot a baby in front of him.

It made things just a little awkward.

“Huh. I, er.” Ernesto shot a glance to the door, wondering what would… well, anyone think if they found them like that, but thankfully no one burst in, and he just crouched in front of the sobbing gringo. “Padre Juan?”

“I’m s-s-sorry,” he choked out, words almost unintelligible. “God forgive me-- have mercy on t-this… s-s-sinner…”

All right, never mind knocking him off the pedestal. I changed my mind. He can stay on it.

Except that it was too late to take back what he’d said, so he’d have to suck it up. “It’s fine, you’re fine. Calm down. Let’s just-- finish the confession, sí? Then I give you absolution, you calm down, and we have a chat about what is going on with Hé--”

“Penance,” the gringo half-whispered, blinking away tears and trying, so hard, to stop sobbing. “I need-- I need penance.”

“Right, yes, I’ll give you-- I don’t know, some Hail Mary to say and--”

“It’s not enough, never enough! I deserve-- I need-- I tried! I tried every prayer, every penance!” With another sob, Padre Juan looked up a at him through a veil of tears, pale face all blotchy and red, streaked with tears. His nose was the color Ernesto’s old man’s would get halfway through his second bottle of the evening. “I try so hard to-- to make it stop! I am so sorry-- so ashamed-- I tried everything, prayed every saint, and I still feel this u-uh-unnatural lust!”

No chance I can hit him in the head and make him forget the past ten minutes, is there?

Ernesto groaned, running a hand through his hair before he stood and held out a hand. “Get up,” he said, only for the gingo to shut his eyes and shake his head, shrinking away from his hand. Ernesto clenched his teeth, drew in a deep breath, and forced himself to keep his voice even. “... Father John. Please. I am trying to help.”

He had no idea if the surprise of being called his actual name by him for the first time was what snapped him out of his hysterics, but either way, he did snap out of it. He stared up at him, blinking back tears, before he nodded and he stood - shakily, without taking his hand, but he did stand. Ernesto tilted his head towards the desk in the corner.

“Sit. I’ll get you something,” he added, and when he came back less than a minute later he was almost relieved to hear a shade of his usual petulance in his voice.

“Is that holy wine?”

“It hasn’t been blessed. It’s just wine,” Ernesto muttered. Truth be told, all of the holy wine was just wine since he wasn’t a real priest and his blessing didn’t count for shit, but that was a detail Padre Juan was better off not knowing. He poured it in a couple of glasses and pushed one towards the other man before sitting across him. “Drink.”

He did, if with shaky hands: emptied half the glass in a couple of gulps and, when he put it back down, both his hands and his voice were a bit firmer. “I-- thank you,” he murmured, without looking at him in the eye.

“No problem.” Ernesto drank as well. He’d wanted to confront him about his obvious desire for Héctor, tell him to back off and stop trying to get him to stick to vows he clearly was not meant to take only to keep him away from women, but he suspected that might just break him again now.

“So, uh. You. Never indulged.”

Padre Juan seemed to shrink in his seat and nodded, eyes downcast. “Never. But the thoughts… they are there. I’ve been fighting this for so long-- I want to heal, I truly do. I… it cost me everything before, but I found a new meaning to my life, a mission. I… I can’t lose it all again.” His eyes filled with tears again, and he rubbed them with a sleeve, almost angrily. “I should be able to… I was only a boy when…” he let out a long breath. “... I am a grown man now. And yet I am just as lost as I was then.”

Ernesto nodded. “Let me see if I can help.”

The gringo looked down. “You… it is kind of you to… perhaps I misjudged…” he swallowed. “Are you not disgusted?”

Ernesto de la Cruz, who had seen, felt and done so many things that would probably give Padre Juan a heart attack - don’t think of the barracks don’t think of the barracks - shrugged. If that guy who beat himself up to that extent over thoughts he never acted upon knew anything about him, he wouldn’t say he’d misjudged him. He’d be more likely to physically pick him up and dump him in holy water. And maybe he’d keep his head under it. “I am here to help,” he said in the end. “Like the shepherd with the, uh, black sheep.”

Padre Juan blinked.

“... Right. Lost. The lost sheep.”

“That’s better.”

“Can we go back to your confession?” Ernesto asked, a bit more pointedly than it was strictly necessary, and the other man immediately looked down at his glass.

“I… I showed no sign of this… perversion, growing up,” he murmured. “I was not interested in girls as I grew - not even to look at them and laugh with other boys, as boys do, but… everyone assumed I was just being the son of the Past--” he trailed off, seemed to hesitate, and finally sighed. “This is… not a sin, I supposed, but I’d be grateful if you told no one regardless.”

“Won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Huh?”

“I mean-- the secret of confession is sacred,” Ernesto said, and took another swig. “Go on.”

A nod. “Right. I am-- a convert,” he said, entirely unaware that Ernesto knew it very well. “My family was not Catholic - they-- we were Southern Baptists. My father was the Pastor - a pillar of our community, in a small town not too far from El Paso.”

“El Paso, huh?”

He seemed to recoil a little. “... Yes. I am from Texas.”

“You mean northern Mexico.”

The comment caused his lips to curl into a pale ghost of a smile. “... I have heard that one before,” he muttered, and drank a little more wine. “Everyone assumed my disinterest in girls was simply… me being the Pastor’s son, thinking of duty and duty only. I was meant to follow my father’s footsteps. I helped at the church since I was old enough to walk, studied hard, and everyone expected me--” his voice broke, and he paused. “... My apologies,” he muttered, reaching to wipe his eyes. Ernesto refilled his glass, saying nothing, and he drank just a little more before he went on. “Things… didn't turn out the way they were meant to.”

Ernesto nodded, his lips pulled into a tight line. He knew something about life plans going to hell; how the future he had imagined for himself - singing and playing for crowds, traveling through Mexico and then maybe the world, beloved wherever he went - had been put on hold, and maybe taken away for good, once he’d been drafted into the army.

He’d played from time to time to lift spirits, sung along with other soldiers, but soon enough the gunshots and screams and blood had become louder than the cheers - ringing in his ears for hours - and music had been lost. Only now, in that small town, did he get to enjoy it once more.

This war ruined everything. This is not how I was supposed to go, not where I was meant to be.

He emptied his glass and went to refill it. “I understand. Sometimes--” goddamn Victoriano Huerta “--God decides otherwise.”

Padre Juan lowered his gaze and sighed. “I still don’t know if it was God’s plan or the devil’s interference in it, but what I know is that, when I was five-and-ten, things began to change. I began having… thoughts… about a dear friend of mine.” He lifted the glass, downed all the wine and, under Ernesto’s surprised gaze, he held out the glass for more. He raised an eyebrow, but filled it again without saying anything. As long as it kept him from sobbing like a baby again.

“My family… I had a notebook they gave me. I was meant to write my failings on it, every day, to better reflect on them. So I did-- I was ashamed,” he added, his voice thin, and he looked up at him. “And so scared, you cannot imagine.”

Ernesto thought back of his old man in one of his bad days, and tried to imagine his reaction if he’d known of some quality time he had spent in a back alley with a bricklayer who worked just a few houses away, when he’d been eighteen or nineteen. He made a face. “... I think I can,” he said slowly. “Must have been horrifying.”

“But I was determined to find a cure, to resist - whether it was a trial God put in my way, or the devil tempting me, I would get through it. I prayed, and punished myself for my unholy thoughts, until… until…” his voice broke, and he shut his eyes.

Well. At that point, it was an easy guess. “They found out.”

A shuddering breath, and Padre Juan nodded. “... The notebook should have been private, between me and God. But… they noticed something was amiss. I returned home one evening and… my siblings were not there, nor were the servants. Only my parents, sitting in the living room… waiting.” He swallowed. “They were pale as death, and so quiet. I knew that they knew as soon as I lay my eyes on them, before I even saw the notebook in my mother’s hands. My father stood, and I--” His voice shook, and his left hand reached beneath his right sleeve. “I fell on my knees, begged for forgiveness. It was… not enough.”

Ernesto said nothing, but he reached to pull up that sleeve, and the gringo did not stop him. Across his forearm there was a long, thin, raised scar. “... Didn’t hold back, did he?”

“It was my fault,” he said plainly, pulling the sleeve down again. His expression was almost serene, disturbingly so. Did it make him feel better, taking on all the blame? Was it that horrifying, admitting that some things were simply beyond his control? “I was foolish. I tried to raise my arm to shield myself of the rightful punishment.”

Ernesto leaned back on his chair. It took him an effort to unclench his jaw. “I’m amazed they didn’t kill you.”

“They said they would, if I ever returned.” A long, heavy silence followed. With a deep breath, Padre Juan reached up to rub his face. His voice was firmer, now, almost emotionless. “They did the right thing.”

"Like hell they did."

"Father Ernest! Language!"

“You were fifteen.”

“Almost sixteen - almost a man, and a dangerous one at that. You know what-- sodomites are like. They must have worried I could harm my sisters, my little brother. Infect them.” His voice shook again. “I’d have died before I allowed a such thing to happen.”

Ernesto suspected Padre Juan was as likely to harm a kid as he was to spread his arms and take flight, but he said nothing. He got away with a lot while being considered an eccentric but charismatic young priest; however, saying anything that would go against the Catholic Church’s stand on the matter was too dangerous for his cover. So he just nodded for him to go on.

“... There isn’t much more to say. I left and…” Another pause, one that told Ernesto that there was more to that story than what he was about to hear. “Well. I found refuge in a church in El Paso. Father Joseph took me in,” he added, and smiled. It seemed the fondest smile Ernesto had ever seen on anyone’s face.

“A Catholic, huh?” he muttered. That was something they had in common, it seemed, running into priests while wandering aimlessly. Only that he didn’t think John had to shoot this Father Joseph in the head to put him out of his misery.

“Yes. He was a Jesuit, and cared for me like a son. He taught be about the only true Church - our Church," he murmured. His hand went to the crucifix hanging from his neck. "This was a gift from him, and I felt so unworthy, but promised I would deserve it. As soon as I was well enough, I went to seminary,” he added. He paused and emptied the glass. This time, he did not ask to have it filled again. “Perhaps he was too kind to me, too forgiving of my… defect. But I owe everything to him, and the Catholic Church. It gave me a new path, new purpose. I decided I would repay all of that by taking the vows, and travel to educate the still pagan masses on true Catholicism - spread the teachings that saved me.”

Fighting back an urge to break the bottle over his head - weaker than usual, yes, but it was still there - Ernesto nodded. “I see,” he said. Idiota, he thought. “... Is it all?”

“Huh?”

“This is meant to be a confession. Any more sins?”

“Oh. Right,” Padre Juan had the good grace to look and looked away. “I… I really have misjudged you, in my… in my pride. I suppose that is my second great failing. Father Joseph did warn me I was too prideful.”

Ernesto nodded, quickly considering if he had enough cheek to reprimand anyone over their pride and coming to the conclusion that no, he did not. He came close enough, but… no. “I see,” he just repeated. He was about to utter the formula for absolution when Juan spoke again.

“I am sorry, for… for that woman. For what I told her,” he managed. “My advice followed the scriptures, but lacked compassion. I was shown compassion when in need. I should have, too.”

Well. That was… some progress, at least. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. Ernesto smiled. “No worries. We fixed that oversight.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I still don’t think you should have gone there with the intention to--”

“Nu-uh, having none of that,” Ernesto cut him off, lifting his hand. “Your confession, not mine. If that will be all, I’ll give you absolution and--”

“No… no penance?” Juan asked. He somehow sounded relieved and somewhat disappointed all at once, and Ernesto shook his head.

“You gave yourself enough penance. And it didn’t work, did it?”

“... No. But how else am I to heal this perversion?” he asked, anguish plain on his face.

“Well… let me have a think. We’ll work something out,” he said, and as Father John Johnson nodded - doubt and hope battling on his face - Ernesto spoke the formula of absolution, not realizing he’d forgotten to even tell him anything about staying away from Héctor

***

[Back to Part 8]

[On to Part 10]

[notagarroter]

2,5,7 A Dangerous Love

Ooh yay!  Thank you for asking!  (Here’s the fic, if anyone’s curious: A Dangerous Love.)

2. Which scene was your favorite to write in [title of fic]? 

I’m gonna go with the scene where Sherlock and Mary talk about the state of the relationship while flinging flatware at the wall. 

This was actually one of those happy accidents that almost wrote itself?  I knew I wanted a scene where Mary confronted Sherlock about sleeping with John, and I knew broadly how it would go…  But even in my head it felt dull and draggy.  I had two characters talking about their feelings, neither of whom are particularly interested in that kind of conversation.  Not promising.

But before I got into that, I needed something to set the scene – something for Sherlock to be doing when Mary walked in.  “Throwing utensils at the wall” was just a random thing that popped into my head that Sherlock might do when he was bored and out of sorts.  But it was only supposed to be a throwaway line at the end of a sentence.

Then once I started writing, it sort of took over the scene.  Because of course Mary would have questions about the activity, and what would Sherlock say?  And of course Sherlock, in his contrition, would offer her a go.  And of course Mary, with her assassin training, would be a crack shot.  And of course Sherlock would be both annoyed and grudgingly impressed by this.  ;)

And suddenly I had a much better scene – one where the characters were actually *doing* stuff, not just talking.  And everything they did was wonderfully character revealing, and allowed them to express their feelings without actually *saying* awkward things like, “I’m depressed” or “I’m sorry” or “I’m really pissed at you.”  And it was such a lovely moment between them, because it emphasizes how much they have in common, including things that John wouldn’t really get or approve of.  Which is pretty central to the whole story.

It was the kind of scene you dream about as a writer, because once the first idea was formed, the rest just flowed in this really natural way, and I hardly revised it at all. 

5. Did you make an outline for [title]? Did you stick to it? 

I generally do outline, and in this case, it was really necessary because I was structuring the whole story around Mary’s pregnancy.  So I needed to know how far along she’d be in each scene, and how to make the emotional events intersect usefully with the physical ones.  Plus, since it’s a missing scenes fic, I had to make sure things more or less lined up with the timeline of the episode. 

I did pretty much stick with it, even though I panicked a bit in the early chapters that stuff was moving too slowly, and my 3-4 readers would lose interest.  In retrospect, I wish I had taken a little more time with those early scenes, instead of rushing to get to the “meat” of the story.

The other thing is, originally there was supposed to be a big casefic element, with Sherlock and Mary working together on the Magnussen situation, and I was going to try to explain why Sherlock ultimately decides to leave her home and go off with John to confront him.  But then I was like, ugh I don’t want to write casefic, and no one really cares, so whatever lol. 

7. Who was your favorite character to write in [title]?

I’m tempted to say Mycroft, because the little scene I wrote for him was SO much fun, and I’m really proud of how it came out.  That was another scene where all I knew was the emotional beats I wanted to hit, and the idea of this game where Sherlock doesn’t speak and Mycroft has to deduce what’s bothering him based on his breathing kind of bubbled up out of no where.  I just knew that, once again, Sherlock wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about his feelings, but of course he could rely on Mycroft to figure it out without him having to confess to icky emotions.  And it all fell into place.

But I’m actually going to say Sherlock.  This was my first fic from Sherlock’s POV, and it was really fun and interesting trying to get inside that mind.  One thing that made this version of Sherlock really fun to write is that he lies to himself a LOT.  I don’t know how many readers picked up on it, but every time Sherlock gets himself into an emotional situation, he sort of uses this image of himself as The Great Brain as a defense mechanism, to hide his feelings from himself.

Like when he first kisses Mary, he tells himself that he’s just analyzing the different effects different types of kiss produce.  And when he’s fucking John, instead of being present in the moment, he’s reflecting on the differences between his two recent lovers, and treating it as a science experiment.  And when Mary brushes him off in favor of John, he’s like, “no problem, I’ll just do some work in my mind palace” and doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s like, sobbing. 

I think, since I, myself, am not super comfortable expressing strong emotions directly, I find writing Sherlock both challenging and comfortably familiar.  As a writer, I think it’s always more fun to find devices to express these things obliquely, instead of just charging in and having everyone say exactly what they’re feeling.

Still, the emotional gunk can only be put off so long.  Which is why, as we get toward the end of the fic, Sherlock starts to fall apart and acknowledge his feelings, both to himself and to Mary and John.  Though in that last scene, Sherlock and John are still using alcohol, violence, and sex as props to help them express themselves, lol.  Old habits die hard (both for me and my characters).

Thank you again for asking!  I hope any of this wasn’t totally boring to read lol.

[seenashwrite]

The Nail: July 2017

The Nail isn't about perfection. It isn't about award-level contenders. It's about seeing focus and effort and hard work radiate off of the screen.

The Nail's purpose isn't to highlight genres of fics or specific ships written during a certain time frame - the sole focus is quality.

Character dimension. Writing with clever readers in mind. Solid world-building. Tension through boundaries. Crazy crisp dialogue. Incredibly tight plotting. Big emotion.

And though yours truly - nice to meet you, new folks, I’m Nash! - is editor of the list, the goal is for YOU to curate the content.

Read more about how all this came to be, find past editions, see what factors are considered when constructing the list, and how to get your recommendations in/be a curator HERE.

Hey, ramblers? Let’s get ramblin’.

For your reblogging convenience, here’s The Nail Master Post of Editions!

Quickie Nash Note:

I've not had opportunity this month [June] to give individual three-point reviews. So, something a little different here for July's reads - and it just might be the way The Nail rolls from here on out [and yes - I still will review on my "own time", as it were, once I... y'know... have more time].

Aside from the typical short blip of a summary that reviewers provide for their readers, you'll see a handful of reasons these pieces made the list below that, labelled "Q". In other words, the "Q"s  are a handful of elements we [curators & I] look for when it comes to an author nailing it.

Quite wonderfully, the curator submissions are increasing in number with every edition! So much so, many stories have been shifted to upcoming months. If you enjoy curator selections & found them to be of quality, please consider not only giving the authors feedback, but also thanking the curator(s) for bringing the story/series to your attention. I suspect they'll dig it.

XO - Nash.

* ~ * ALL FROM THE WORLD OF "SUPERNATURAL" UNLESS OTHERWISE NOTED * ~ *

SPEED READS [from scene do-overs to gif-inspired one-shots to dripping drabbles, all 500 words or less]  

These won’t be reviewed separately in Nash’s usual three-point manner à la #Nash Gives [Feed]back due to their length, excepting those cases where the author pulled off a fleshed-out plot/character or had a unique take that was well-covered in the short amount of space. If there is no title provided by the author, Nash/the curator will pick one for them.

THE YEAR IS 2050  -  @mishasaurus

Years on the job, and still the occasional surprise. 

Q: crisp, quick, no more words/detail than necessary; executed a call-back and wisely eschewed any [uneccessary] explanations; wonderfully delightful, spot-on humor

.

FIFTEEN  -  @teamfreewill-imagine  

Time always has moved differently for Dean.

Q: Concise while still giving character dimension; exploratory without explaining every finite detail; subtle and realistic tipping point in character arc

.

RESERVED SPACE  -  @supernaturalfreewill 

Rather than take action, Dean observes and wonders.

Q: pitch-perfection descriptions that gave just enough vs. too dense; took a prompt that inferred a certain direction/instead chose a thoughtful path to show a different side of a well-known character; pleasant change of pace/atypical use of reader inclusion/insert

.

STEP-BY-STEP  -  @veneredirimmel

A short character study, considering what exactly is behind this hunter's smile.

Q: careful and considerate exploration of a characteristic that often bends shallow and sappy; flow is pitch-perfect, each section adding a bit more gravity, growing more personal as it goes on; kept in line with the portrayal we know while adding believable layers; leaves the reader with a feeling of "I want to go back and read this again"  

---> Unable to tag author, if someone would kindly let them know <---

.

THE LONG, FULL YEARS  -  @ariannnawinchester 

What happens in the life story of the Winchesters after "The End" has been written.

Q: fantastic example of a heavy topic in the hands of a sharp author who can make it feel "light" & not depressive; written with clever readers in mind, painting a picture fluid enough to allow for interpretation; absolutely knocked it out of the park regarding the "main event", in that those details weren't important as the aftermath is the point; fleshed-out OCs whose personalities were clear & enjoyable despite only a few lines between them

.

THERE IT WAS  -  @deathtonormalcy56

There's every reason to believe he'll be back - after all, he's always come back before - and now begins the time in between.

Q: good contrasts between objectives & subjectives/how "dulls" can be "sharps", etc.; took the risk of going with little/no dialogue that can often go awry for many/go sluggish; strong protag in the face of sorrow/doesn't fall apart/introspection without broodiness; 2nd person almost fading into 3rd omniscient

ON THE SHORT SIDE [500-ish to 1.5K]

Works via curators will not necessarily receive Nash's typical 3-point review

URBAN LEGENDS  -  @sasquatchandleatherjacket

Seems that some legends are more than the stories we use to contain them - and just how frightening they are depends on your perspective.

Q: creative take on the subject which made absolute perfect sense; nice, slow burn - despite the crisp pace & length - to the ultimate reveal, nicely camouflaged by the initial, more intuitive reveal; atypical choice regarding perspective, one not often utilized; leaves reader with the feeling of "I'd definitely read this again"

---> Unable to tag author, if someone would kindly let them know <---

.

SHEETS  -  @klaineaholic

The basic skills for hunting include weapons and the lore, but when it comes to hunting with the Winchesters, one must also master snark, sarcasm, sass - and those skills may just be the most important of all.

Q: well-done characterization; nice, quick pace; awkward moment handled realistically; fleshed-out protag in a very short amount of time/showed a sharp wit with a softer side that didn't bend sappy

.

TEA TIME WITH MILDRED  [on AO3] -  @grey2510 

Crowley has help this time around with his critique of Dean and Castiel.

Q: in medias res with steady pace; excellent characterizations, including fleshed-out & highly enjoyable minor/here-and-gone character from a past ep; doesn't waste time on things superfluous to plot, nice flow

.

TRANSPLANT  -  @zepppie 

Dean takes a moment to give thanks for a gift, one that's given him a very different perspective on life.

Q: very unique/original plot that fits within the universe of the show; excellent characterization [minor OCs & protag alike]; written with clever readers in mind; big emotion while calmly introspective

.

THE BEST OF FOOLS  -  @fanforfanatic

In which Castiel learns that a gift he's received holds more than simply music.

Q: in medias res; scene exploration with unique/original concept; tangible descriptions of the object in question, paints picture of sound extremely well; multiple fantastic turns-of-phrase/keeps a steady flow/prevents a bogged-down information relay

.

STICK 'EM UP  -  @seljepw

Dean finds himself in a slightly atypical situation, though he also finds the family mantra still applies.  

Q: Solid beginning/cap-off; very believable characterization/verbiage/behavior of protag; tight plotting with crisp dialogue; little-to-no extraneous detail

MIDDLE-OF-THE-ROAD [around 1.5K - 2.5K]

Works via curators will not necessarily receive Nash's typical 3-point review

LET'S SWAYZE THIS MOTHER  -  @emilywritesaboutdean

They thought Gabriel had been taken out of the equation. They were wrong. Oh wow, were they ever wrong.

Q: in medias res; incredibly creative plot [bonus points for perfect title choice]; both the overall story/structure and characterizations left the feeling of having watched an episode of the show; seemingly effortless humor

.

THERE YOU'LL ALWAYS BE  -  @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog

It was a different relationship for Sam, this woman who understood his lifestyle and his secrets completely, though the feelings of contrition seem to find him all the same.  

Q: beautifully fleshed-out, introspective view of the stoic main character that rings true to canon/believable interaction with secondary canon character;  moderate borrowing from source material used appropriately; killer last line to cap off

Curated by @klaineaholic, who said:   "This is so so sad and beautiful! The [pieces of dialogue were] such Eileen things to say, I’m so glad you wrote this!”

LONGER [around 2.5K to  3K-ish]

Works via curators will not necessarily receive Nash's typical 3-point review

  CRAPULOUS  -  @butiaintgonnaloveem 

A tale of a hangover, a vampire stake-out that went awry, and mysterious underwear await.

Q: well-plotted story with just enough detail/purposefully does not reveal every facet/encourages readers' imaginations; quick, witty, crisp dialogue beyond prompt(s); phenomenal featured OC; believable take on canon character; seemingly effortless humor

.

THE REST  -  @mrswhozeewhatsis

Deferring to author's pitch-perfect summary - “It’s all about what you give away and what you keep for yourself.”

Q: excellent weaving together of a fleshed-out OC's story in a very plausible behind-the-scenes-canon vignette; limited/no laborious describing of situations/surroundings/appearances; well-done choices of breaks/flipping to next scene/kept flow; bonus points for utilizing a seldom-seen character 

Curated by @klaineaholic, who said: "I'm falling more and more in love with these fics that explore what's behind the canon. [This story is] like following this thread and going until you think you know how it's going to play into the canon and then the end just tugs your heart unexpectedly. Michelle clearly put so much thought and creativity into her pre-canon story on [a] beloved, oft-written about part of the Supernatural universe."

DEEP DIVES [3K and beyond, including completed multi-parters with 2 to (roughly) 5 parts of modestly sized chapters totaling at minimum 3K words]

This does *not* include series, which have their own section. Works via curators will not necessarily receive Nash's typical 3-point review.

THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS   -  @hannahindie

On a much-needed night of relaxation for the crew, Dean’s picked a happy hour - with the hope of a happy ending - that doesn’t quite go as expected.

Q: rarely seen use of a narrator to help tell the story - and it is pulled it off seamlessly/does not detract or add a cumbersome nature - this is one of those few exceptions to the likely-never-to-fail-you in medias res kickoff; crisp, witty dialogue/interactions; solid all-around characterization  

.

SCAR TISSUE  -  @fanforfanatic

It's nothing new when Dean meets a woman in a bar - only this time, as the author puts it, "their damaged parts seem to match."

Q:  took an oft-seen locale/situation and went deeper/introspective without being depressive; lovely, subtle touches sprinkled throughout for adding character depth - particularly O.C. - that add up by the end (bonus points for inventive "naming"); multiple well-crafted turns-of-phrase

SERIES SPOTLIGHT : SUPERNATURAL & SPN CROSS-OVERS [works that are completed series, as well as ongoing series with at least 3 parts published as of/prior to the edition of The Nail in question]

Due to time constraints, series are not read in full. They are given a cursory once-over for the quality basics, most importantly that the author has put maximum effort into world-building.

The first chapter / first handful of chapters / first third of the first chapter - depending on length - are read to ensure there are no gross grammar / spelling errors, as well as ensuring the story’s premise is made clear.

Summation line(s) below are taken from the author/the story, edited/shortened only for length/clarity if needed. Same applies to series from other fandoms featured on this list.

LIKE A ROLLING STONE  -  @stori-teller

"Cas Novak stumbles across a dead body - enter the Winchesters." 

Q: in medias res; character dimension; descriptions of people/places/things unfold organically; plot unfolds organically/no long expositions/etc.; bonus points for mini-summaries/appropriate warnings for each chapter  

.

SENSATION  -  @littlegreenplasticsoldier

"Sam is cursed to live without his senses and you are left to look after him at the bunker."

Q: [Deferring to our curators this go, seems they covered it, yes? ;)  -N.] 

Curated by @butiaintgonnaloveem, who said: "It's one of those fics that is heavy, while maintaining humor which is tricky. And the way she manages to describe the senses and the lack thereof just boggles my mind."

Curated by @klaineaholic, who said: "Being inside Sam's head as he loses all of his senses, following along as you (the character) try to keep him sane and make him feel not-so-alone when he can't help BUT feel alone [...] Sam's internal voice is captured perfectly, his characterization is so true, and the plot is just phenomenal."

.

BLOOD & PERFUME  -  @helvonasche  +  @madamelibrarian

"A pair of sisters must learn to navigate a life they're not used to, without a family, and with a power that should not exist."

Q: in medias res - and with a kick/thrown right into the action; unique ability/power/skill not seen/rare to see in this fandom; inventive name choices for original characters that fit the tone without being cumbersome or distracting; lets plot unfold organically

.

YOUR YOUNG MEN WILL SEE VISIONS, YOUR OLD MEN WILL DREAM DREAMS  -  @winchester-family-business

[SUPERNATURAL + INCEPTION]

"Dreamsharing: digging through the secrets that should stay locked up tight -  and no secret is safe from the Winchesters."

Q: see my review for more detail on how this author essentially gave a master class on how to start a story, particularly in the action/adventure genre; takes inspiration without carbon-copy; characterization on-point; tension through boundaries; writing for clever readers

Nash Note: The link on the right - the second part of the title - is to the first chapter. The one on the left - the first part of the title - is to the brief primer on the “Inception” universe  

.

RISE FOR YOUR KING  -  @thran-duils

“You were betrothed to a prince, but when a neighboring king - a mage - decides to dole out justice to your future father in law, he destroys the royal family... and takes an immediate liking to you.”

Q: well-styled fantasy/pseudo-historical AU with solid world-building; in medias res; tension/drama/action that ebbs/flows; gift/power/skill for protag which is atypical/rarely seen

Curated by @klaineaholic, who said: "JaNae is the queen of AU!Cas and she throws this character into new positions and life experiences and draws from the various Castiels that we see on the show in order to play with her AU!Cas' personality. This fic reminds me of Godstiel in a way, and how power-hungry that Cas was. Definitely imaginative, truly unique, and sexy to boot."

.

THUNDER ROAD  -  @tankcupcakes

“Sent back in time to stop the murder of their parents, Sam and Dean are met with unforeseen circumstances that strand them in the past.”

Q: in medias res; crisp dialogue; tight plotting; spot-on/fleshed-out characterization [familiar + OCs]; evident critical eye regarding appropriate detail for time period; nice formatting/flow

POEMS & POETICAL PROSE [mostly quick reads, these are actual poems of any structure/length, as well as short prose that sings like a songbird]

These will not be reviewed separately in Nash’s usual three-point manner à la #Nash Gives [Feed]back due to the typically short lengths & structure. For poems: an excerpted line is used in lieu of summary. If there is no title provided by the author, Nash/the curator will pick one for them.

WHAT ANGELS NEED  -  @justrandomspnstuff

"...counting freckles like they’re flecks of gold."

Q: stanzas arranged with common strokes vs. carbon-copy repetition; sweet/thoughtful without bending saccharine/broody; kept clever readers in mind/lets the reader fill in the finer details    

.

HIS CREATION  -  @vintagesam

"...enough tiny stars to make you believe in infinity."

Q: impeccable structure; steady through-line with nice break in form for ending; imagery without using over-the-top vocab/kept it simple & sharp yet expressive

.

HE KNEW  -  @trexrambling

“The hunting continued while a different dream was born from the ashes.”

Q: nice change of pace with pseudo-”insert” approach in 3rd person/engaging readers with choice of 2nd protag; good formatting to help flow/segments of their time together separated; no "real" dialogue but without loss of pace

[ETA: Caught it on a subsequent glance - I have no idea why only Rex’s got copied from draft when I had it in another category initially, but it’s fixed now! -N.]

RANDOM FANDOMS  [all types, all lengths, all the things that aren’t SPN but are still pretty dang super]

Works via curators will not necessarily receive Nash's typical 3-point review, same standards apply per genre as noted above

TWO BIRDS [series]  -  @whotheeffisbucky

[MARVEL]

“Set in the roaring 1920s, Bucky Barnes runs Manhattan like a kid with a toy set. There’s perhaps only one person who should be more feared than him - and she’s asking for his protection.”

Q: phenomenal/well-researched world-building; tone, verbiage, descriptions that read like they're somewhere in the Gatsby family tree; appropriate to this time period/genre - winding and packed with rich - not laborious - detail

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WHAT'S A LITTLE TRAUMA BETWEEN FRIENDS  -  @withstarryeyes 

[STAR TREK]

An injury proves traumatic to more than just the person on the receiving end.

Q: wonderful characterization/explored side of a protag only seen glimpses of; nice cadence/flow; appropriate use of "breaks" in formatting that didn't disturb the flow; refreshing style to see regarding a distinct lack of laborious descriptions [setting/characters/etc.] in lieu of shots of tiny details sprinkled along paragraphs

.  

LOGIC AND ANGELS  -  @oneshot-twoshot-redshot-blueshot

[SHERLOCK + pseudo-SPN]

The great Mr. Holmes adds to his vast amount of knowledge.

Q: in medias res; excellent characterization of protag; kept air of mystery/no explicit explanations/ambiguity - written with clever readers in mind; multiple well-crafted lines, both internal and verbal 

---> Unable to tag author, if someone would kindly let them know <---

ORIGINAL WORKS [anything from haiku to novella]

Works via curators will not necessarily receive Nash's typical 3-point review, same standards apply per genre as noted above

I DIDN'T GIVE YOU THE FRUIT  -  @medeae

"I forget that ichor is gold."

Q: imaginative/original; vivid but not overbearing/atypical imagery; crisp, tight structure/verbiage

.

LIKE THE SUN  -  @louisamayanniecat

"He looked at her like she was the sun, in that he never looked at her except in frustration."

Q: subverted the concept and made it infinitely better; not a space/word/letter wasted; conveyed a multitude of thoughts and incited as many feelings in a crisp, quick, organized manner

---> Unable to tag author, if someone would kindly let them know <---

.

THE JUDGMENT  -  @impala-dreamer

One person's journey through.

Q: good use of imagery; platitude pulled from the facile & given framework;  contrast of easy nature with intensity of setting

.

BOOKS ABOUT BETTER GIRLS  -  @inkskinned

Not every princess spends her days alone in the tower.

Q: above and beyond, fantastic, exceptional execution of a trope twist; fleshed-out characters; plot unfolds organically; written for clever readers; lovely world-building/character depth as compared to the length of text [read: many authors would take more words and likely accomplish less]

Shameless Self-Promotion:

See Nash Write : Master  || See Nash Write : Mobile 

Now get out there & read, read, read!