#sudden denouement

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

[ID: Two panels from the BSD manga. The first shows Fyodor, clear eyed with an open expression, asking "What year is it?". The second shows Dazai looking down at "Fyodor's" corpse, saying "Then who the hell is this?" End ID.]

You guys. You GUYS. I feel so vindicated - it was significant!

And also I'm bringing this potential reference back because I forgot about it until right now.

[ID: Part of a white book cover. The author is Dostoevsky. The title is The Double. End ID.]

"Constantly rebuffed from the social circles he aspires to frequent, the timid clerk Golyadkin is confronted by the sudden appearance of his double, a more brazen, confident and socially successful version of himself, who abuses and victimizes the original. As he is increasingly persecuted, Golyadkin finds his social, romantic and professional life unravelling, in a spiral that leads to a catastrophic denouement."

"One critic wrote that The Double's main idea is that "the human will in its search for total freedom of expression becomes a self-destructive impulse"."

[ID: A screenshot of a paragraph from The Double's wikipedia page. The sections of note are highlighted: "The Double is the most Gogolesque of Dostoevsky's works", "a parody of "The Overcoat"", "Dostoevsky alters and wholly repeats Gogol's phrases". End ID.]

...Nikolai, I'm so sorry buddy, but I think you're screwed.

[deception-united]

Let's talk about story structure.

Fabricating the narrative structure of your story can be difficult, and it can be helpful to use already known and well-established story structures as a sort of blueprint to guide you along the way. Before we delve into a few of the more popular ones, however, what exactly does this term entail?

Story structure refers to the framework or organization of a narrative. It is typically divided into key elements such as exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, and resolution, and serves as the skeleton upon which the plot, characters, and themes are built. It provides a roadmap of sorts for the progression of events and emotional arcs within a story.

Freytag's Pyramid:

Also known as a five-act structure, this is pretty much your standard story structure that you likely learned in English class at some point. It looks something like this:

Exposition: Introduces the characters, setting, and basic situation of the story.

Inciting Incident: The event that sets the main conflict of the story in motion, often disrupting the status quo for the protagonist.

Rising Action: Series of events that build tension and escalate the conflict, leading toward the story's climax.

Climax: The highest point of tension or the turning point in the story, where the conflict reaches its peak and the outcome is decided.

Falling Action: Events that occur as a result of the climax, leading towards the resolution and tying up loose ends.

Resolution (or Denouement): The final outcome of the story, where the conflict is resolved, and any remaining questions or conflicts are addressed, providing closure for the audience.

Though the overuse of this story structure may be seen as a downside, it's used so much for a reason. Its intuitive structure provides a reliable framework for writers to build upon, ensuring clear progression and emotional resonance in their stories and drawing everything to a resolution that is satisfactory for the readers.

The Fichtean Curve:

The Fichtean Curve is characterised by a gradual rise in tension and conflict, leading to a climactic peak, followed by a swift resolution. It emphasises the building of suspense and intensity throughout the narrative, following a pattern of escalating crises leading to a climax representing the peak of the protagonist's struggle, then a swift resolution.

Initial Crisis: The story begins with a significant event or problem that immediately grabs the audience's attention, setting the plot in motion.

Escalating Crises: Additional challenges or complications arise, intensifying the protagonist's struggles and increasing the stakes.

Climax: The tension reaches its peak as the protagonist confronts the central obstacle or makes a crucial decision.

Swift Resolution: Following the climax, conflicts are rapidly resolved, often with a sudden shift or revelation, bringing closure to the narrative. Note that all loose ends may not be tied by the end, and that's completely fine as long as it works in your story—leaving some room for speculation or suspense can be intriguing.

The Hero’s Journey:

The Hero's Journey follows a protagonist through a transformative adventure. It outlines their journey from ordinary life into the unknown, encountering challenges, allies, and adversaries along the way, ultimately leading to personal growth and a return to the familiar world with newfound wisdom or treasures.

Call to Adventure: The hero receives a summons or challenge that disrupts their ordinary life.

Refusal of the Call: Initially, the hero may resist or hesitate in accepting the adventure.

Meeting the Mentor: The hero encounters a wise mentor who provides guidance and assistance.

Crossing the Threshold: The hero leaves their familiar world and enters the unknown, facing the challenges of the journey.

Trials and Tests: Along the journey, the hero faces various obstacles and adversaries that test their skills and resolve.

Approach to the Inmost Cave: The hero approaches the central conflict or their deepest fears.

The Ordeal: The hero faces their greatest challenge, often confronting the main antagonist or undergoing a significant transformation.

Reward: After overcoming the ordeal, the hero receives a reward, such as treasure, knowledge, or inner growth.

The Road Back: The hero begins the journey back to their ordinary world, encountering final obstacles or confrontations.

Resurrection: The hero faces one final test or ordeal that solidifies their transformation.

Return with the Elixir: The hero returns to the ordinary world, bringing back the lessons learned or treasures gained to benefit themselves or others.

Exploring these different story structures reveals the intricate paths characters traverse in their journeys. Each framework provides a blueprint for crafting engaging narratives that captivate audiences. Understanding these underlying structures can help gain an array of tools to create unforgettable tales that resonate with audiences of all kind.

Happy writing! Hope this was helpful ❤

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[probablyasocialecologist]

Socialism is society emancipated from the relentless, unconscious, and irrational power of capital. Living in a planned society should feel better and freer, with a sense of solidarity and freedom from the threat of poverty. Democracy and meaningful work are not mere side effects of a socialist economy but central for planning to function, because no one will work hard on a project they don’t believe in. If people stop believing in socialism, the system will collapse, as was made clear in the strangely sudden and peaceful denouement of 1989. If people do not have a say in how the economy is consciously managed, then even the most technical and ecological planning will degenerate into tyranny. 

Troy Vettese, Drew Pendergrass, Half-Earth Socialism: A Plan to Save the Future from Extinction, Climate Change and Pandemics

[chatsukimi]

★ ༘ * 🔭 ꜱᴛᴀʀ ☄︎ sukuna x reader

SYNOPSIS: At the crux of sophomore year, Ryomen Sukuna experiences two major turns of events. First, his acting hobby skyrockets him into sudden stardom. Second, a new contract implements onto him a dating ban which is, effectively speaking, one way to deprive him of sex. To satisfy his own needs, Sukuna strikes a deal with the inconspicuous quiet kid, not knowing that you will pave the path of his fame. warnings: nsfw (+).

#SHOOT 1: Take me to the stars scene break: perfume

#SHOOT 2: Cables scene break: say my name, heartbreaker

#SHOOT 3: Lights, Camera, Action!! scene break: backstage business

#SHOOT 4: YALE scene break: callgirl

#SHOOT 5: Private show scene break: CUT

#SHOOT 6: Beautiful nightmare scene break: make up make out

#SHOOT 7: BREAK ME & THE NEWS scene break: glory

#SHOOT 8: Star scene break: denouement

︶︶︶ 𔓕 ︶︶ ୨୧ ︶︶ ending credits

#SHOOT 9: Alain Delon

June 10th - **

[homonationalist]

At one point Sameer spoke of being stopped and searched at Israeli checkpoints. He spoke in a manner that seemed not to require my presence. I hadn't seen this level of concentration and detachment in him before. That was fine. He was grieving. "The shameful and humiliating way the soldiers run their hands up and down your body," he said. Then he added, "But the shame and humiliation runs even deeper if the Israeli soldier is an Ethiopian Jew." The earth gave way. The thought that my place in the unconscious of Palestinians fighting for their freedom was the same dishonorable place I occupied in the minds of Whites in America and Israel chilled me. I gathered enough wits about me to tell him that his feelings were odd, seeing how Palestinians were at war with Israelis, and White Israelis at that. How was it that the people who stole his land and slaughtered his relatives were somehow less of a threat in his imagination than Black Jews, often implements of Israeli madness, who sometimes do their dirty work? What, I wondered silently, was it about Black people (about me) that made us so fungible we could be tossed like a salad in the minds of oppressors and the oppressed? I was faced with the realization that in the collective unconscious, Palestinian insurgents have more in common with the Israeli state and civil society than they do with Black people. What they share is a largely unconscious consensus that Blackness is a locus of abjection to be instrumentalized on a whim. At one moment Blackness is a disfigured and disfiguring phobic phenomenon; at another moment Blackness is a sentient implement to be joyously deployed for reasons and agendas that have little to do with Black liberation. There I sat, yearning, in solidarity with my Palestinian friend's yearning, for the full restoration of Palestinian sovereignty; mourning, in solidarity with my friend's mourning, over the loss of his insurgent cousin; yearning, that is, for the historical and political redemption of what I thought was a violated commons to which we both belonged—when, all of a sudden, my friend reached down into the unconscious of his people and slapped me upside the head with a wet gym shoe: the startling realization that not only was I barred, ab initio, from the denouement of historical and political redemption, but that the borders of redemption are policed by Whites and non-Whites alike, even as they kill each other. It's worse than that. I, as a Black person (if person, subject, being are appropriate, since Human is not), am both barred from the denouement of social and historical redemption and needed if redemption is to attain any form of coherence.

Frank B. Wilderson III from "For Halloween I Washed My Face" in Afropessimism (2020)

[mariacallous]

For nearly a half-century, there was a single factor, a single raison d’être, at the heart of the entire Soviet project. But it wasn’t fanning communist revolution or even spreading Marxist Leninism itself. Rather, it was—as Sergey Radchenko argues in To Run the World, his new, more than 600-page doorstopper on the Soviet leaders’ views during the Cold War—something far simpler, and far more universal: prestige.

That is, instead of pursuing anti-capitalist ends or even pro-communist alliances, Soviet leadership found itself propelled primarily by the pursuit of status and stature, from late Stalinism all the way through Mikhail Gorbachev’s final days.

It’s a bold reformulation of the entire Soviet standoff, and one that would be nearly unrecognizable to most of those who lived through the Cold War. But Radchenko, a history professor at Johns Hopkins University specializing in Sino-Soviet history, at least recognizes the stakes of such a reformulation.

He admits at the outset of To Run the World that his argument is a “radical new interpretation of the underlying motivations of Soviet foreign policy”—a massive, almost encyclopedic effort to slog through the sloganeering about Leninism and class warfare to get to what, at heart, motivated Soviet leadership through the apocalyptic heights and sudden denouement of the Cold War. Moscow believed “that the Soviet Union for one reason or another deserved its high perch in the global order,” Radchenko writes. “Being recognized by others as legitimately occupying this perch was a central preoccupation of Soviet foreign policy from Stalin to Gorbachev.”

There’s certainly merit to the argument, as Radchenko unflinchingly details throughout the book. The product of a decade’s worth of work translating archival material in places such as Moscow and Beijing, Radchenko’s read provides unparalleled insights into the Soviet leadership’s decision-making processes. Not only has it surpassed anything yet written, but given the archival access that Radchenko obtained—and the fact that such access has disintegrated in the face of President Vladimir Putin’s return to a totalitarian Russia—this book will also likely be the standard-bearer for years, and potentially decades, to come.

And, in many ways, rightfully so—though not necessarily for the reasons that Radchenko argued. The book advances an argument about Soviet leaders’ political motivations. But if anything, it is Radchenko’s psychological excavation of figures including Nikita Khrushchev, Leonid Brezhnev, and Gorbachev himself—their intentions, their ignorance, their ignominies—that not only separates this book from any others assessing Soviet strategy during the Cold War, but also reframes the entire Cold War itself.

Indeed, it is these potted biographies of the Soviet premiers that provide Radchenko’s most successful interventions in how the West still understands the history of the Cold War. While all three leaders have flattened into two-dimensional characters over the past few decades—Khrushchev the screw-loose screamer, Brezhnev the mildewing statesman, Gorbachev the thwarted reformer—Radchenko recreates their worlds, looking especially at how their own psychological tics structured Soviet strategy overall.

There is, for instance, the groundbreaking work Radchenko has done on unearthing Khrushchev’s decision-making in the lead-up to the Cuban missile crisis. Instead of U.S. weakness providing an opening for Khrushchev to pepper Cuba with nuclear weapons, as is popularly remembered in the West, Radchenko traces Khrushchev’s moves to a fear of a renewed U.S. invasion of the island.

And understandably so; not only was the Bay of Pigs fiasco fresh in Moscow’s minds, but American influence and infiltration of the island also had, at that point, a decadeslong pedigree. In Khrushchev’s mind, shipping nuclear weapons to Cuba was never about pressing Soviet advantages in the Caribbean—but about impeding the United States’ pending reinvasion.

And in Khrushchev’s mind, the gambit arguably succeeded. Not only did the Americans refrain from any invasion redux, but Khrushchev convinced the White House to remove its Jupiter missiles from Turkey, restoring a semblance of parity to both superpowers’ nuclear capabilities. Khrushchev’s gamesmanship may have brought the world closer to a nuclear Armageddon than ever before (and potentially after)—but, in many ways, it was a gamble that redounded to Khrushchev’s benefit, at least in the short term. (Along the way, Radchenko also makes sure to reinforce Khrushchev’s colorful, even off-kilter communication, such as when he frothed to the Albanian defense minister, “You will be spat at in the Soviet Union and you will drown in spit!”)

Of course, Khrushchev’s blush with the apocalypse hardly assured others in the Kremlin that he was the stabilizing force required for the era. An internal putsch soon placed Brezhnev in power, and his so-called Brezhnev Doctrine brought a range of the Soviet Union’s most striking victories, not least in thwarting reforms in places such as Czechoslovakia.

But it is in widening the Cold War’s aperture—moving far beyond the checkpoints in Berlin or the tanks in Prague—that makes Radchenko’s work on Brezhnev stand out. Rather than the stale, staid leader of memory, Brezhnev’s nimbleness as Soviet premier shines through in his efforts in Asia, in relations with both Beijing and Hanoi. Radchenko’s beat-by-beat navigation of Brezhnev’s tactical decisions in the region, especially as the Vietnam War began splitting open, paints the Soviet premier in a far more flattering light than he’s otherwise been remembered.

Outflanking both China and the United States, Brezhnev saw arguably his greatest strategic victory on the beaches and battlefields of South Vietnam, at least in terms of expanding Soviet interests. (Not that the Americans necessarily made it difficult; as a perplexed Brezhnev once said, “I just can’t figure it out: have the Americans become so stupid that they can’t understand that bombs will not solve the Vietnamese problem?”)

Nor is it just Brezhnev’s strategic successes that Radchenko recovers. It’s also his rote racism—and how that racism, rampant among Soviet leadership, played a role in the Sino-Soviet split. “Brezhnev’s depictions of China and the Chinese were shockingly racist,” Radchenko writes, pointing to Brezhnev’s claims that the Chinese were “treacherous,” “exceptionally sly,” and brimming with “perfidy” and “hypocrisy.” At one point, Brezhnev—who freely claimed the Soviet Union was a “European” country—claimed that Europe has the “most civilized society” in the world. Small wonder that Chinese leader Mao Zedong, in whispers behind Brezhnev’s back, would complain of Moscow’s tsarist-era annexations of swaths of traditional Chinese territory. “We have yet to settle this bill with them,” Mao menaced.

Brezhnev, of course, eventually shriveled—both physically and mentally—while the Kremlin squandered what geopolitical advantages it may have gained by its bungling into Afghanistan. By the mid-1980s, it was clear that the Soviet project was failing both within and without. Hence, the rise and reforms of Gorbachev—and, within a few years’ time, the dissolution of not only the Soviet empire, but the Soviet Union itself.

But as Radchenko retraces Gorbachev’s faltering, he also presents as useful corrective to Western remembrances of Gorbachev’s leadership and his legacy. While the former Soviet premier is broadly remembered, even celebrated, for a supposed aversion to violence, Radchenko surfaces a wealth of evidence to the contrary. While Gorbachev may have refrained from siccing tanks on protesters in Warsaw or Bucharest, he nonetheless led bloodied crackdowns on the Soviet populace itself, from Kazakhstan to Lithuania to Georgia, all in the name of shoring up the crumbling Soviet edifice.

And while he never went as far as his Chinese counterparts—not least Deng Xiaoping, who oversaw the slaughter of thousands of protesters at Tiananmen Square—Gorbachev let any pacifist mask slip when speaking about the Chinese crackdown. As Radchenko writes, when “presented with the evidence that the [Chinese] army massacred 3,000 students in Beijing, Gorbachev privately remarked: ‘We must be realists. They, like us, have to hold on. Three thousand… So what?’”

Radchenko’s interventions, be they personal or political, are all welcome, deepening our understanding of both the psychological and geopolitical contours of the Cold War. But the question remains: Was prestige really at the heart of the Soviet Union’s entire postwar project? The answer—disappointingly both for us and the book—is: It depends.

There were, to be sure, myriad instances in which prestige propelled the Kremlin’s decisions. The search for stature, the almost pathetic pleading for respect as a superpower, laces decisions ranging from Brezhnev’s calls for a Soviet-American “condominium” overseeing global affairs to Gorbachev’s at-times-unilateral push for arms reductions. But as the single force—as the central factor around which Soviet officials organized their latticework of decisions—prestige falters.

Go back, for instance, to the Cuban missile crisis mentioned above. While prestige may have played a role in Khrushchev’s initial decisions—especially when it came to wanting to be seen as the protector of nascent communist regimes in places such as Cuba—the end of the crisis illustrated that security concerns would, in the end, always trump prestige. Khrushchev ended the crisis with a clear tactical success, forcing the Americans to stand down from housing nuclear weapons in Turkey, strengthening Soviet security that much more. But the secrecy of the deal’s details meant that Khrushchev’s supposed pursuit of prestige was fatally undermined. Even Khrushchev recognized as much, with the Soviet premier “acutely aware of the blow to his global prestige,” Radchenko notes.

Or fast-forward a few decades, as the walls closed in on a flailing Gorbachev. While the final Soviet leader may have initially seen prestige as a foreign-policy motivator, by his latter years he’d clearly transformed into a figure who gave equal, if not greater, weight to regime security Cracking down on anti-regime protesters in a number of colonies agitating for independence, Gorbachev revealed himself as a leader happy to resort to violence if the Soviet Union’s internal colonies ever agitated for independence, regardless of the cost to his prestige in the West.

Still, while prestige may not be the most important tether tying the entire Soviet project together, Radchenko’s book does restore it to its proper place as one of a basket of factors undergirding Soviet decision-making.

If anything, elevating that search for prestige points the way to a far more interesting book, buried underneath Radchenko’s granular psychoanalysis. As Radchenko aptly frames, the Cold War was never one thing, catapulting one bloc against another. It was never even something you could properly boil down to capitalism versus communism. Rather, as Radchenko outlines, it’s perhaps better understood as capitalism versus communisms, with regimes such as Beijing and even Havana charting their own courses, refracting Soviet designs to pursue their own paths—and undercutting Soviet demands for prestige, and for recognition of status, in the process.

After all, arguably the single greatest Western success of the entire Cold War period—the Nixon administration’s peeling-off of China, gutting any Soviet pretensions to hegemony in Asia in the process—came as a direct result of Moscow’s pursuits of both prestige and power. Without the Soviet demands that China, as Khrushchev said, recognize the Kremlin as the “first fiddle” of the communist world, and without concomitant tensions and outright violence playing out from the Sino-Soviet border all the way down to Vietnam, Beijing never would have considered entreaties from the Americans. Thanks directly to the Soviet pretensions of superpower status, Beijing dove directly into U.S. arms.

The Soviets were, naturally, aghast at China’s lurch toward the United States. But that did little to deter Moscow from continuing to pursue the same kinds of prestige and power elsewhere—all of which, whether in the wastelands of Afghanistan or the walls in Berlin, ended up decimating not only the Kremlin’s pretensions to global status, but imploding the Soviet Union as a whole.

Khrushchev may have believed, perhaps correctly, that the Chinese were “haunted restlessly by the mania of greatness.” But it was the Soviet Union that was haunted by a search for both prestige and power—and that, in the end, ended up with neither.

[afterthegreatunknown]

sbg members headcanon regarding tattoos

has the tattoo because it was still a thing in vfd at the time:

monty (hides it with multi-colorful socks with snakes on them)

sally and gustav (hides it with neutral color socks)

snicket siblings (sometimes they hide it, sometimes they don't)

denouement triplets (pre-canon, dewey hides his with blue socks, ernest hides his with green socks, and frank dies his with red socks. by canon, they wear white socks)

josephine (hides it with dark color socks or tights. during canon, her long mourning dress helps also)

raymond 'q' quagmire (hides it with white or grey socks)

olaf (pre-opera night, he used to hide it with socks of different patterns and color combinations; he liked purple zigzags socks the most. post-opera night, he switched between white or black socks. learning the true players of the opera night had olaf forgoing socks)

beatrice (hides it with socks/tights or makeup; it depends on what she's wearing)

bertrand (hides it with socks or makeup; it depends on what he's wearing)

r (hides it with socks/tights or makeup; it depends on what she's wearing)

doesn't have tattoo for they were recruited after tattoo ban:

gregor and ike + hector (they were the first recruits to be taken after the tattoo ban. gregor would have gotten the tattoo if his parents didn't get him back [via ishmael helping out/owning d anwhistle a favor] after his first recruit lead to the real h anwhistle's death)

the future joan quagmire and her sisters alex and lindsey (they were recruited during high school because the triplets were nosy about a group of students)

esme (she got recruited in middle school because she got nosy over one of her teachers; her favorite teacher in fact)

fernald (lump sbg member born after tattoo ban; fernald for a time like the idea of having the tattoo, but by the present canon events fernald is GLAD that he doesn't)

doesn't have the tattoo, but should:

georgina orwell (doesn't see herself as part of the sbg; like that stop others saying she is. anyway, georgina when recruited did got the tattoo on her ankle. however, her parents managed to take her back during the schism, and georgina before her second recruitment removed her tattoo when she was studying to become an optometrist. the organization didn't bother to ask her to get the tattoo again on a different spot of her own free choice.)

miranda, n, and olivia (they were taken at a time when the tattoo wasn't ban. their mother having to take over caligari carnival so sudden over her brother's death -he was the previous owner- made a deal with the organization to give her children directly)

larry (was taken at the same time as r on account of getting pick up while r's recruiters snatch her up. no one really knows how larry got gloss over, but he's not complaining)

haruki [murakami] (was recruited at a time when the tattoo wasn't ban. however, the japanese branch of vfd play loose with the tattoo rules and allow exemptions if argue well. his parents won their argument)

shouldn't have the tattoo, but does:

widdershins (he joined after tattoo ban was enacted, and many saw his ankle tattoo free. as such, when his associates saw his tattooed ankle one summer day, it became a mystery that needed to be solve. hides it with navy or black shocks, or bandages he wrap around his ankle)

[ladamedusoif]

Music (Marcus Moreno x Music Teacher F!Reader)

A Merry Fic-Mas - December 5

Part of A Merry Fic-Mas: A Holiday Fic Calendar - click for masterlist. FYI: I'm having so much trouble with taglists at the moment that I'm not going to use them for now - if you want to keep updated, follow @ladameecrit and turn on notifications.

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Music Teacher F!Reader

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Fluff; intended as taking place after the events of We Can Be Heroes; one very tiny minor swear; Missy plays the trumpet; some references to Christmas carols and A Christmas Carol; yes the denouement is partly inspired by a scene in Love, Actually; no physical descriptions of reader; no use of Y/N; Marcus Moreno in a Fair Isle sweater.

Word count: 1565

Summary: Marcus Moreno is a Band Dad. You’re Missy’s music teacher and director of the junior high school orchestra. And you might have a tiny crush on a Heroic. And where better to realise that than at the holiday concert?

“Marcus. Marcus. MARCUS!”

Anita Moreno stands in the doorway of her son’s kitchen, wondering why Marcus is so oblivious to her voice as he empties the dishwasher, back turned. 

“Oh, shit!” He lets a plate fall, startled by the seemingly sudden apparition of his mother. “Hi, Mom.” Marcus removes a pair of earplugs, scoops up the broken crockery, and crosses the room to embrace Anita.

“Earplugs, mijo?”

He shrugs and points upstairs, in the general direction of his daughter Missy’s bedroom. The strains of the trumpet solo on Joy to the World float through the house.

“She’s practicing extra hard for the holiday concert in a couple of weeks. She’s really good, Mom, she’s a star soloist. But… there’s only so many times you can hear the same stuff."

Anita huffs a laugh. “Been there, done that. I was secretly very glad when you decided you didn’t want to keep up piano lessons.”

Your rehearsal with the school orchestra is winding to a close with a final run through of Carol of the Bells, when you catch a glimpse of Marcus Moreno slipping quietly into the little auditorium and taking a seat near the back. He nods towards you in recognition, and you return the gesture while continuing to conduct the musicians. 

Missy joined the orchestra a couple of months after her mother died, the camaraderie and creative outlet a useful form of therapy for a grieving child. Marcus, understandably, had been a little protective of her at first: ensuring he was there to pick her up after evening rehearsals, insisting on driving her to weekend day-long training and performance events, and always being one of the first to arrive for every show.

You had a quiet, teacherly pride in the way Missy had grown in confidence and independence since joining the group. Marcus still sometimes arrived early for pick up, settling in to hear the last piece of music at the back of the room, just like this evening. And he remained an enthusiastic “band dad”, as his Heroic colleagues teasingly called him. He’d worked closely with you on fundraising events over the years, and gladly used his public profile to boost support for programmes designed to give instruments to children otherwise unable to afford them. You had come to enjoy spending time with him, quietly thrilled whenever he would appear at rehearsal or join you at funding drives.

The final note rings out from the handbell section. Your hand signal marks the end of the piece. The teenagers begin chattering excitedly, and Marcus “Band Dad” Moreno applauds in the back row. 

You can’t help but laugh when he starts cheering “Bravo!”, sending a mortified Missy diving for cover behind her trumpet case. He swiftly walks down the aisle when he notices you struggling to fold up the portable music stands, insisting on lending a hand as you start wrangling them off stage. He makes short work of it, lifting them with little to no effort and carrying them in his strong arms.

“Sounding great, as always,” he muses, stacking the stands in the little music store room. “I’m really looking forward to the show. Missy’s been practicing every minute she gets, she’s so excited about that solo.”

“She’s a talented musician, Marcus.” You lean in conspiratorially. “Even so, I hope you have invested in those earplugs I recommended. No matter how talented she is.”

He smiles that warm, genuine smile that somehow feels like the sun coming out, even in the depths of midwinter, and leans even closer. “Two pairs, just in case. And thank you. Seriously, thank you.”

“Has anyone heard from Missy?”

Your musicians shake their heads. It’s 6.55pm, the show is due to begin at seven, and there’s no sign of your lead trumpeter. The students have been trying to contact her on every social platform they can (and that’s a lot), and you’ve left a voicemail for Marcus.

“I’m going to try her dad one more time. For now: please take your places. If she doesn’t show, we’ll just have to fudge Joy to the World.”

Your left hand twitches nervously as you pace around backstage, listening to the ringing tone on the other end of the line. The telltale click of a call going to voicemail makes your heart sink. 

“Marcus, hi, just me again. Um, we’re a little worried to have not heard from you or Missy and we hope you’re both okay. Please don’t panic and get here whenever you can, okay? But be safe. Hope you’re safe.”

As you hang up, you realise just how worried you are about them. 

Marcus is getting out of his car before it has fully come to a halt, grabbing Missy’s bags and setting off at speed in the direction of the back entrance into the auditorium when his daughter calls him back. 

“Dad! You forgot to turn off the engine?”

He swears under his breath, sprints back to the vehicle, and grabs Missy by the hand as they run into the school. 

“Do you think we’ve missed your solo? I’m so sorry, sweetheart, you know how work gets sometimes and -”

Missy thinks for a moment, listening carefully to the music coming from the auditorium as she leads her dad down the narrow backstage corridors. “No, they’re still on In the Bleak Midwinter,” she whispers in reply. “Then there’s an intermission, and then it’s Joy to the World.”

Marcus exhales in relief, but keeps up his pace. “Phew. Okay. Guess we have to wait for intermission, right? Do you feel okay? Able to go on? Not too out of breath?”

Missy pats her dad on the arm. “It’s fine, Dad. I’ve got this.”

The orchestra and vocalists file off for the short intermission and you follow close behind, mentally trying to work out how to cover up the missing solo in the second half of the show. 

And there they are. Missy, silently practicing on her silver trumpet, while Marcus, wearing a dark green sweater with a Fair Isle pattern around the yoke, stands with his arms folded and what can only be described as a look of sheer anxiety on his face.

“You’re here! You’re okay! I mean, uh… you made it!”

Marcus looks up at the sound of your voice and shrugs apologetically. “I’m so sorry, it was…work stuff, I can’t… I’m so sorry, is it still okay for Missy to perform? She’s worked so hard and -”

Instinctively, you place a reassuring hand on his forearm. He feels warm and solid under the soft yarn. 

“Breathe, Marcus. Of course she’s performing. I’m just so happy you’re both here.”

He unfolds his arms, visibly relaxing, and lightly touches your shoulder. “I’m happy we’re here, too.”

Is he…blushing?

Missy’s solo is, as expected, a triumph. She plays better than she’s ever done before, the house erupting in applause as the piece ends and she takes a special bow. 

You have a little break now from conducting duties, as the orchestra remains on stage while a couple of students from the drama club perform extracts from A Christmas Carol. You return backstage to get a drink of water, and find Marcus standing behind the black curtains serving as a backdrop, peeking through and beaming with pride and delight at his daughter.

“She’s wonderful, Marcus.” 

He nods as you stand beside him. “She is. But she has a great teacher, too. You’ve been so important to us - I mean, to her - the last few years.”

Now it’s your turn to feel heat rise through your body as you become aware of just how close you are to him, of the feelings that refuse to go away, no matter how much you try to suppress them. 

Even in the semi-darkness, you can see how he’s looking at you from behind his glasses. Warm. Kind. And…wanting?

There’s no one else around. Everyone else is either on stage or in the auditorium. 

You move closer simultaneously, leaning in and inclining your head in anticipation of what you think - hope - is about to happen. And then those big, broad hands are caressing your face and cradling it as his plush lips meet yours, his moustache a little ticklish against the soft skin of your mouth, and your arms wrap around Marcus’s broad body as his kiss intensifies.

The student acting as narrator is declaiming how Ebenezer Scrooge was a second father to Tiny Tim - who did not die - as Marcus Moreno holds you tight and kisses you. Even Dickens couldn’t top this.

And then you forget, for an instant, where you are. Marcus shifts just a little too much to the right, you move with him, and with a thundering crash the backdrop falls from the rigging to the floor, exposing the two of you wrapped around each other.

The kid playing Tiny Tim isn’t going to let anything interrupt his big moment, not even the music teacher making out with a literal superhero on stage during the big holiday concert. As the auditorium gasps, the orchestra swivels and stares, and Missy slumps forward and groans, he doesn’t miss a beat as he throws his arms wide and proclaims: “God bless us, every one!”

[kmackatie]

sleep, with benefits - chapter eleven - act five, scene two

After the noise and adrenaline of the last half an hour, the sudden calm is disconcerting. Taking just a moment for himself, Caleb tucks his head in between his knees and lets out a long, slow breath, hands fisting in his hair.

a denouement

(read from the beginning here)

Rating: Explicit Fandom: Critical Role Relationship: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widgoast Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, POV Caleb Widogast, Friends With Benefits, Platonically Sleeping Together, Romantically Sleeping Together, Sexually Sleeping Together, Literal Sleeping Together, Explicit Sexual Content, and there was only one bed, Developing Relationship, accidentally sleeping with your colleague then pretending it didn’t happen, this is a 2000s romcom filled with miscommunication and pining Words: 6,810 (of 52,071) Chapters: 11/12

[justthere01]

Time Is The Coin Of Your Life (Deleted Endings)

Written by: just_there01

Ship: König x Ghost

Chapter 22- Denouement

~~~~

'I love you'

The words echoed in König’s head and couldn’t tell if he imagined it or if he actually heard it. Looking down at Ghost, he was unable to stop himself from staring with his eyes widened. Ghost was avoiding looking at König, keeping his gaze set on the wall across the room no matter how much he wanted to look at him. König pulled away from Ghost, his arms slowly letting go as he sat up. 

“I love you.” König copied, sounding so sure of himself with a level of confidence that Ghost had never heard come from him.

Ghost wordlessly sat up and hugged König as tight as he could. He had a million things he wanted to say to König, all of them being warnings and excuses for him being hard to love. Yet, none of the words slipped past his lips. The sudden embrace startled König, but he hugged Ghost back quickly and kissed Ghost’s temple. Unknowingly he had his own things he wanted to say, just like Ghost did, but nothing was said. It was like each of their words didn’t need to be said for the other to understand, they had trauma that ran deep, deep enough to be carved in their bones. Their relationship was already hard, but it was known that it would likely just get harder and harder. Ghost was determined to be the best man he could be for König, to prove to himself that he was worthy of happiness and worthy to give happiness to another person. 

.   .   .

The room felt still, like they were on pause. König sat as still as he could, his legs outstretched beneath the table of the conference room. Across from him sat Dr. Noah, the psychiatrist, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Dr. Noah’s eyes flickered up from his papers to look at König who was currently leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed loosely across his chest. König kept his eyes set on the doctor, not missing the way Dr. Noah was squirming under his gaze. 

Dr. Noah cleared his throat, fishing out a pen from his briefcase. “We’ll start with easy questions. What is your full name?”

König sat up straight in his chair, moving to rest his crossed arms on the wooden table. “Johannes Peter Auer.” 

“How old are you?”

“27.” 

“How have you been sleeping?”

“Fine.”

“Oversleeping or undersleeping? How’s your quality of sleep?” 

König leaned forward slightly. “Eight hours each night, my sleep is good.” 

“How about your eating habits? I see they used to be inconsistent.” 

That took König off guard, he didn’t know how he got that information. “Better.”

Dr. Noah tsk-ed, clicking his pen before writing some notes down. “Are you feeling more agitated than normal?”

König was thankful that he wore his hood, using it as a physical shield from Dr. Noah from seeing his facial expressions. “No.”

“Are you feeling paranoid? Having nightmares at all?”

“No to both.” 

It became apparent to König that Dr. Noah was trying to get a rise out of him, perhaps to prove something. König wouldn’t admit it, but it was early on that he was starting to get angry. His foot tapped silently under the table as he drew his legs closer to the chair, hands finding themselves folded on his lap. Though he made sure to keep his gaze set on the man in front of him, despite the fact that Dr. Noah just sitting there pissed him off. Each question felt like it was being dragged out, or asked for the sake of incriminating him and the follow up questions weren’t any better. Dr. Noah would write on the papers in front of him after König answered a question, marking off little boxes when necessary. The questions were never ending, once König thought they were done, Noah would ask another, then another. Thankfully though, Dr. Noah took a deep breath as he gathered his papers. 

“I will hand off our encounter to the doctor, but from my findings today. I believe you are fit for continuing service.” Dr. Noah didn’t seem happy about giving König the ‘good to go’, but he had no reason to deem König unfit for duty at this moment. 

König didn’t let up his indifferent attitude or stop his staring, watching as Dr. Noah packed up his things and stuck a hand out for König to shake. Much to the doctors dismay, König didn’t shake his hand, just stared at him from his seat. Dr. Noah pulled his hand back slowly and picked his briefcase, making his way out the door. Now König sat alone and he couldn’t tell if he felt better or not, but at least he was in the clear for now. He had seen the door shut when Dr. Noah left and when it reopened, he had expected to see Ghost walk in. Much to his surprise it was Price with an unlit cigar in hand. Price walked in and gently closed the door behind him, moving to go sit beside König. Pulling a chair out, he sat down slowly. 

“How’d it go?” Price’s voice was gentle and warm, almost like he was talking to a child. 

“Good. I am good to stay in for now.” König absentmindedly picked at the skin around his nails.

Price looked down at the cigar in his hand, turning it over in his hands a few times. “I know it’s not the best time, but you have a few visitors.” 

König noticed the slightly bitter tone in Price’s voice. “Who?” 

“You’ll see. They’re in the rec room with the rest of the team.” Price reached over and patted König’s knee as he stood up. 

He had no idea who would want to visit him, his family couldn’t visit and they couldn’t leave the cafe unattended for long. He didn’t have friends outside of his team, so he had no idea who it could be. König followed Price out of the conference room and trailed behind him, with his shoulders hunched. Normally Price would try to fill the silence by telling a story or cracking a joke or two, but not now. Now they walked in silence, not a single sound coming from Price and this made König uncomfortable. Seeing someone act out of character for them was unnerving and mixing it with the fact he had visitors, made it worse. The walk was relatively short, but when they reached the rec room König could hear chatter and Price stopped him from walking in. It looked like he wanted to say something, but Price just shook his head and walked in. 

König walked through the doorway, careful to not hit his head and was met with a chime of an all too familiar voice. 

“Look who decided to join us.” 

When König looked around he saw that everyone was standing next to the table at the back of the room, likely all introducing each other and swapping stories. Everyone turned to König when he walked in, but some eyes looked to the source of the voice. It was Fender, one of his old colleagues from Kortac. Looking to Fender’s left and right, König saw Roze and Horangi. 

Price was sitting at his desk when the phone on his desk began to ring. He looked down at the caller id and against his better judgment, he answered it only to put it on speaker. “What do you want now?”

“You have something I want.”

“Now what would that be?”

“I want my soldier back. That would be König, just in case you forgot.”

“I didn’t. He’s not going anywhere unless he wants to and he wants to stay here.”

“Three of my representatives will be there in two hours and I already sent you the details. They will get on that base one way or another, so I suggest you let them in willingly or else it will get messy.”

Before Price could snap back, the line went dead with an irritating beep. Price ran his hands over his face and debated how messy it could actually get. 

“What are you doing here?” König demanded, not understanding why the hell they would willingly come onto a SpecGru base of all places. 

Roze walked around the table and over to König, reaching out to wrap her arms around him. “We came to see if you’d come back to Kortac. You’re missed over there.” 

König took a step back, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “I don’t. You can go now.” 

“We’re guests, you should be polite. Don’t you have any manners?” Another voice called out, Horangi. “How about we sit down and talk?”

The rest of the team all held different expressions: Ghost looked tense, Gaz looked sad, Roach looked angry, Soap looked pissed and Price looked defeated. No one wanted to be there watching this go down and to think about König leaving, especially after what happened. König stepped further away from Roze, not even noticing that she didn’t care. 

“I will if they stay.” König reasoned, trying to not leave much room for discussion.

Fender looked around and crossed his arms. “Fine.” 

Looking at each one of his soldiers, Price gestured for them to all go sit on the couches and let the rest of them use the table to discuss. Fender and Horangi sat down and Roze walked back to sit down as well. The last person standing was König, staying stagnant by the door. He looked over to his team, not knowing if he should go sit down or not. When he looked at Price, he saw Price giving him a soft nod. He had his answer. König dragged his feet as he made his way over to the table, grabbing a chair and pulling it out from under the table before sitting down. The three sat across from him and König sat with his back to his team, wishing it was the other way around, but now it was too late.

“König, Captain wants you back at Kortac. With us.” Horangi started, looking over at his two teammates as the words spilled out. 

“Why?” König questioned, finding that irritation had begun to form in his chest.

Roze was the next to speak. “We need you and your specialty, it’s hard to get people who do as good as you do.” 

König stayed silent, knee bouncing, his boot creating an audible thud each time it hit the linoleum. 

It took a few tense seconds, but Fender piped up. “-And we miss you. We care about you König.” 

The word vomit that came out of König was surprising to everyone including himself. “Bullshit. You do not want me or need me- you need a battering ram that can also fight. You ignored me when I was there and you were so mean. Captain was so willing to give me up and none of you cared. Not even you .” 

König looked directly at Horangi, his voice filled with a cocktail of anger and sadness, but his voice had hardly raised. The last thing he remembered before the memory loss was them playing cards, but he knew there was much more that happened afterwards. It had since come back to him not too long ago and it was just as painful as when it originally occurred. 

Horangi and König were sitting in their shared barracks room on Horangi’s bed, playing cards and drinking a stomach churning amount of liquor and beer. Earlier that day König was pulled into his Captains office and told that he would be getting reassigned to another unit with a different contracting company. He was told he was able to deny it, but in reality König knew he had no real say in the decision. 

A radio played quietly in the corner of the room and the two made mindless talk, talking about anything and everything. On occasion, their talking would settle into a few words every few minutes, but neither seemed to mind that much. During one of these lapses in conversation, König took this as an opportunity to tell Horangi what he was told earlier that day. 

“I am getting reassigned.” König started, his tone making it sound like he had more to say, but he actually didn’t.

“Okay.” Horangi shrugged it off and continued playing their game, tsk-ing when he lost the game. He looked up as he gathered their cards to shuffle. “It happens.” 

König frowned under his hood, looking down as he began to tug at a loose string on the material. “I’m leaving Kortac.” 

“Okay.” Horangi’s reply was the same, with the same uncaring and unwavering tone. 

That made leaving so much easier.

The last part of König’s little speech made Roze and Fender look over at Horangi, knowing what König meant by that. The three looked at one another, thinking back to the things they’ve said and done to König that clearly had been more impactful than they had intended. 

“You’re a grown man, deal with it.” Roze snapped, slamming a hand onto the table. 

This struck something in König that even he didn’t even know. He shot up out of his seat, his chair squeaking against the floor and clattering to the ground. His hands slammed hard onto the table, hard enough to make it shake. “Fuck you! Just leave!” 

All eyes were on him and looking around he realized his outburst was quite unnecessary. He quickly became embarrassed at losing his temper, but it wasn’t like he could take it back. 

Fender stood up calmly, pushed his chair in and stared König down. “Fine. If you change your mind, you know where to find us.” 

Fender waved for the other two to follow him out and obediently the two followed. Roze glared at König as she walked past and rolled her eyes seeing the other team. Horangi stopped when he reached König, looking up at his old friend. 

“I had to quit while I was ahead.” Horangi gave a gentle pat to König’s arm and briskly walked out of the room to catch up with the others. 

It felt like time froze after König heard those words. It meant much more to him than anyone could possibly ever know. He knew that phrase to be a reference to the quote ‘Quit while you’re ahead, all the good gamblers do.’ and it wretched König’s heart. He knew that to be Horangi’s way to not only apologize, but to say that he acted like he didn’t care because he cared too much. In the long run it saved both of them heartbreak and mourning. König was made of reality when he felt a pair of arms wrap around him, pulling him close. When he looked down he saw it was Soap, then more arms wrapped around him. It didn't take long before the team was in a group hug, attempting to squeeze the life out of König. He had already known he made the correct choice, but feeling the love and appreciation coming from his team solidified his choice even further. 

.

.

.

.

Something told him to wake up, to open his eyes and greet the world around him. As his eyes cracked open, he could feel the arms around him slowly let go. Looking around he saw that the room was dark and the strong scent of bleach hit his nose. He realized he was standing instead of laying down like he remembered being and this sent an unsettling shiver down his spine. The surface beneath his feet was solid and smooth, almost slippery. A brisk breeze hit his face and neck, making his skin prickle with goosebumps followed by shivering. Bringing his hands up he wrapped his arms around himself, using his hands to rub at his exposed skin to create some sort of warmth. Unfortunately it didn't work. When he looked around he could see the faintest outlines of objects and people around him, but they were all unmoving as if they were paused. He screwed his eyes shut as tight as he could before opening them, looking around in hopes of seeing a difference. Nothing. Even as he looked down at his own body, it seemed almost transparent. The outline of his figure formed a dim gray glow, similar to a dying out neon sign. 

Hesitantly he took a step forward, waiting for a second after his foot hit the freezing floor. When nothing happened he continued to walk, any outline he saw fizzled out only to reappear in a different spot. He tried to speak, yet no words came out. The only sound leaving his throat were guttural groans, almost sounding like a gag or like he was choking. He had felt fine, but the more he thought about it, the more he became aware that his body was tingling. Even with the tingling he could feel his lungs inflate with each breath and his heart beating steadily in his chest, but the motions felt mechanical. He tried to call out again and just like last time, no words came out. From the distance he could make out what sounded like humming. It was smooth and low, just barely loud enough for him to hear. 

All of the sudden he was surrounded by the sound of clattering metal, the sound making him cringe. Searing pain bloomed over his body and heat followed the traveling pain. His head began to spin and nausea bubbled in his stomach, his lungs sucking in short insufficient breaths. Dropping to his knees he felt like he was going to throw up and all he could do was dry heave. The pain traveled into his chest, ruthlessly spreading up his neck into his head. His hands shot up to his watering eyes to cover them as the sensation of his eyes bulging accompanied the pain. He swore his eyes were about to pop out of his head and under his hands he could feel his flowing tears.

His heart was pounding in his ears and a scream tore out of his throat, honestly surprising himself. The pain he was experiencing was the worst pain he had ever experienced and all he wanted was for it to end. The clattering metal surrounded him again, but a stampede of footsteps followed. He could feel hands grab at him and maneuver him to their liking, but as he swatted them away he realized nothing was there. Loud voices shouted in his ears, the voices coming in and out of being coherent. The feeling persisted and he could feel something cold being stuck against his chest. Then he heard a countdown from three, when they reached one and somehow the pain grew worse. He felt like he was being electrocuted, it felt like his organs were melting and his skin was burning. He tried to breathe through the pain, but it grew difficult, only able to suck in short breaths that sounded like hiccups. He was growing so tired, his eyes feeling heavy and he wanted to sleep. 

Just as he closed his eyes, accepting his fate of probable death, his eyes and mouth were forced open. He felt a hand reach into his mouth and pull something out, making him gag hard enough to cough. A bright light shone into his eyes when he blinked, he saw everything. His body was still in so much pain, his skin burning and even a thin layer of sweat layered his skin. 

Hovering over him were three blurry figures, but two of them knew and the last one he had no clue. Feeling a soft pat on his shoulder, he heard a voice he never thought he'd be so happy to hear. 

"Ghost-" 

"Simon!" 

His name was called by one person, none other than Captain John Price. Ghost looked up at Price as best as he could, but the tired feeling hadn't left and it was weighing him down. 

"König." His voice was faint, but hoarse and the vowels were barely coming out. His voice was drowned out by the chorus of beeping monitors surrounding him.

"Sir, I'm glad you're awake. We thought you were..you know." 

At a glacial pace Ghost drifted his eyes over towards the other voice, it was much gentler than Prices and it came from one of his closest friends. Roach. The third person had looked at the two, eyeing them as their own face remained stoic. They stepped away from Ghost and turned, shuffling over to what Ghost presumed was the entrance.

"I'll be back." They said and quickly disappeared. 

Ghost hadn't realized he was trembling until he felt a hand lightly pat his shoulder and he turned his attention back to Price. 

"You're in a field hospital, the mission went sour and you were one of the few casualties. You're a lucky one, honestly." Price started, pulling his hand away and reaching past Ghost’s head. 

He plucked a surgical mask out of the box mounted on the wall and carefully placed it on Ghost’s face, hooking the ear loops behind his ears. With the same amount of gentleness, he bent the metal at the top of the mask so it fit properly.

Ghost must have been visibly upset because he felt Roach reach down and grab his hand, giving a firm squeeze. “Where’s König?” 

His throat hurt and his voice remained almost nonexistent, but the confused looks on both of his friends' faces told him that they heard him. Roach was the first to look away and Price looked away soon after, the two looking over at one another, giving each other questioning looks. 

Roach squeezed Ghost’s hand again. “Who is that?”

Ghost looked over to Price, his eyes wide and he tried to sit up. 

“Ghost, who is König? We don’t know who that is. I’m sorry.” Price glanced away, looking at the monitors to see the numbers quickly rising. When he looked back he pushed Ghost back down, giving a look over to Roach.

Tears welled up in Ghost’s eyes and his already sore throat formed a lump, a deep ache settling in his chest and it wasn’t from his injuries. He shook his head and tore his hand away from Roach. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don't cry. There was no chance that he imagined it all, making up everything that him and König had. It just simply didn’t make sense…it was impossible. No matter how many times he chanted to himself to not cry in his mind, he couldn’t stop the tears. Ghost turned his head and covered his face with his hands, face flushing red as he cried his heart out. He had lost König once and now he lost him again, he didn’t know why he was so heartbroken over a dream. 

The room froze as Ghost’s stifled sobs echoed around the room, his body shaking with each sob and shuddered breath. The sun hid behind the clouds, hiding away the light in shame. The ground beneath growing dim and the pale blue sky shifted to gray. In the distance the clouds were charcoal gray, the sound of thunder rumbling and lightening recklessly striking the earth. The numbers on the monitor he was connected to kept rising until the machine began to beep loudly, a red flashing light going off above it. Just like before there was a herd of footsteps with chimes of chatter as his room flooded with people in scrubs and white coats. 

 

Now when he had fallen asleep, Ghost couldn’t tell you. When his eyes finally opened again, what he saw made him think he was dreaming. The room was dimly lit with only half of the room lights on and the window curtains drawn shut. At the foot of the bed he saw a cart with little baskets full of wound management supplies and other various medical tools. To his left he heard familiar humming, soon he realized it was the same low hum he had heard while he was asleep. Lazily his gaze drifted over to the source of the humming and his heart broke all over again. On his left, sitting on a rolling stool, was the most beautiful man ever. The man was rewrapping his wounds and changing his IV site, paying Ghost no mind. Even through the nitrile gloves, Ghost could feel the warmth of the man’s gentle hands. 

“...König?” Ghost called out, unable to stop his voice from cracking. 

The man looked up with a slight smile, giving a soft nod. “I’m surprised you remember.” 

Ghost’s body felt heavy and he felt like he could drift asleep again at any second. “What are you doing here?” 

König shrugged. “I work here.” His tone was lighthearted and his accent just like how Ghost remembered it to be, his face just as beautiful as he knew it to be.

“I mean- you used to be a soldier- why are you…” 

“I’m a nurse now...” König didn’t seem to mind that his previously unconscious patient was now speaking coherently to him about him.  

Much too soon, König was done with his wound care and began packing up. Ghost carefully watched, making an attempt to reach out for König, but he was out of reach. So he waited to speak until König was about to walk out the door, the cart half out into the hallway already.

“Will I see you again?” Ghost asked sadly, hands squeezing the thin hospital blanket that was draped over him. 

With a crooked smile that Ghost used to love, König turned to look at Ghost. “Anything for you.” 

König left after that, silently shutting the door behind him, leaving Ghost alone in the hospital room. He really was alone.

 

Then that was the end, right?

[thewiddershinsme]

Finished A Curse for True Love!!!

-so Castor has a thing for LaLa? Did he like her before becoming Chaos or is it something that’s grown over the centuries? I dunno, still feels like more of the Unwed Bride’s curse: she had an epic romance with a dragon shifter which ultimately torpedoed any other chance she has at love for centuries. When she is finally able to be with said dragon shifter, curse steps in again with hesitancy and *gasp* sudden tension with his brother.

-I. LOATHE. AURORA. She is the Big Bad of this series. SHE IS THE REASON THAT JACKS HAS HIS FATAL KISS. It had nothing to do with him becoming a Fate. SHE IS THE REASON HE KILLED THE FOXGIRL. There is no redemption, and she got off way too easy. I wanted retribution.

-wow that put a whole new spin on Tella/Jacks. Tella was immune not because she is his true love, but because she would never love him. That was a good twist.

-omg their first kiss was perfect. Starting so gentle and becoming passionate as Jacks realized the curse was broken. Would’ve liked a tad more reasoning on why the curse was broken (from what I understand it’s cause Jacks let himself also hope and love, and not just the girl) but that’s the soft fairytale true love magic system working

-Evangeline still has one broken heart scar left. I thought it would disappear after their kiss (cause the person Jacks had always truly wanted her to kiss was himself). However their deal is forever unresolved and it bugs me as a loose thread that could’ve been circled back to somehow

-Apollo brought about his own demise completely on his own. Fitting. And Wolfric definitely saw that coming.

-it was a good ending, if a bit abrupt (I like slow denouements personally). Evangeline and Jacks have their happily ever after (mostly?) and if feels like they went through enough to get there. There are a lot of characters I feel like just sorta disappeared with no mention on whatever happened to them (Marisol? Luc? Tiberius?) and other things I feel like may be set ups for future books (LaLa/Chaos, Knightlinger, the other Valor kids).

-I say a maybe happily ever after, cause the epilogue confirms Jacks is still “not quite human”, so does that mean he’s still a Fate and ageless? So he’ll be an almost immortal while Evangeline ages and dies? I never feel that’s a real happy ending, which is why (like with Tella and Legend) I want to know the rules regarding love and immortality and agelessness so all these couples can live and grow old together.

-I am low key disappointed it was never revealed Evangeline was somehow Foxgirl. I really liked The Ballad of the Archer and the Fox story (even before it was revealed that Jacks was the Archer) and wanted them to have a happy ending :/ And we never saw Jacks as the Archer shoot anything!

-from Jacks’s response I think the apples are a way to distract himself from kissing. Bet that would be fun to note on a reread.

-I really liked this series. It’s peak romantasy for anyone who loves the vibes and aesthetics and storytelling of fairy tales played both straight and subverted. I personally enjoyed it more than the Caraval series, but would 100% recommend reading the Caraval series first. Of the three, I liked The Ballad of Never After the most, it had the most going on plus some of the most romantic moments (especially that ending!) I would definitely pick up another book set in this universe, and intend to read Spectacular eventually (though it seems more of a fluffy holiday short story based on the synopsis…unless Tella’s gift to Legend is revealing her pregnancy, and this springboards a new series about their daughter…)

-Evangeline/Jacks are currently winning favorite fictional couple of the year. Theirs was a very romantic story, I’m all in for the guys that would do anything to keep their girl safe. And I just loved Evangeline and her hope and optimism.

[acacia-may]

To See The Invisible [ASOUE Dewey x Kit Meet-Cute Fic]

Description: Dewey Denouement has resigned himself to living the life of an invisible man, until one day he meets someone who actually sees him...

Relationships: Dewey Denouement and Kit Snicket

Characters: Dewey Denouement (POV Character) and Kit Snicket. (Frank & Ernest are mentioned)

Genre: Meet-Cute, Slice of Life, Developing Relationships, Tea, Pre-Series.

Word Count: 3075

Rating: G. No Content Warnings.

Link to original post on AO3. Thank you for reading!

A/N: I wrote this literal years ago and completely forgot about it until I found the file on my computer recently. I cleaned it up a little bit and decided to post it since I love this pairing. Cheers!!💕

"Excuse me? Excuse me?" called a crisp clear voice. Dewey stopped winding the clock abruptly and tried to hang from his rope without making any sudden movements as not to be noticed. He sighed almost laughing at himself for his foolishness. He was not being spoken to—no one ever spoke to him. He was invisible.

"Excuse me," called the voice again, a woman's voice reverberating off the walls in the dome of the Hotel Denouement’s lobby. Dewey sighed. She must be calling to him mistaking him for one of his brothers.

"Yes, ma’am?" he called down to her—his quiet voice echoing through the dome so he sounded much louder than he actually was. He supposed that was for the best seeing as he was more soft-spoken than Frank and Ernest.

"I don't mean to bother you, but I was wondering if you could help me...?"

"Certainly,” answered Dewey with a slight smile. As he began his climb down the rope which he unraveled as he went, he thought long and hard about which brother she probably thought he was. He hoped it was Frank. He was much easier for Dewey to imitate.

"What were you doing up there?" she asked as Dewey reached the bottom of the rope, and he finally caught a glance of the woman whom had spoken to him. It was merely long enough to see that she was very beautiful, enough to make him blush and stare at her feet, her little black shoes that probably made clip-clopping sounds as she walked shrouded by a long black coat which billowed to the floor.

"Tending the clocks," he answered honestly though he stared very intently at the rope he was tying up as he spoke, both out of shyness and worry that were she to look squarely into his face she would see he was neither Frank nor Ernest as she had thought. This was an irrational fear of course as he and his brothers were absolutely identical. So much so that even their own parents as much as he could remember them had had difficulty telling the triplets apart.

"You do that?" she asked, and Dewey’s brow furrowed. Was she surprised because Frank seemed too busy tending to guests to tend to a clock or because Ernest seemed too pretentious to care about something as mundane as one? Or was it simply because she didn't know if Hotel Managers in general tended to the clocks in their hotels themselves?

Not entirely sure which question she was really asking Dewey simply answered, "Yes"  still rolling his rope.

"Is it difficult?"

Dewey shrugged his shoulders. "Not really. I’m used to it." And he certainly was. He had been caring for the clock at Hotel Denouement since it had been built.

There was a slight pause, and Dewey wondered what the woman must be thinking though he did not turn to look her. It was almost as if he couldn’t. Then he remembered that she had requested assistance and was probably wondering why he wasn't offering her any.

"What can I do for you?" he asked at last with kind concern in Frank's cadence as he put his rope into his suit pocket. He decided to be Frank until she explicitly implied she thought he was Ernest.

"Oh... well I was wondering if you could tell me where in this hotel would one find a cup of tea at this hour?"

"Well…” Dewey hummed thoughtfully. “The tea room in room 395 is closed, but there is a big supply closet full of tea in room 959. You're welcome to use it and the kitchen in room 641 which is always open to guests."

"I'll never learn all those numbers, no matter how many times I stay here..." she replied with a rather disgruntled sigh. "And I consider myself very well read and comfortable finding my way around libraries."

A smile tugged at Dewey’s mouth. It was rare he had met a guest who fully understood the hotel was organized like a giant library.

"Don't worry," he reassured kindly staring at the front desk over the woman's shoulder still much too shy to look at her. He wanted to ask her if she came to the Hotel Denouement often, but he simply said, "That is what we are here for."

The woman chuckled. "Surely you have to rest sometime...do you ever sleep?" Dewey nodded blushing slightly, and his companion let out a brief, breathy chortle. "I suppose most guests don't need help at 2 in the morning."

Now Dewey chuckled himself, neglecting to mention that he was usually always up at that hour to tend the clock when it was the least likely he would be seen.

"It's alright. I like being helpful..." Dewey mentally kicked himself. Not only was that an incredibly pathetic thing to say, but it didn't sound like either of his brothers. Maybe it could pass as Frank, Dewey thought, if you squinted and stood on your head... He let out a long heavy sigh. Hopefully, she wasn't paying too much attention.

After a long, heavy pause, Dewey's hands began to tremble nervously. Maybe she was onto him…

Dewey twisted his long spindly fingers together as he tried to fill the silence and defer attention away from himself the only way he knew how. "I can tell you how all those things are categorized though if you'd like...in case you ever need tea in the middle of the night again and can't find someone to direct you...um..." he stammered in a quiet voice shuffling his feet. "As I'm sure you know, the tea room is in 395 for Etiquette..."

Dewey felt a lump in his throat as began to sweat. He could feel the young lady move closer towards him. "And um..." he murmured nervously pulling on his collar still trying not to look at her for fear the sight would render him catatonic. "959 is Southeast Asia... and um..." His voice cracked, and his cheeks burned—far too aware of how incredibly close she was to him now. He swallowed hard. "And 641 is for...for... food and drink." He finished as quickly as he could—praying that his face was not nearly as red as he feared.

The silence which followed was so long that if he could not still see the shiny tips of her shoes he would have sworn the woman had left. He could not help his curiosity any longer and at last he looked up into the woman's face. She really was beautiful, with soft, gentle features and long blonde hair pulled up with what appeared to be two pencils. He evaded her warm eyes though he could see the metal rims of her glasses.

Her brow furrowed, and the expression on her face looked troubled and confused as she asked, "Who are you?"

Dewey inhaled sharply—unprepared for such a question. He had never been asked it before. Most guests just assumed he was either Frank or Ernest, and if they weren’t sure,  they would ask which of the two he was—his answer to which was more often than not Frank. However, somehow he knew that this was not what she was asking.

"I am a manager of this hotel," he answered carefully, thoughtfully. It was the safest response that came to mind at the moment, and he could only hope it would be adequate enough. He paused—listening to the clip clop of her shoes as she came even closer towards him and stared questioningly at the letters printed above the pocket on his uniform that read "Manager." Despite his best attempts to evade her gaze, he met her eyes on accident. They were warm, inquisitive, and seemed to see right through him in a way that made Dewey shiver. He turned away abruptly with flaming cheeks.

"I didn't know Hotel Denouement had three managers," she said dryly. Dewey inhaled sharply trying not to gasp, but he cleared his throat—tried his best to calm himself.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean..."

She tilted her head at him. "Well you're not Frank or Ernest..."

"What? What makes you say that?" He mentally kicked himself for the hitch in his voice as he tried his best to remain aloof and nonchalant , but the woman merely laughed. "I'll have you know that I'm..."

"You're what?" she asked, the slightest smile twitching in the corners of her mouth. "Do you want me to pretend you're Frank or Ernest?"

"But I am..." he faltered far more helplessly than he cared to admit.

The woman’s brow furrowed, and she was about to say something more. Dewey inhaled sharply, steeled himself for further questioning when her expression softened. "I'm sorry. I must have been mistaken," she said though the look in her eyes was pointed, knowing. "I apologize. I have enjoyed my stay at your hotel. It is a very nice and safe place if I do say so myself, and it's so peaceful as if..."—she paused—"the world is quiet here."

Dewey could almost feel the intensity of her gaze on him as if trying to decipher his response as she added, "But I didn't realize this was a sad occasion..."

"The world is quiet here," Dewey answered meeting the young woman's eyes as she shifted a bit on her feet—the bottom of her coat twirling until Dewey caught sight of an eye tattoo on her left ankle identical to the one on his own. A smile twitched in the corners of his mouth, and he offered her an understanding nod.

"So Frank or Ernest," she asked, with a somewhat wry smile. "If you weren't Ernest or Frank who would you be?"

Dewey pursed his lips together, thoughtfully considering her question before he whispered, "Their brother.”

The woman seemed to let out an almost inaudible gasp, but she covered it up well with a light chuckle. "That would really be something—having three identical brothers in one family. How would anyone ever tell you apart?"

"No one could. Well...until..." Dewey paused and blushed, but she seemed to gather his meaning as a smile twitched in the corners of her mouth.

"Some people just have a sense for those kind of things,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. “And if I did, my name would be Kit. Kit Snicket." Dewey smiled. Kit Snicket. What a lovely name he thought to himself, blushing as he did. "And what would your name be, if it wasn't Frank or Ernest?"

"Dewey," he almost whispered—his pale face the lightest shade of rose.

"Like the Dewey Decimal System? How appropriate..." she bantered dryly, but her face softened. "I like it..." As she met his eyes, Dewey blushed, but Kit just smiled. "I imagine you'd have to be pretty fond of libraries with a name like that."

"There'd be nothing better in the entire world," he sighed wistfully.

"I did part of my apprenticeship in a library. It was very nice while it lasted.” She sighed. “Sadly, as you can see I was not there nearly long enough to memorize the entire Dewey Decimal System."

"That's alright.”  

"Easy for you to say,” she teased. “You're practically a librarian."

As a blush filled his cheeks, Dewey chuckled sheepishly. "Thank you. I always wanted to be a librarian."

Kit quirked an eyebrow at him questioningly. "So is that your job then? Cataloging the hotel and working behind the scenes?"

Dewey shrugged. "I don't mind working behind the scenes. There are others..."—Dewey paused, thinking of his brothers' in whose shadows he had lived his who life. "who are much better at helping than I am." His gaze fluttered to the ground, and he swallowed hard—fidgeting under her gaze, hoping he wasn’t so transparent.

"I do like to help people too...," he hurriedly added. "just in different ways..." He didn't add ‘because I’m painfully shy and people have always made me nervous,’ even if that was the truth. He sighed. He knew his work was important too, even if it was a secret, but he could only imagine how foolish he must sound. After all, helping guests was his brothers' job. How could he help anyone if no one even knew him?  

"Well, the world needs all kinds of people to volunteer to help," Kit reassured him. "And I think you're the perfect person to help me find a nice cup of tea..."

"You...you want me to come with you?" he stammered incredulously.

"Only if you wouldn't mind—since you know where it is," chuckled Kit, and Dewey flushed—mentally kicking himself. Why had he taken it so personally? Of course she wanted him to come with her. She had asked for directions and needed a hotel manager to show her the way to go. "I'm sorry," she said. "I suppose you don't have many guests asking for tea at 2 in the morning."

"That's alright," reassured Dewey. “I…We’re always happy to help.”

Kit smiled. "Do you like tea?"

"Yes. Do you?" He shut his eyes tightly—resisting the urge to smack his palm to his forehead at the ridiculousness of that question. Why was this so difficult?

Kit, however, just laughed. “Yes, I like tea." Her face lit up with a bright smile when she siad it, and Dewey’s eyes widened—his face feeling suddenly warm at the thought: she was so beautiful when she smiled. "But I only like it as long as there isn’t anything in it,” Kit continued. “Tea should be as bitter as wormwood and as sharp as a two-edged sword."

Dewey’s brow furrowed. He, unfortunately, didn’t know much about tea, and often took honey in his, still he replied, "I'm not sure what kind of tea we have in room 959, but I will try my best."

He paused—reaching to press the button on wall by the elevator under the number 118. "Room 959 is directly across from the elevator on the 9th floor. I can stop at the 6th floor on the way up to show you where room 641 is. If that's alright?"

Kit tilted her head. "Or you could just join me for tea, if you wanted…?”

Dewey could have choked. He tried to answer her, but his mouth was painfully dry—any words he could have said getting caught and garbled in the back of his throat.

"Since you're walking all the way there anyway," Kit added with a shrug.  “I know you are busy, but it would be nice to have your company for tea."

"My…my company?" he stumbled as his cheeks burned.

"Yes. Maybe you could teach me the Dewey Decimal System."

Dewey stared at the ground and bit down hard on his lip. Was she making fun of him?

"Uh…Um..." he choked not quite knowing what to say. He had never had tea with anybody before. In fact, he rarely talked to anybody. Most people did not even know he existed, after all. He was always just “Frank” or “Ernest.” At this thought his face fell, and he swallowed hard. "I don't think I can...er...should..." he sighed. "I think you have me confused with someone else."

Kit's brow furrowed. "Oh? And who are you then?"

The word escaped before he could even think to stop it. "Invisible."

A thick silence quickly enveloped the room. Dewey stared at the intently ground, listening to Kit shuffling; however, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

When he finally looked up at her, he met her warm eyes, and she recited very seriously, "I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me." Dewey knew she was quoting the words of their associate, but they seemed to cut right through him. Time seemed to stop as she stared at him, and his breath got caught in his throat as she leaned forward and whispered almost directly into his ear—her warm breath brushing up against his neck, "I see you..."

Ding! The sound of the arriving elevator rang through the lobby. Dewey blushed furiously as Kit pulled away from him stepping through the open doors—her shoes clip-clopping and her long coat swaying revealing the tattoo on her ankle as she walked.

"I suppose I can find my own way if you need to get back to work," she said as she pressed the button for the 9th floor.

Dewey was too stunned to say or do anything. His mind swirled with thoughts and questions. The only thing he knew for sure was for the first time in his life he was not invisible to someone, and he knew then that no matter what happened next, he couldn’t just stand there and watch her walk away. His feet seemed to move on his own as he practically dove towards the closing elevator. Strangely enough, a hand reached out just at that moment to stop the closing door. Kit nearly ran directly into him as she began to step back into the lobby. Dewey swallowed hard—his heart pounding from how close she was to him, and even Kit flushed—glancing at the ground and sheepishly pushing a strand of her hair out of her face.

 "Oh...um...sorry..." she tripped over an apology, but Dewey could only nod—too far too mortified to form any words. "What does 118 stand for? Elevators?" She paused, fidgeting with a slight chuckle. "It was going to bother me. I had to know."

A smile tugged at Dewey’s mouth as he chuckled lightly, holding the elevator door for her and following her inside. "Force and Motion,” he explained as he took a place by her side.

The elevator doors finally slid closed, and a wide, bright smile spread across Dewey’s face as he turned to face his companion, practically beaming at her. Kit stared up at him with warm, inquisitive eyes, but she tilted her head at him curiously. Dewey fidgeted. “What? Does that…not make sense?”

“No, uh…” Kit began to reply. “It’s just...I was thinking…” She paused—biting her bottom lip as if thoughtfully considering what to say, but a smile seemed to tug at her mouth in spite of herself. Something gentle, kind and—dare he even hope—somewhat affectionate passed over her face as she said, "You don't smile like your brothers, Dewey."

[richincolor]

Group Discussion: The Shadow Sister

Lily Meade’s debut novel was highly anticipated novel about sisters, missing girls, and some sort of curse. The perfect summer read and a perfect discussion book for us! 

Publisher’s Summary: Sutton going missing is the worst thing to happen to Casey, to their family. She’s trying to help find her sister, but Casey is furious. And she can’t tell anyone about their argument before Sutton disappeared. Everyone paints a picture of Sutton’s perfection: the popular cheerleader with an entourage of friends, a doting boyfriend, and a limitless future. But Sutton manipulated everyone around her, even stole an heirloom bracelet from Casey. People don’t look for missing Black girls--or half-Black girls--without believing there is an angel to be saved.

When Sutton reappears, Casey knows she should be relieved. Except Sutton isn’t the same. She remembers nothing about while she was gone—or anything from her old life, including how she made Casey miserable. There’s something unsettling about the way she wants to spend time with Casey, the way she hums and watches her goldfish swim for hours.

What happened to Sutton? The more Casey starts uncovering her sister’s secrets, the more questions she has. Did she really know her sister? Why is no one talking about the other girls who have gone missing in their area? And what will it take to uncover the truth?

 Warning! Spoilers ahead!

What did you think of the book overall? 

K. Imani: I’m really not trying to spoil anything but when I reached the end of the novel I was confused because it just…ended. I was like “where is the rest of it?” I was thrown because I was really enjoying the novel, the relationships between Casey and Sutton, the mystery, etc and wasn’t ready to leave their world. I felt that there were so many layers to this story, so much more that could be explored, that this could have been a very powerful novel. 

Crystal: I too was left shaking my head a bit at the end. It resolved all of a sudden, but we didn’t get to see a lot of the relationship development, healing, or growth that I was hoping for after the trauma. There was a lot more we could have seen and it left me wondering if it was meant to have a sequel. Overall though, I enjoyed it and really appreciated the relationships. 

Audrey: I liked it quite a bit! It’s rather difficult to talk about the ending without giving major spoilers, so what I’ll say is that I calibrated my genre expectations away from the true crime/mystery end of the genre spectrum fairly early on in the novel. (In other words, I started suspecting we’d have an open, ambiguous, or even downer ending.) With that framework in mind, I feel like the ending worked for the genres in play, and while I might have enjoyed a longer denouement, it wasn’t necessary. THE SHADOW SISTER was the kind of book that needed to end on a striking set piece after all the previous build up, and I think it was a solid way to finish. 

Jessica: Not to echo everyone, but I totally feel that and agree with you all! The story was so compelling that it definitely left me wanting more at the end. At the same time, I can completely see what Audrey is saying about calibrating genre expectations and how the build-up led necessarily to that particular ending. It certainly made me excited to read more from Meade! 

I know we all have sisters and the overarching theme of this novel was Casey’s and Sutton’s relationship. In what way or ways did the portrayal of their relationship sit with you?

K. Imani: My sister and I are close in age much like Casey and Sutton and it reminded me of our teenage years where we did most of our fighting. As friendships became more important we drifted a bit and that was the source of our tension and I saw much of that reflected in Casey and Sutton’s relationship. I feel it was further added by the way their mother showed her preference for Sutton because she was lighter than Casey (but that is a whole other conversation). For me though, despite their antagonizing relationship, there was still love there. Casey was very gentle with her strange sister and worried about her recovery. I like that Meade included some chapters from Sutton’s POV because it gave us a more complete version of their relationship and showed that there was a chance that if they just communicated better they could become close again. 

Crystal: Family relationships can be incredibly complex in spite of sharing genes, surroundings, events, and so much. It has always boggled my mind a bit how even in the same home, my sister and I have such different world views and ways of interacting with others. With Casey and Sutton we see this play out. Sometimes it takes distance to see someone more clearly. Here they have had a trauma, but also some space and time to give them some perspective. Casey definitely believes that she knows Sutton, but it is fascinating to watch Casey begin to understand her sister in a different way. I appreciated this, but especially at the end I wished for a little more from Sutton’s perspective.

Audrey: One of the things that struck me was how quickly and angrily I was on Casey’s side at the start of the novel—and then how that anger slowly drained away as we got more Sutton POV chapters and went further back into the past to see what was happening on the other side of their sisterly relationship and how it had changed. It was—eerie, unnerving, how Sutton returned basically a stranger, and how much Casey didn’t know how to deal with that. Watching their new relationship form in the shadow of their previous animosity was really interesting to me.

Jessica: Sutton’s POV chapters were so important! It was honestly incredible to feel my own perception of the situation shift as I kept reading and the story unfolded. I’m quite close with my sister and we haven’t ever had an antagonistic relationship, so this was actually quite a change of pace for me. But the complex ties of family certainly resonated with me – and agree – there was love there. 

Casey is sometimes very unlikeable and is an unreliable narrator. How did her version of events between her and Sutton affect your reading?

K. Imani: Having Casey be both at times unlikeable and also unreliable is what drew me to her. Her feelings towards her sister greatly clouded her reaction to when her sister returned and why she was so suspicious in the first place. Her parents and others didn’t see it, but this version of Sutton that Casey had in her head is what drove the story forward. The conflict that Casey carried by being both moved and repulsed by her sister really showed the complexities of their relationship and ultimately led to the truth being revealed.  

Crystal: Perhaps this speaks to the often rocky childhood relationship I had with my younger sister, but I found Casey to be believable and related with her quite a bit. My sister and I were very antagonistic in our younger years and only as adults began to see each other without so much blocking our vision of each other. I was surprised to see the word unlikeable in the question so maybe I connected to her a little too much. 

Audrey: With Casey as the narrator, it was really easy to be on her side because she had such a flat view of Sutton at the start. On a meta level, I kept circling back to the idea that Casey only started to question her own perception of her sister once Sutton was—well, very obviously not herself anymore from everyone’s POV, including hers. Her own uncertainty about what she knew about Sutton was complicated by the fact that she had seen other sides to Sutton that no one else had or would admit to (the fighting, the cruelty). And even though I loved the Sutton POV chapters for how they revealed things, I’m not sure that Sutton was any more of a reliable narrator than Casey when it came to their relationship. I really liked that ambiguity and uncertainty in the story—it drove a lot of tension and suspenseful moments.

Jessica: I loved the nuance and complexity layered into the characterization of the sisters! I have a soft spot for characters who are unreliable narrators and imperfect people (aren’t we all?). It was so fascinating to see how Casey and Sutton evolved throughout the story. And I love drilling in on the whole idea of, well, the idea of someone. That the perception of who someone is that we build up in our head may not be accurate. So relevant and haunting!

The theme of family is strong in this novel, especially with Casey’s father being a historian and researching their family’s history. What part of Casey’s family story stuck with you the most?

K. Imani: I absolutely loved how Casey’s grandmother, Ma Remy, went about getting her family artifacts from the museum. I was so angry for her that the museum initially denied access to her own family documents that she had to go to extremes to getting it back. The way she snuck in to the reenactment  and no one noticed…I laughed. Typical of people who say they mean well, but are just as racist. I thought her plan was genius and the fact that Casey’s father was embarrassed by it unnerved me. I got a sense of the force of the woman that Casey’s grandmother was from that one story alone and loved her for it. 

Crystal: That sense of history and being connected through the years stuck with me. And yes, I loved Ma Remy and how she reclaimed their property.  Also, she was so great at managing to make both Sutton and Casey feel special. They both had a strong bond with her that lasted beyond life. Her deep love for family and connection is passed down through the generations. It was also a hoot to see that her diary included a bit about her love life. 

Jessica: I loved Casey’s grandmother! She really made such an impactful impression from that one story. Not to jump on board with you all, but she really stuck with me. Co-sign! 

Audrey: Agreed, with all of you, plus I liked how the family history theme connected to the climax of the story and made that particular ending possible. Being able to learn about and claim your family history had power, and it was a delight to watch how that played out. It also gave hope to the idea that Casey and Sutton could reconcile someday, which was important to me as a reader.

Casey and Sutton’s mom was adamant about creating a perfect vision of Sutton so the police and the community would look for her because she is biracial. The story also contrasts this with mentioning the other two missing Black Girls. 

K. Imani: I’m so glad this theme was prevalent in the story. Initially I was irritated that Casey and Sutton’s mom felt like they had to pretend Sutton was the perfect child, but I appreciated that the story focused on this theme because when Black girls go missing, it seems that society will only help out those whom they deem “perfect”. Showing the traumatic toll this takes on a family and highlighting how police treat missing Black girls really showed the injustice in our society. 

Crystal: This was an important point that I too am glad was in the story. It shouldn’t be an angle that families need to focus on when they are trying to find their loved one, but that’s still where we are and the author acknowledges it openly. 

Jessica: So glad you bring this up. Seeing the pain and the injustice in the book, and what Casey and Sutton’s mom felt like she had to do, really hit home. And as Crystal points out, this has been an ongoing issue in current events – and of course, past events. It’s so important that there are books like The Shadow Sister to highlight this terrible discrepancy to readers who might not be aware of it, and to acknowledge readers who are. 

Audrey: Honestly, that plot line hurt, but I’m glad it was tackled upfront. The scene where Casey tried to look up information online about the other missing girls was heartbreaking, especially how she had to keep refining her search terms and still found barely anything. I couldn’t help but think at the end that so many other Black girls could have gone missing if Sutton hadn’t been taken when she did—she was lucky her family was in such a position that they could get that media coverage. But even after the media coverage for Sutton, that didn’t change the narrative for any of the other missing girls, which was awful to see.

Stories about sibling relationships (found siblings count!) are major themes in many YA novels. What are some of your favorite books and what book about siblings are you looking forward to?

 K. Imani: I just finished reading My Week with Him by Joya Goffney which has a sweet sibling relationship (look for my review next week!). Brandy Colbert also writes siblings really well and I’m so looking forward to reading her newest book, The Blackwoods, which comes out in October. 

Crystal: Warrior Girl Unearthed by Angeline Boulley, So Many Beginnings: A Little Women Remix by Bethany C. Morrow and Yolk by Mary H.K. Choi are some of the more recent books I’ve read that feature sister relationships. I think the sibling book I’m most looking forward to is Her Radiant Curse by Elizabeth Lim. 

Jessica: Everyone Wants to Know by Kelly Loy Gilbert is a book centered around a family that I read recently and loved! I need to read My Week with Him and Her Radiant Curse – so those are on my TBR. 

Audrey: Good question! I loved the sisters in She is a Haunting by Trang Thanh Tran and the sworn sisters in Strike the Zither by Joan He. 

That’s our discussion. Have you read The Shadow Sister yet? What did you think? Share your thoughts in the comments. 

[prospectivehero]

THE LAST RONIN - Written by Kevin Eastman, Peter Laird, and Tom Waltz, Illustrated by Kevin Eastman, Esau & Isaak Escorza, Ben Bishop, and Luis Antonio Delgado

Holy guacamole on French toast, Batman. This comic had me feeling so many things. All of those things resulted in tears. I was crying through most of this comic, and I'm crying now as I type this analysis. This will be more spoilery than others, only because I talk about the identity of the Last Ronin. The story doesn't hide this information for too long, but it's only fair to warn you.

This story begins following a no-longer-teenage, mutant ninja turtle in an attempt at revenge on the grandson of Oroku Saki. New York has been changed by the oppression of Oroku Hiroto, and this may be the old turle's last chance at revenge. He is followed by the voices of his brothers, offering advice and criticism, nothing unusual for their dynamic. The turtle failed his mission and, as a result, attempted seppuku. The reader learns the truth. Michelangelo has lost his brothers and father. He is saved by Casey Marie Jones and her mother, April O'Neil, who lost a father and a husband.

In the particular trope of the "post-apocalyptic future of a world full of characters we know and love," the tone is usually somber. This story could allow a writer to explore a character's darkest moments and who they are when there's no hope. Unfortunately, this trope is rarely used to its fullest potential. Instead, we get some grimdark tragedy intent on ruining childhoods through nostalgic manipulation. I feared this as I began reading this comic. As expected, I did have to experience these characters' deaths, but it wasn't gratuitous or needlessly dramatic. Each character death was meaningful and respectful. Better than that, none of their deaths were useless. They died in battle, defending each other and their convictions.

There is a future podcast episode exploring why April and Mikey were the survivors because it deserves more discussion. The most important takeaway for brevity is that they have the most hope and the least attachment to honor duty or vendetta. The voices that follow Mikey around are his guilt, personified as his brothers, who died failing to settle the score. And he lived.

If I were to offer any criticism, the relationship between Mikey and Casey Marie feels rushed. By the time Mikey goes after Hiroto on his own terms, we're meant to believe that the two have become close, and Mikey has become a father figure and Sensie for her. Either I missed it, or the comic is missing some information about the time spent together, so their closeness felt sudden. Casey Marie, as well as Oroku Hiroto, feel like weaker characters, but that can't be helped since many of the other characters are already well-known. This isn't their story anyway.

If we are to believe this is a definitive end to the turtle's story, then it's a grand ending. I won't spoil the climax or the denouement because both were too satisfying and vindicating to sum up so easily. It feels all the more meaningful that Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird had their hands on this project. The character designs were recognizable but unique, and every page was beautiful. What really made me giddyy was turning a page to see the style suddenly change into the original comic's art style when Mikey or April were talking about their past. It was thrilling to see that old style incorporated into this particular story in such a significant way.

TRIGGER WARNINGS (with potential spoilers) -

1) Blood and Violence - There is not over-the-top violence, but there is realistic blood and injury.

2) Death and Mourning - If it bears repeating, the reader is subjected to many familiar characters dying. Though the deaths aren't disgusting, they are well-depicted. It might be an emotional read for sensitive TMNT fans and people who don't handle death well.

[ceallaigheirinn]

Speculation about 65

By now we've all seen the trailer for 65 with its grungy, bearded Adam Driver taking on the dinosaurs in what looks like a Humanity vs. Beast vehicle.

What's there not to love? Fast-paced race to stay one step ahead of becoming a TRex's breakfast. Driver in girl-dad mode wearing an outfit that screams Ben Solo has returned from the WBW.

The ever present threat appears to be the dinosaurs. The trailer sets that up nicely in the final image that results in a jump scare: Mills being suddenly grabbed and dragged into the unknown by a likely clever girl of a velociraptor that has all the nostalgia of a Jurassic Park film without Chris Pratt crapping it up.

But what if the real race isn't to outrun the dinosaurs? What if that is just the distraction from the true threat? The title of the film gives away the true plot.

This wasn't just the age when dinosaurs roamed the earth. it's the time time frame that they all perished and the planet had a giant reboot from sudden mass-extinction event which the scientific community believe was caused by a giant meteor or asteroid.

The film sets the stage that the (likely non-earthborn) humans' survival may not be predicated on the dinosaurs, but hoping they can get off Earth before the plant killer strikes. Running from dinosaurs has been done before. Let's make the stakes even higher.

The writers drop more hints with how and where Mills finds himself on Earth. He himself lets the viewer know the ship was hit by an undocumented asteroid, one close enough that the ship was pulled into Earth's gravity. In other words, this asteroid is close enough to the planet to be its own character.

The final clue is also hiding in plain sight, strategically hidden before the bait and switch of the jump scare where we're led to believe that Mills has just become a dino snack.

There are hints this last image is later in the film. The characters are really filthy now. They have shed layers of clothing. They look exhausted. He's also limping in the shot. I'm just going to assume he survived the bait and switch of the grab and drag.

But if you pay attention to the background, it appears that fire and brimstone is raining from the sky. The extinction event is about to happen. The first bits of interstellar matter is breaking up in the atmosphere and raining down on the planet. Now, if they've survived the dinosaurs this far, the only challenge left to survive is the impending asteroid of doom.

They are not going to kill off Koa, his cute sidekick that Mills has likely and begrudgingly has come to care for. Killing off a kid would be the peak of nihilism, and this isn’t a JJ Abrams production.

Sure, Driver could still kick it in the film. He has this very distinct proclivity for dying in all of his films lately. But then there this mystery casting of Chloe Coleman.and Alexa Shipp (some sources list Nina King and not Shipp as the fourth cast member.)

They don't appear in the trailer, and they are yet mentioned as cast members. They're likely not Koa's family, as they would've perished in the crash on earth at the beginning of the film.

But could they be Mills' family, possibly in a flashback as he recalls what he left behind, either on good or bad terms. Early descriptions of Mills included that he was an opioid addict, so it is possible the characters' substance misuse has caused him to be estranged. But what if they are part of the denouement, perhaps waiting for him on the other side of a rescue where he now has a greater appreciation for family?

Yup a separate rabbit hole to explore another time. That, and the pressing question if the asteroid collision with Mills' ship is the butterfly affect that set the dinosaur extinction event in motion.. After all, collisions cause trajectories to change...

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

event denouement

A few miles outside of Blacklight, Barfok's legs decide to rebel against her. It's quite sudden-- one moment, she's walking, the next's lying face-down in a ditch. Herma-Mora is tickling her face sympathetically and her limbs are cold as ice and her poor, tired legs just aren't listening to her any more.

"Rise, Barfok," Herma-Mora prods her gently with a tentacle.

She sniffles-- her nose takes in ashy soil and she coughs pathetically. "I can't," she snivels, "It hurts."

"If you lie there," says Herma-Mora, with infinite patience, "You will... die."

"So let me die," she wheezes. "Let me choke to death here, on this... on this hateful ash!"

"Barfok..."

The tentacles are all around her, the afternoon light turning soupy and green, like algae in a pond. She whines and pushes her head into a tuft of spiky grass, clenching her eyes shut, feeling branches rake her skin. There's no pain in it, not compared to the screaming hotness of her burned back.

Even behind her eyelids he is there. "Barfok, rise."

"No! I'll die here, I'll die here."

"Rise."

"I want to die. I want to die. I want to die."

"Rise, girl."

"No! Leave me alone! I want to die here!"

"Look at me."

"I hate you. I hate you, you stupid squid meal. You stupid inky pile of dung. You slimy wretch. I hate you. Leave me. Let me die."

"Child of Atmora, look at me."

It is not Herma-Mora who roughly tugs away her coat. Nor is it Herma-Mora whose cold, calloused hands peel away the tunic from her broken skin. Barfok screams a guttural scream and thrashes, but there is a weight upon her, then, pinning her legs to the ground. She cannot see her assailant, but she feels her clothing stripped away from her, feels flames fresh upon her mutilated back, feels hands, prying, oh, gods, there's a hand on her--

"Let go!" Barfok screeches, kicking like a wild thing. "Let go of me! Unhand me!"

"Child!" someone who is not Herma-Mora replies sternly.

"Don’t hurt me!" Barfok yells, kicking out, lashing around blindly, "Go away, don’t touch me, don’t hurt me!"

"Girl--"

Barfok's hand finds an arm and she rakes her nails into it. Then, all at once, the weight rises from her. Wheezing, mouth full of ash, Barfok rolls to her side, then scrabbles frantically to lift herself upright. She manages to peel herself from the ground-- her arms collapse. Someone catches her.

She finds herself lying in the broad lap of a strange woman. "Kyne," she breathes.

For the apparition must be none other than Kyne. The woman now holding Barfok is tall, very tall, and strong, with lean and muscled limbs. Her face is broad and ugly, but her eyes-- her hooded eyes are blue-white, clear as glaciers, pale as the winter's coldest snow, and her hair-- her hair is red like old blood, long and loose and floating around her, thick with electricity. Her skin is pale, her lips thin and dry, the teeth beyond them yellow. The very bones of the earth bend away from her in fear.

"Kyne," says Barfok deliriously, "You've come for me! Yes, Kyne, oh monah Kaan, yes, take me to Sovngarde, take me to bormahi! Take me where the oxen roast and where it no longer hurts, take me back, take me back..."

The most terrible god amongst mortals frowns. "I am not Kyne," she says. "Have I wings?"

Barfok squints at her. "No," she rasps, "But you can take mine. I can feel them growing from my back. Oh, it hurts, it hurts so. Take those wings I'm growing."

"You are badly burned, little one."

"Is that what that is? The fire? Isn't that how a new forest grows? Oh..."

For, really, she got ash in her ruined back, and now that someone is holding her the wound is screaming with pain. She might have blacked out; when she wakes again she's lying on her side, and the thunderous god is behind her, rubbing something into the searing agony that is her shoulders.

"Who are you?" Barfok whimpers.

"I am Atmoran," answers the deity.

"Did Herma-Mora send you?"

"No. Do not breathe deeply."

"What are you called?"

"I am called many things. To the Nords I am Chemua. Brace yourself."

Barfok's world goes black again, and when her vision becomes something other than tentacles and eyeballs she's once more sitting upright, propped up in the woman's arms. She's shuddering all over from pain but the pain isn't bothering her any more. "Chemua," she mumbles, pronouncing it with a K- sound at the start.

"Tchemua," the woman corrects her.

"What did you do to me?"

"Bile of elf. A salve to replace the skin that was lost."

"That's gross."

"Yes." Content that Barfok might remain sitting on her own, Chemua moves around her, settles in front of her in an animal squat. "So," she begins, "Why is a daughter of Atmora dying in the east?"

Barfok certainly feels like she's dying. The earthbones are humming disconcerted  around her and her head is swimming. "Herma-Mora told me to," she answers pathetically.

The incarnate storm that is Chemua makes a contemptuous sound. "A Nord, then," she says. "Obedient you are. Like a sheep."

"Baaa," is Barfok’s feeble response.

"A domesticated animal," Chemua continues. "I should kill you as sacrifice, but Kyne loves not a domestic thing."

"Why are the qethsegolle afraid of you?"

"Because I hate them."

"What for?"

Chemua rises to her feet, glacier-eyes flashing. "For they are not Atmora," says she. "They are not the home that is lost to me. They dare to live when my home has died, and they are not home, and so I hate them. I hate this world, this vus, this task of Shor's. I hate it because I cannot leave it, and because I hate it, I vow to make it hurt. Do you understand?"

Barfok does not understand. She feels very confused-- and very dizzy, and very bashful-- but mostly confused. How can one hate Shor's work, when Shor's work is love, and made of love? How can one hear the qethsegolle and not love them? How does one peer into a candle and not have their face lit up?

Thoroughly perplexed, Barfok offers forth a "Baaa?"

Chemua snorts a laugh and it sounds like a gout of dragon-flame. "A Nordic answer." And, now thoroughly disinterested, she turns away.

"You helped me," Barfok says in wonder, as if that were any sort of argument. Then, "Can you tell me where to find Ysmir?"

This makes the Atmoran pause. "Go towards the mountain," she answers, meditative. "On the northern slopes there is an elven fortress."

"Baa. I mean, thanks. Do you really hate the world?"

"Yes," says Chemua calmly. "Very much.

"I love the world. I love the qethsegolle. Very much."

"No, you don't. If you loved it you would not wish to depart it."

Barfok can't even offer a baa to that. And then it doesn't matter; the pain creeps back, she loses her consciousness again, and when she comes to she's once more walking in shaky Herma-Mora guided steps, alone but for the daedra. And the next time her legs stop working, the next time Herma-Mora has to coax her back to standing, she finds herself whispering furious, indignant whispers: "I don't want to die!"