#transformers: first labyrinth

[bumblebee-is-best-boi]

BLITZBEE WEEK DAY FIVE: SCARS

hoooo boy! This one is my fav. Originally it was just a Blitzwing story but I made it have Blitzbee for the purpose of this week.

I EVEN GAVE IT A TITLE

hehe

@blitzbee-week Day Five: Scars

title coming up soon vvv

Digits In Between The Wings

Characters: Blitzwing, Bumblebee, Astrotrain

Warning: Cybertronian cursing, mentions of throwing up, too much fluff and angst :)

story under the cut vvv

When Blitzwing used to be a seeker, he liked to polish himself. Not to the extent of Knockout, of course (no one obsessed over their polisher like Knockout), but enough to make his frame glimmer in the slightest bit. He had the perfect frame to show his glimmer off, but that wasn’t the main reason he polished himself. It wasn’t even about the polish at all! 

It was more about the machine he used.

The one he used, while it was a bit smaller than usual polishers, it used to fit perfectly in the space between his wings. It pressed against the joints of his wing bases in a way that wasn’t too much pressure to hurt or damage them, but enough to stimulate some pleasant feelings. 

Blitzwing used to attach his polisher to a long handle and just slip it between his wings once in a while, keeping it there for several minutes before moving on with his polishing. 

But when he was turned into a Triple Changer, that all changed. 

Blitzwing’s polisher had become too small to be nice between his wings, but it didn’t matter, since he wasn’t even comfortable using the polisher anymore. The idea of it gliding across his frame, one that had changed drastically for him, just made him a little bit sick in his tanks. Every time it glided over his scars, it made him wince in uncomfortableness, since his scars revealed his sensitive metal plates. Also, the experiment must have fragged something up between Blitzwing’s wings, because he felt as if something defective there was aching with everything he did, and touching it caused him lots of pain.

That didn’t mean Blitzwing didn’t at least try.

He tried many times, but he just couldn’t handle the feeling. And then after one wonky attempt, he broke his polisher into pieces in a fit of rage (or was it actually distress? He couldn’t really tell anymore).

After becoming a Triple Changer, his frame, which once had a slight glimmer, had become dull and matte. Blitzwing stopped taking care of his frame, sometimes to the point where Astrotrain had to force him to take care of himself for a while to prevent rust and cracked plates. Astrotrain might have been way taller than him, but he was also a bot who was very gentle with his movements (if he wanted to, most of the time he liked to be overly erratic). His fingers were nimble, originally to handle to spin his blasters and shoot out multiple rounds in quick succession, but also to handle the tools needed to keep a mech functioning. But no matter how much Astrotrain tried to take care of Blitzwing to make sure his unwillingness to do self care didn’t make him go offline, his frame glimmer was lost.

___

“For Primus’s sake Blitzwing, you should take care of yourself more often!” Astrotrain yelled in exasperation as he pushed one of Blitzwing’s arm plates open to scrape off dried energon build up from a damaged energon line, “Be lucky that this energon line wasn't so major, or you would have been bleeding out for hours on end. And also be lucky that I saw the bleeding before it got any worse!”

Astrotrain finally scraped it off, started patching the energon line, then switched faces and chuckled. “Heh, but I know you're not going to listen to me. It's just typical of you to do whatever you want without any thoughts of the consequences! Typical Blitzwing! All cuckoo and carefree!” 

Astrotrain kept snickering as he closed Blitzwing’s arm plate and stood up, “I know for sure that no matter what I say, we’re going to be right back here again, fixing some new problem!” 

Blitzwing switched faces and fumed, “Oh shut your mouth, slagger!”

“Ok ok, I will, for now. But you cannot shut the fact that my words speak the truth.” Astrotrain turned to walk away, his footsteps thundering, “Oh and by the way, Megatron wants us in the meeting room in ten minutes. I suggest you hurry and don't damage any more of yourself on the way, you know how much Megatron wants his Decepticons in top condition!”

Blitzwing opened his mouth to yell at Astrotrain, but he stopped and closed his mouth again, switching faces and standing up. He looked at his arm, where Astrotrain had fixed his energon line. Astrotrain’s words echoed through his processor multiple times, no matter how annoying it got. Blitzwing wanted to just laugh it off, to think of it as a silly joke, but he couldn't. It wasn't a silly joke. It was the truth.

No matter how much Blitzwing wanted to deny it, it was the truth. The cold hard truth.

____

Refueling wasn't a big problem for Blitzwing… sometimes. Sometimes he got himself enough to last a while, sometimes he had only enough to run on half a tank. It was quite hard to adjust to a frame that demanded more energon to function, but he made it work eventually (He didn’t). And then there was the purging that happened once in a while during the night… but he didnt like to talk about that.

But what was most annoying about his frame upgrade was the pain that came with it. Not even the idea of three faces annoyed him that much (even though the face switching did hurt at one point). His knees were constantly hurting, due to the weird build of his legs, and he kept breaking his knee braces by tearing them up and destroying them whenever he felt like it. For days on end, his tanks constantly felt sore, no matter if his tank was full or empty or whatever in between. And what was the worst thing was the dull ache in the joints of his wings, and the constant prickling pain down his back in between his wings.

He once wanted to paint over his scars, but every time he thought of it, he always got sidetracked to thinking about painting himself in many different colors wilder than any Decepticon had ever seen before. Despite that sounding like a cool idea, Blitzwing always countered those thoughts because he didn’t want to look stupid or get in trouble with Megatron. Instead, he decided to see how others reacted if someone else was painted in wild colors.

This led to him going to the seeker trine’s room with buckets of paint and painting all sorts of crazy things on them (originally he wanted to just paint Starscream, but seeing them in the seeker pile made him all too happy to paint all three of them). Blitzwing then waited till the next day to see what would happen… It was lots of humiliation and getting punished by Megatron pretty badly. This scared Blitzwing to his very spark, to the point where he felt guilty about it (but no way he would ever admit it was his fault).

Only Astrotrain knows what truly happened on that day.

At that point, Blitzwing had completely given up on trying to fix himself, trying to take care of himself, caring for a frame that he once cherished. No use in caring for a frame that had been warped beyond his own recognition and repair.

_____

“Blitzwing.” Astrotrain spoke, trying to get Blitzwing’s attention. 

No response.

“Blitzwing.” Astrotrain hissed, “You glitch, I know you can hear me,” He looked down at the ground, “Stop ignoring me please.”

Blitzwing eventually raised his head, “What is it.”

Astrotrain looked into Blitzwing’s optics, “There’s only one energon cube left for today.”

Blitzwing’s optic twitched, and he switched faces, “That’s what you bothered me for?!”

Astrotrain switched faces, “Oh EXCUSE me for trying to help my DEAR Amica! Oh what an aft am I!”

“Slag off!”

Astrotrain switched faces, “Do you want the fragging energon cube or not?”

Blitzwing switched faces, “You can have it.”

Astrotrain reached for the energon cube, then stopped.

“You refueled yourself at least more than halfway today, right?”

Blitzwing’s optic twitched, then he switched faces, “Ah yes! I had quite the feast today! Oh such a nice servo salad it was! Aha!”

Astrotrain grimaced for a slight moment before grabbing the cube, “the idea of you eating other Cybertronians still unnerves me heavily… but at least it’s better than nothing. ”

Blitzwing switched faces again and looked at the ground as Astrotrain chugged the energon cube. He felt bad for lying, but also not sorry for it at the same time. No matter whatever Astrotrain felt through the Amica bond.

Speaking of the Amica bond, Blitzwing rarely made use of the emotion sensing ability that the bond had. He had too much going on in his head to go poking around in Astrotrain’s emotions.

But this time, Blitzwing used the bond. He used the bond to try and poke into Astrotrain’s emotions, but gave up when he felt the mess of emotions in there. He didn’t care enough to go in there and try to see what is what.

He just didn’t care.

_____

But then he met Bumblebee. That little yellow Autobot who kind of slightly annoyed him to no end and was the love of his life at the same time. The one who treated every single one of Blitzwing’s faces with love and care, even when he was being a bit of a glitch.

Every time that they met up, Bumblebee would bring something to cheer Blitzwing up, whether it was a few cubes of energon, some cans of oil, a servo (Bumblebee never said where he got it from, to Blitzwing’s disappointment, since it was one of the best servos he ever had), or even his own polisher! 

But the best thing was how Bumblebee tried his best to handle Blitzwing’s pain. He couldn’t do anything about Blitzwing’s knee pain, other than at least try to tell Blitzwing to stop destroying his knee braces. Bumblebee would bring his hands over Blitzwing’s numerous scars, massaging them the best he could (he stopped if Blitzwing was in too much pain though). He would even move his fingers over the space between Blitzwing’s wings, putting his digits between the wings and massaging the wing base joints, soothing the discomfort in them.

It was the best thing Blitzwing had felt in centuries.

____

Holding the energon cube in his hands, Blitzwing looked down at it with a solemn look on his face. Why did his love offer this to him? He gingerly cupped the cube, afraid to spill a drop and disappoint his little sweetspark. 

“Why aren't you drinking your energon Blitz? Worried that it’ll run away?” Bumblebee chugged his cube of energon and tilted his head at Blitzwing.

A sigh came out of Blitzwing’s mouth. He just couldn’t tell Bumblebee the truth… he couldn’t! 

“Why aren’t you drinking your energon, Blitzwing?” Bumblebee’s antennae drooped in sadness.

Oh god, the sight of Bumblebee being sad hurt Blitzwing to the deepest depths of his spark. He needed to find a way to mitigate the situation before it got worse!

The slight ache in his tanks gave him a great idea.

“Ach… I have a slight tank ache. I don't really feel like refueling right now…” Blitzwing spoke, hoping that everything would stop at that moment.

But when Bumblebee immediately turned his head around to look at him, he was greatly surprised. He didn't expect that Bumblebee would become so attentive to him.

“Alright buddy, lie down.” Bumblebee commanded Blitzwing, “I wanna try something”

Blitzwing was confused, but he laid down anyway. Luckily the ground was soft-ish, or else he would have been very uncomfortable. And so he waited for something to happen

He waited…

And he waited…

And he waited some more…

Until suddenly, he felt a weight on his tanks. Blitzwing immediately looked up and saw that Bumblebee had plopped himself on top of his tanks. He kept staring, even when Bumblebee looked up to meet his gaze. 

“Hey, you’re a big mech, I have to change how I do things here!” Bumblebee pouted.

Blitzwing watched Bumblebee, then switched faces and laughed, “Wow, you’re heavier than I thought!”

He received a slight kick to the tank.

“Not funny.” Bumblebee frowned.

Blitzwing winced, switched faces, and sighed, “Apologies.”

“Good. Now let me do this, and I promise that your tank aches and pains will alleviate soon!” Bumblebee positioned himself and reached out with his hand. 

The hand settled low on Blitzwing’s hips before going up and stopping just underneath his chassis. This was repeated 10 times. Then some semi circle motions across his abdomen, also repeated ten times. There then came some soft massages and kneading, which calmed Blitzwing down.

But when Bumblebee did the little vibrations with his hands, this surprised Blitzwing a little bit.

And then Bee was finished.

“Wow,” Blitzwing gasped, “That was… wow.”

Bumblebee smiled, “I get tank aches too, so Ratchet taught me this to alleviate the pain.”

“Could… you teach how to do that?” Blitzwing asked.

Bumblebee smirked mischievously, “Only if you drink the energon cube. You need it.”

Blitzwing sighed, then drank the cube. It actually felt nice…

It seemed that what Bumblebee did worked really really well.

____

After a while, it seemed as if the treatment Blitzwing got by being Bumblebee’s sweetspark started affecting him in a good way. His frame felt so much more comfortable to him now, his aches between the wings had stopped, his scars were less sensitive, and he purged much less. Face switching was less of a chore to him now, more being more flowy instead of jerky and sudden. He even used what Bumblebee taught him to alleviate tank ache.

Astrotrain, as observant as he was, was bound to notice something.

____

“Damn Blitzwing, youve having more energon right now than ive seen you have in an entire week!” Astrotrain laughed, slapping Blitzwing on the back.

Blitzwing’s wings twitched from the slap, his face switched, and he scowled. Finishing his energon cube, he turned towards Astrotrain.

“So I guess Swindle sold you some good sense or something?”

“No you dumbaft, Swindle hasn’t even been here in a while. And any transactions I do or will do will be face to face with him, cause I don’t trust him entirely.”

“Ah, ah.” Astrotrain smirked as he kneeled down, “Then tell me what’s gotten you to act so different? It’s definitely not from you following my advice, that’s for sure.” Another laugh from Astrotrain ensued.

Blitzwing fumed for a bit, then switched faces, “it’s… the little Autobot.”

Astrotrain paused for a moment, then switched faces, “What did the Autobot do.”

Blitzwing reminded himself that Astrotrain was not entirely trusting of Bumblebee, so he had to choose his words carefully if he didn’t want to accidentally screw everything up.

“He… gives me energon every time we meet…” Blitzwing switched faces “He treats me like a queen! His beautiful big queen!” 

Astrotrain froze, not expecting to hear that. Switching faces, he brought himself closer to Blitzwing, eyeing him curiously.

“So you’re saying that this… tiny little Autobot… has been helping you with your problems?”

Blitzwing nodded vigorously.

Astrotrain suddenly switched faces, “Well FINALLY! Finally someone got some sense into your processor!” Laughing, he patted Blitzwing on the shoulder, “And, please keep this up. It’s healthier for you, and there’ll be more for your little Autobot to love!”

Blitzwing switched faces, blushing in embarrassment, but nodded anyway.

After a while of snickering, Astrotrain switched faces, “But I must not get sidetracked, since there is something I have to say: Megatron has commanded that we go do an energon raid in about three hours. We actually have to be out of the base in one and a half hours,” Astrotrain said with a bit of bitterness in his voice, before softening his tone, “So have another cube and we can go, okay?”

Blitzwing nodded his head and drank his energon cube, “Alright.”

____

Even though he knew that his scars would never heal, Blitzwing knew that Bumblebee would be there for him, no matter what.

And that was more than enough for him.

[tech-obssessed-shark]

TFFL Blitzwing

[bumblebee-is-best-boi]

picking a random WIP….

Might be rewritten in the future but whatever:

- Megatron sighed, his optics narrowing furiously, “You pledged to do anything that was possible for the Decepticons to win this war. Don't act so selfish or whine like a sparkling… This is what you signed up for.”

“What I signed up for is a way to fight for our freedom. Not this.”

Megatron turned away, letting Lugnut and Cyclonus grab Blitzwing, “Blitzwing. Don't be a fool. It will get you nowhere.”

-

reblog with a spoiler for your wip with zero context. no context allowed.

[drolta]

I would really love to know the connection between Susurrus and the dragon

[starry-bi-sky]

Out of Context Stuff for a Danyal Al Ghul au i haven't posted - Pit Beast Danyal

Damian, 13: Look, Danyal, -- I am so sorry for everything that happened between us in the League, I hope you can forgive me.

Danny, 10 (allegedly): (has been secretly plotting to murder Damian this whole time, is still gonna do it obvs, but is going to make it significantly less painful now)

Danny: I-- of course, older brother. :]

--------

Bruce: what do you have there, Damian?

Damian:

Danny: (a hulking 10ft pit beast standing beside him, growling idly with ram horns gouging out his eyes and a second set of horns jutting into the air, spines down his back, and a long, spiked tail with an animalistic, skull-like face)

Damian, who smuggled him in (they've made amends): a smoothie, father

----------

Damian: this is my little brother Danyal, i murdered him when he was five. He festered in rage for the last half-a decade, took over a League mountain base in Switzerland, murdered everyone inside and then tried to murder me when I went to investigate with Drake.

Danny: hello!

Damian: we're cool now

----------

Damian: thoughts on resurrection

Danny, (a full ghost): i will succeed in murdering you if you try it

Damian: we'll put a pin in it then

----------

Danny (still instilled with League values): why don't we just murder him??

Damian, on patrol (Danny followed him): we don't murder people, Danyal

Danyal:,,,,are you sick, Dami?? Have you been possessed? Why not!?

(There is raucous laughing through the comms)

----------

Danny, five, pre-death: Dami! :D

Danny, dead, vengeful: Older brother (:

Danny, post-forgiveness: Dami! :]

-------

For some actual context: Danny is fully dead in this au, its a result of the classic DPxDC Demon Twins "death duel" trope but instead of Danny getting revived, he stays fully dead. Danny was five, Damian was seven. His ghost lingered though, and due to the proximity of the pits his ghost steadily absorbed the ambient energy it was letting off. The pits are not corrupted ectoplasm in this au, it's just liquid ecto.

Which means Danny's corruption from an angry and hurt little ghost boy to an unrecognizable monster is from his own doing. It's a result of him stewing in his hurt and anger for years, it physically warped him. He's very powerful. Danny can travel between League Bases but chose a small, out-of-the-way base in the Swiss mountains to fester in and then just. Never Left.

His influence steeped into the very foundations of the building, allowing him to transform and warp the rooms and hallways for his own bidding, Meaning he could turn it into a seemingly unending labyrinth if he so wished to, and block the entrance.

Eventually, blinded (both metaphorically and physically) by his own rage, Danny grew powerful enough to appear physically in the living realm and attacked everyone in the base, slaughtering them all and leaving the base abandoned. He attacks anyone who dares enter -- whether that be other league members, or the unfortunate hiker who stumbled across the base. His conscious is steeped into every nook and cranny of the building, there is nowhere you can hide where he can't find. Nobody leaves without his explicit say so. Nobody ever does.

Him appearing as ten years old before Damian in the skits above is his own physical doing. First it was to prevent Damian from being suspicious of him. Damian initially thought Danny was revived with the pits, he was too busy with his own training afterwards to notice that Danny never showed up again, and when he did notice, he assumed it was because Danny was too ashamed of his loss to face him. He'd always forget to ask about him.

Then it becomes a personal choice to appear as ten. It's how old he would've been had he been alive.

danny forgiving Damian is kinda for an offshoot branch of the main au. Whereas the main au takes the form of a ps4 first person horror game where Damian and Tim are investigating the Base for Plot Reasons. There's no sign of the rumored "monster" living inside until the end, where Danny, who was found inside the Base and has been happily "helping" them look around, manages to persuade Damian into splitting off from Tim in order to "show him something."

This something turns out to be Danny revealing that he never really forgave Damian for that fight, and he reveals through a horrifying transformation, that he was the monster the whole time. Which the game subtly hints at throughout as Danny's strange behavior becomes harder to ignore.

First from his insistence to only refer to Damian as "older brother" (when before the duel he always called him Damian or Dami), to him right off the bat denying the existence of a monster when questioned. ("There's no monster here, older brother. It's just me.") To other various things, like his knowledge of the outside world not matching up to modern times or things going on with the league outside of the base, or what happened to the other league members.

This whole idea was inspired by the song "Scylla" from Epic the Musical, with Danyal being the voice of Scylla as well as Odysseus, while Damian stands as Eurylochus. The instrumentals after Scylla says "hello" is him turning into the pit beast, and Scylla's "drown in your sorrow and fears" part is danny, as the pit beast, snarling at Damian while he attacks him.

There's a Good Ending, a Bad Ending, and a True Ending. The Bad Ending results in Damian being killed by Danny, it happens when Damian decides not to question or suspect Danny and treats him kindly. The Bad Ending is a cutscene, where Danny kills Damian quick and painlessly.

Meanwhile the Good Ending is Damian killing Danny. This is a boss fight, and it happens when Damian treats Danny coldly and suspiciously the whole time. Danny as a result, decides to make Damian's death painful as he had planned to, which is why it's a boss fight because it only causes him to double down on his anger.

The True Ending is Damian escapes with Tim. It happens when you treat Danny warmly up until the last minute, where when Danny proposes to Damian that he wants to show him something, Damian goes to talk to Tim and finally, reluctantly agrees that something is off with Danny, and that he'll be careful going in. It starts off with the boss fight until a third through, where it then changes to a cutscene where Tim manages to get the door open and Damian escapes out. It's then a chase scene down a never-ending hallway as the building actively works to keep you trapped inside. But you eventually make it to the exit so long as you avoid all the projectiles and doors.

Remember when I mentioned that Danny only lets people leave when he wants them to? That's where the treating Danny kindly throughout the game comes into play. It causes him to second guess himself and, eventually, reawaken and strengthen the love and admiration he had for Damian prior to his murder. It's why in the Bad Ending he kills Damian quickly -- because by then, he loves him enough that he doesn't want him to suffer, but is still so consumed by his rage and need for vengeance that he kills him anyways. That quiet part is what allows Damian (and Tim) to find the exit, because some part of Danny still loves Damian enough that he wants him to live.

The True Ending ends with a cutscene of Damian and Tim tumbling out into the snow/grass outside of the base. Damian looks up back to the entrance to see Danny standing there. But rather than a ten year old boy, there's a little five year old Danyal Al Ghul instead. He stares at Damian emotionlessly, blood seeping from his chest, staining his clothes, and little, bloody sword in his hands and tearstains on his cheeks, before he turns away and disappears back into the building.

[sirenedeslily]

ALWAYS, FOREVER :: JACKIE TAYLOR

⏝ི ✿ 𝓢𝗬𝗡. a tender chronicle of two souls intertwined through secret languages and stolen kisses, as they shatter beneath society's frost only to thaw into truth under courage's warm light.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

[cw.] — a narrative shaped by Spring Into Summer by lizzy mcalpine; an au where the crash never occurred. jackie, constrained by compulsory heteronormativity, navigates the complexities of longing and self-discovery in 1996’s quiet ache.

jackie taylor was born in december, a winter child with snowflakes in her hair and frost on her eyelashes. you could see it in her eyes—hazelnut blonde, wide and unblinking, framed with lashes so thick they cast shadows on her cheeks—the innate understanding that beauty was both weapon and armor. she resembled a wide-eyed doll come to life, porcelain-perfect and untouchable, a girl who learned early how to smile just right, how to laugh at jokes that weren't funny, how to hold herself with the straight-backed posture of someone who knew she was being watched.

you were born in april, a spring child with pollen dusting your shoulders and petals unfurling in your lungs. your curls were the color of soil after rain, rich and earthy, framing a face that was all soft planes and curious eyes. you had lips that naturally pouted, as if perpetually on the verge of asking another question. while jackie stood straight, you moved like water finding its way downhill, following currents invisible to others, bending but never breaking.

the first time you met, you were both four years old, playing in a sandbox that was really just a glorified cat litter box behind wiskayok elementary's pre-k building. jackie had a plastic shovel and a determination to build the perfect castle. you had nothing but your hands and an imagination that transformed each grain of sand into universes.

"you're doing it wrong," jackie said, watching you pat formless mounds with your palms.

you looked up, squinting against the late summer sun, and replied, "there's no wrong way to play."

jackie considered this with the serious expression of a child contemplating philosophy for the first time. then she handed you her extra bucket.

"here. now you can make towers."

instead, you filled the bucket with dandelions and placed it atop her meticulous castle like a crown.

that was how it began—the bunny and the doe, an unlikely pair bound by the mysterious gravity that draws children together before they learn to question why they like who they like.

⚘

in the arithmetic of childhood friendships, you and jackie defied every equation. she was all clean lines and planned adventures; you were smudged margins and spontaneous detours. she collected friends like trading cards, carefully arranged and displayed; you collected stories and kept them pressed between the pages of your mind like wildflowers.

jackie's house was a showcase of suburban aspiration—gleaming hardwood floors that her mother polished every sunday, furniture arranged at perfect right angles, family photos in matched frames documenting their collective perfection. the refrigerator door was a museum of accomplishments; jackie's straight-A report cards, certificates of achievement, newspaper clippings of her youth soccer victories.

your house was a labyrinth of books—stacked on stairs, teetering on tables, forming makeshift furniture of their own. your father, an english professor, believed in the sanctity of the written word; your mother, a nurse with the soul of a poet, believed in the healing power of stories. they gave you a childhood scripted by dickens and alcott and austen, letting you run wild through fictional worlds when the real one seemed too constrained.

in jackie's bedroom, everything had its place. trophies on shelves, stuffed animals arranged by size, clothes sorted by color and season. you spent countless afternoons lying on her pink carpet, watching her organize her life into perfect compartments while you read aloud from whatever book had captured your imagination that week.

"don't you ever get bored?" jackie asked once, sitting at her vanity, practicing french braids on her own hair. "reading about other people's lives instead of living your own?"

you looked up from your dog-eared copy of "anne of green gables" and said, "i'm not reading about other people's lives. i'm living a thousand lives in addition to my own."

jackie's expression flickered between confusion and fascination. "i don't think i could ever be like you," she said finally.

"why would you want to be?" you asked. "i already have me. the world needs you to be jackie."

she smiled at that, a rare genuine smile that reached her bunny eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. "you're so weird," she said, but she said it like it was a compliment.

in your room, books formed a fortress around your bed. posters of the cranberries and your favorite french movies covered the walls. your dresser was a archaeological dig of half-finished stories written in notebooks, fragments of poems on loose paper, quotes copied from favorite books onto index cards.

"how do you find anything in here?" jackie would ask, perched primly on the edge of your unmade bed, afraid to disturb the creative chaos.

"i don't find things," you'd reply. "things find me when i need them."

she'd roll her eyes but submit to the ritual of lying beside you on the floor, heads close together, while you pointed out shapes in the textured ceiling and spun stories about cloud kingdoms and star wars, years before either of you had heard of george lucas.

between your houses lay wiskayok itself—a town too small to hide in but too big to truly know everyone. you navigated its streets like parallel rivers, sometimes converging, sometimes diverging, but always flowing toward some shared, unnamed sea.

the summer before sixth grade was the summer of secret languages. twelve years old, teetering on the precipice between childhood and something more complex, you and jackie created ways to communicate that no one else could understand.

it began with a simple code—replacing letters with numbers, leaving notes in each other's lockers, giggling when others couldn't decipher them. then came the elaborate hand signals, each flick of a wrist or tap of fingers conveying entire sentences. by july, you had developed an entire vocabulary of facial expressions, able to conduct silent conversations across crowded rooms.

it was also the summer jackie's body began its betrayal, developing before yours in ways that drew new kinds of attention. boys who had pulled her hair in fourth grade now found reasons to stand close to her, to brush against her in hallways. girls who had been friendly rivals now measured themselves against her, finding themselves wanting.

you watched this metamorphosis with a scientist's curiosity and a poet's heart, cataloging the changes in your best friend like phases of the moon. the way she started wearing her hair down instead of in the practical ponytail of her soccer-playing days. the careful application of lip gloss where once she'd just slathered on cherry chapstick. the measured pace of her walk, slowed from its former eager bounce to something more deliberate, more aware.

"do you think i'm pretty?" she asked one night, both of you lying on the trampoline in her backyard, the august sky a tapestry of stars above you.

"you know you are," you answered, turning to study her profile in the dim glow of distant porch lights.

"no, but do you think i'm pretty?" her voice had an urgency to it, a need that transcended the typical reassurance-seeking of preteen girls.

you propped yourself up on one elbow, looking down at her face—those wide eyes reflecting pinpricks of starlight, that perfect nose, those lips now slightly parted in anticipation of your answer.

"i think you're the most beautiful thing i've ever seen," you said, the truth spilling out before you could filter it through the appropriate lens of girlhood friendship.

her face changed then, softened and opened like a night-blooming flower. "show me," she whispered.

and there, beneath the indifferent gaze of distant galaxies, you leaned down and pressed your lips to hers in a kiss that lasted three heartbeats—one for courage, one for discovery, one for a revelation neither of you was ready to name.

when you pulled away, jackie's eyes remained closed for a moment longer, her lashes dark crescents against her cheeks. when she opened them, there was a new language being born between you, one with no words or gestures, one written in quickened pulses and hitched breaths.

"we should practice," she said finally, pragmatic even in this uncharted territory. "for when we kiss boys."

"for boys," you agreed, though even then, you knew no boy's lips would ever fit against yours the way jackie's did.

that became another secret language—kisses stolen in the shadows of her basement during movie nights, in the back corner of the library behind the reference section, in the equipment shed after soccer practice when everyone else had gone home. always under the guise of "practice," always followed by giggles and performance reviews, as if you were merely rehearsing for some future that required this skill.

by the time school started again, you had become fluent in each other, able to translate the slightest change in breathing, the smallest shift in posture. it was a dictionary written in skin and breath, a grammar of touch and taste.

a language destined to become a dead one far sooner than either of you could have imagined.

⚘

eighth grade arrived with the subtle seismic shifts of tectonic plates—imperceptible to most, but you felt the tremors beneath your feet. jackie joined the advanced soccer team, began spending weekends at tournaments in neighboring towns. you joined the literary magazine, disappearing into the cocoon of the newspaper office during lunch periods.

the kisses became less frequent, though more intense when they happened. there was a desperation to them now, as if jackie was trying to memorize the feel of you before something took you away from her.

"jeff sadecki asked me to the harvest dance," she told you one october afternoon. you were lying on your stomachs in her bedroom, algebra homework spread before you, though neither of you had written anything for twenty minutes.

"are you going to go?" you asked, carefully keeping your voice neutral, tracing the edge of your textbook with one finger.

"i think so," she said, watching your finger move. "my mom would literally explode with joy. she's been hinting about me and jeff since his mom and her started that book club."

you nodded, understanding the invisible architecture of expectations that had been built around jackie since birth. good grades. soccer excellence. student council. and now, the perfect boyfriend—handsome enough, smart enough, from the right kind of family. jeff sadecki with his easy smile and varsity jacket already as an eighth grader, being groomed for high school glory just as jackie was.

"he's nice," you offered, because it was true, and because you knew that was what jackie needed to hear.

"yeah," she agreed, not meeting your eyes. "he's nice."

that night, when she kissed you goodbye at your front door—a risky move given the well-lit porch and curtainless windows—there was a finality to it that made your chest ache.

"just because i'm going to the dance with him doesn't mean anything changes with us," she whispered against your lips.

but you were the reader of stories, the one who could see foreshadowing in everyday moments, who understood the inevitable trajectory of narrative arcs. you knew an ending when you tasted one.

"nothing ever stays the same, jackie," you said, pulling back to look into those bunny eyes, now shining with unshed tears. "that's okay. that's how life works."

she shook her head, suddenly fierce. "not us. we're different."

you wanted to believe her. for a moment, standing there with her cold hands framing your face, you almost did.

the fault lines continued to spread throughout that year. jeff became jackie's boyfriend in the official, going-steady sense. you started spending lunches with lottie, who shared your interest in astrology and tarot, and laura lee, whose fervent christianity somehow complemented your more pagan sensibilities rather than clashing with it. different lunch tables became different social circles became different weekend activities.

the last time you and jackie kissed was the night before high school started. she had come to your house, unexpected, climbing the tree outside your window like she used to do in elementary school when her parents were fighting and she needed escape.

"i'm scared," she admitted, sitting cross-legged on your bed, looking smaller than she had in months.

"of high school?" you asked, closing the book you'd been reading.

she shook her head. "of everything. of not being good enough. of being exactly what everyone expects and nothing more. of—" she paused, looking down at her hands. "of how i feel when I'm with you."

the confession hung between you, heavier than any silence you'd shared.

"how do you feel when you're with me?" you asked, though you knew. of course you knew. you felt it too—the rightness, the completion, the sense of coming home that no other friendship or relationship had ever given you.

"like i'm real," she whispered. "like i don't have to pretend."

you moved then, crossing the small distance between you, taking her face in your hands as she had held yours so many times. "you never have to pretend with me."

the kiss that followed was different from all the others—not practice, not play, but promise. a vow written in the press of lips and the tangle of tongues, in the way her hands fisted in your shirt and yours threaded through her hair. you tasted salt and realized she was crying, or maybe you both were, tears mingling in the seam where your mouths met.

when you finally broke apart, breathing hard, foreheads still touching, jackie spoke words that would echo through the empty corridors of your future;

"i can't be this. i'm sorry, but i can't."

"this?" you gestured between you. "you mean being friends?"

"you know that's not what i mean." her voice dropped to a whisper. "the other stuff. it has to stop. it's—it's not right."

the words landed like a slap. "not right?"

"it's disgusting," she said, but her voice wavered on the word, betraying the lie. "i'm with jeff now. i think i love him."

you stepped back as if burned. "you don't mean that."

"i do," she insisted. "we're not kids anymore. it's time to grow up."

high school dawned crisp and clear, a perfect september morning that felt like a mockery of your shattered heart. the hallways of wiskayok high were wider than those of the middle school, the ceilings higher, the social hierarchies more rigidly enforced. by lunchtime on the first day, everyone knew their place—or at least, knew where they were supposed to aspire to sit.

jackie slid effortlessly into her predetermined role; freshman soccer star, girlfriend of sophomore football player jeff sadecki, potential homecoming court material despite her young age. she walked the halls with a confidence that looked genuine to everyone who hadn't spent a decade learning her tells—the slight tension in her shoulders, the too-wide smile, the way she checked her reflection in every available surface.

you found your niche in the spaces between expectations. too smart to be dismissed, too pretty in your unconventional way to be entirely outcast, too unapologetically yourself to be fully embraced by any single clique. you spent your lunch periods in the library or the courtyard with lottie and laura lee, an unlikely trio bound by your shared appreciation for the mysteries that existed just beyond the veil of everyday life.

lottie, with her dark eyes that seemed to see straight through pretense, never asked why you flinched when Jackie and her soccer teammates passed your table. laura lee, whose faith gave her a compassion rare in the gladiatorial arena of high school, simply passed you extra cookies from her immaculately packed lunch on the days when jackie and jeff were particularly demonstrative in the hallways.

you watched from a distance as jackie became more polished, more perfect, more packaged for public consumption. her natural grace on the soccer field translated to a carefully choreographed performance of ideal teenage girlhood off it. by sophomore year, she was captain of the jv team, dating the varsity quarterback, maintaining a gpa that kept her solidly in the top ten percent without threatening the true academic overachievers.

you bloomed differently—unfurling rather than constructing, growing toward whatever light called to you rather than the one you were expected to seek. your essays won state competitions. your poems were published in literary journals that usually only accepted college students' work. a short story you wrote about two childhood friends who communicated through a secret language earned you a summer workshop at the state university, where professors spoke of your voice as "astonishingly mature" and "hauntingly authentic."

for two years, you and jackie enacted an elaborate performance of polite distance. you acknowledged each other with nods in hallways, exchanged bland pleasantries when mutual activities forced interaction. to outsiders, you were former friends who had drifted apart as childhood companions often do. only you knew the truth of what had been lost.

until junior year, when the fault lines that had been dormant suddenly ruptured.

⚘

it happened at shauna shipman's halloween party, one of those high school gatherings that seemed destined for disaster from its conception. parents out of town, a house too nice to risk trashing but too tempting not to use, alcohol flowing freely despite most attendees being years from legal drinking age.

you hadn't planned to go. parties were jackie's domain, not yours. but lottie had insisted, claiming the veil between worlds was thinnest on halloween, and what better place to observe the unmasking of true selves than at a costume party?

so there you were, dressed as ophelia in the depths of her madness—flower crown askew on your curls, vintage nightgown artfully torn and stained with watercolors to suggest river water, eyes dramatically lined to hint at beautiful despair.

"bit on the nose, isn't it?" lottie commented when she picked you up, herself resplendent as some pagan goddess with antlers woven into her dark hair.

"literature is always on the nose," you replied. "that's why it hurts so much."

you didn't plan to stay long—just enough to appease lottie, maybe talk to a few people from your ap literature class who might appreciate your costume's details. what you didn't plan for was jackie, three drinks past her usual limit, dressed as a playboy bunny—an outfit that played up both her soccer-toned body and the nickname you had given her so many years ago.

she saw you from across the room, those wide eyes growing impossibly wider. for a moment, the carefully constructed mask slipped, and you saw your jackie—the girl who had handed you a sand bucket, who had let you read aloud for hours, who had kissed you beneath a canopy of stars.

then jeff's arm slid around her waist, and the mask snapped back into place.

you retreated to the relative quiet of the kitchen, hoping to find water or perhaps even a quieter exit. instead, you found yourself cornered by travis, a quiet boy from your calculus class who had been working up the courage to talk to you for weeks.

"your costume is amazing," he said, sincerity evident in his voice. "you actually look like you stepped out of a pre-raphaelite painting."

you smiled, genuinely surprised by his art history reference. "thank you. i wasn't sure anyone would get it."

"i did a project on millais last year," he explained, then launched into an enthusiastic if slightly nervous discussion of victorian art that was actually interesting enough to distract you from your desire to leave.

you didn't notice jackie watching from the doorway, her bunny ears askew, her eyes narrowed with an emotion too complex to name.

later, you would piece together what happened from fragmented accounts and your own blurred memories; jackie, drunk and emotional, confronting jeff about some perceived slight. jeff, equally intoxicated, saying something careless. jackie, storming off to the bathroom. you, excusing yourself from travis to get some air on the back porch. the paths crossing in the hallway.

"having fun with travis?" jackie's voice had an edge you'd never heard before.

"he's nice," you said, echoing her words about jeff from so long ago.

"nice," she repeated, almost sneering. "is that what you want? nice?"

"what do you think i want, jackie?" the question came out tired rather than confrontational.

she stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the vodka cranberries on her breath, could see the smudge in her otherwise perfect eyeliner. "i think you want what you can't have."

"that's rich, coming from you."

"what is that supposed to mean?"

"it means you're the one who walked away, not me." the words came out sharper than you intended, years of carefully contained hurt suddenly finding release.

jackie's face contorted, a kaleidoscope of emotions shifting too quickly to track. "you think i wanted to? you think i had a choice?"

"we all have choices, jackie. every day."

"easy for you to say." her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "you get to be you. free and artistic and not caring what anyone thinks. i don't have that luxury."

"it's not a luxury. it's courage."

she recoiled as if slapped. "so i'm a coward now?"

"i didn't say that."

"you didn't have to." jackie's eyes filled with tears that she angrily blinked away. "you've always been so fucking superior, haven't you? so sure you know everything about everyone's heart."

"i never claimed to know everything," you said quietly. "just yours."

something broke in her expression then—the final wall crumbling. "you don't, though. you don't know what it's like to feel like you're rotting from the inside out. to know that everything you're supposed to want, everything you've been raised to chase, feels like ash in your mouth compared to—" she stopped abruptly.

"compared to what, jackie?"

"compared to one minute with you," she whispered, defeat and revelation mingling in her voice.

what happened next was inevitable as gravity—her hands finding your face, your bodies colliding against the hallway wall, mouths meeting with the desperate hunger of the long-starved. it was nothing like your childhood kisses, nothing like your tentative teenage explorations. this was excavation, archaeology, mining for something precious thought lost forever.

and like all such desperate digs, it caused a collapse.

"what the fuck?"

jeff's voice shattered the moment. you broke apart to find him standing at the end of the hallway, face twisted in confusion and dawning anger. behind him, a small crowd had gathered, drawn by the promise of drama.

jackie froze, her face draining of color. you watched as her eyes darted from jeff to the onlookers, saw the exact moment when panic overtook every other emotion.

"it's not—she just—i was trying to get her off me," jackie stammered, stepping away from you as if burned.

the words hit like physical blows. you stared at her, unable to process this ultimate betrayal.

"jesus, i always knew there was something weird about her," someone in the crowd murmured.

"fucking dyke," someone else said, not bothering to lower their voice.

jackie looked at you, naked terror in her eyes. "i'm sorry," she mouthed silently.

but you were already moving, pushing through the crowd, ignoring the taunts and whispers, running from the house with flower petals from your crown scattering behind you like ophelia's sanity breaking apart on the current.

the aftermath was as brutal as high school could make it. for you, at least. somehow, jackie emerged relatively unscathed—the popular girl who had been accosted by her strange former friend, the victim rather than the participant. jeff, after initial anger, took her back. her soccer teammates closed ranks around her. the story morphed in the retelling until you were the predator, she the innocent prey.

lottie and laura lee stood by you, fierce in their loyalty. travis, surprisingly, became another ally, walking you to classes when the whispers grew too loud, sharing his notes on days when you couldn't face the hallways. but high school was still high school, and the weight of being suddenly, unwillingly visible was suffocating.

winter came early that year, november bringing snow that usually waited until december. you watched it fall from the window of your bedroom, wondering if the universe was mocking you with its metaphors—jackie's season descending before its time, burying the world in cold silence.

you didn't see her outside of classes you couldn't avoid. she kept her eyes down when forced into proximity, her face a mask of practiced indifference. only once did you catch her mask slip—in the girls' bathroom during fifth period, when she thought herself alone. you entered silently, saw her gripping the sink, staring at her reflection with such naked self-loathing that you almost went to her, almost reached out.

then she noticed you in the mirror and the mask slammed back into place. she left without washing her hands or saying a word.

december brought holiday preparations and the temporary reprieve of everyone being too busy with exams and family obligations to maintain active torment. you threw yourself into writing, producing a series of poems that your english teacher described as "disturbingly beautiful" and urged you to submit to collegiate competitions.

january crawled by, february a blur of gray skies and slush-covered sidewalks. you survived by disappearing into books, into words, into the worlds you created where endings could be rewritten and love didn't collapse under the weight of expectation.

and then came march, with its false promises of thaw, its teasing glimpses of sun between snow flurries. you were sitting in the library during lunch, lost in sylvia plath's "ariel," when a shadow fell across your page.

"can we talk?"

jackie's voice, so familiar yet strange after months of silence. you looked up to find her standing awkwardly before you, clutching the strap of her backpack like a lifeline.

"i don't think we have anything to say to each other." your voice came out steadier than you felt.

"please." one word, but it contained oceans.

you gathered your books slowly, giving yourself time to rebuild the walls her presence immediately threatened to crumble. "fine. where?"

"the old equipment shed? after school?"

the location choice wasn't lost on you—the site of so many of your secret meetings in earlier days, now abandoned as the school had built newer facilities closer to the main fields.

"i'll be there at 3:30," you said, not looking at her. "i won't wait long."

she nodded and left quickly, as if afraid you might change your mind.

you told yourself you wouldn't go. told yourself it was masochism, not closure. told yourself there was nothing she could say that would matter now.

but at 3:25, you found yourself walking across the still-frozen field toward the shed, your breath clouding before you in the march chill.

jackie was already there, pacing the small interior, her varsity jacket pulled tight against the cold. she stopped when you entered, her eyes wide and uncertain.

"you came," she said, as if she couldn't quite believe it.

"i said i would." you remained near the door, unwilling to step fully into this space so laden with memory.

jackie took a deep breath. "i need to apologize. what i did at the party—throwing you under the bus like that—it was unforgivable."

"yes," you agreed. "it was."

she flinched but continued. "i was scared and drunk and stupid, but that's not an excuse. i've been a coward for years, and that night was just the worst example."

you said nothing, waiting.

"the thing is," she continued when you didn't speak, "i've been thinking a lot about what you said. about choices. about courage." she paced again, unable to stay still under the weight of what she was trying to say. "i don't want to be a coward anymore."

"what does that mean, jackie?" you were tired, suddenly, of riddles and half-truths.

she stopped pacing and looked directly at you for what felt like the first time in years. "it means i'm in love with you. i think i have been since we were kids. and i've been running from it because i thought there was something wrong with me for feeling that way."

the words hung in the cold air between you, crystallizing like frost.

"you hurt me," you said finally. "not just at the party. every day since eighth grade when you decided i was too dangerous to your perfect life."

"i know." her eyes filled with tears. "and i will regret that for the rest of my life. but i'm here now, telling you the truth, finally. for whatever that's worth."

"and jeff? the soccer team? the perfect jackie taylor life?"

she swallowed hard. "jeff and i broke up last week. the rest... i don't know. i just know i can't keep pretending. it's killing me." she took a tentative step toward you. "i don't expect you to forgive me. i don't expect anything. i just needed you to know that you were right—about me being a coward, about me making choices. i'm trying to make better ones now."

you studied her face, looking for signs of the old jackie—the girl who would say whatever was necessary to maintain appearances, to keep her world spinning on its prescribed axis. but all you saw was raw honesty and fear.

"i don't know what to say," you admitted.

"you don't have to say anything. i just..." she wrapped her arms around herself. "i miss my best friend. i miss the person who knew me better than i knew myself. i miss you."

the simple truth of it cracked something in your carefully maintained armor.

"i've missed you too," you whispered.

jackie's eyes lit with cautious hope. "really?"

"every day."

she took another step toward you, then another, until she was close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, could smell the familiar scent of her shampoo.

"i can't promise i won't mess up again," she said softly. "i can't promise i'll be brave all the time. but i want to try. with you, if you'll let me."

you reached out slowly, touched her cheek with fingertips that remembered the feel of her skin from years of memorizing it in secret moments.

"i don't need you to be brave all the time," you said. "i just need you to be honest. with yourself, most of all."

she turned her face into your touch, eyes closing briefly. "i can do that."

outside, a tentative sun broke through the clouds, sending shafts of light through the shed's dusty windows. somewhere in the distance, a bird began to sing—the first herald of spring's approach.

"it won't be easy," you warned, thinking of the world waiting beyond this momentary shelter.

jackie opened her eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "nothing worth having ever is."

she leaned forward then, hesitant, giving you every chance to pull away. you didn't. when her lips met yours, it felt like recognition, like remembering something essential you had tried to forget.

it felt like spring melting winter, like currents too strong to fight.

it felt, at last, like truth.

⚘

spring came late that year, but when it arrived, it came with a vengeance—green exploding across the landscape, flowers erupting from soil that had seemed dead only weeks before, the world renewing itself with reckless abandon.

you and jackie moved cautiously at first, relearning each other in stolen moments between classes, in weekend hours spent in the sanctuary of your book-filled bedroom, in long walks through forests just beginning to wake from winter's dormancy.

the rest of junior year unfolded in unexpected ways. jackie quit the soccer team, causing a minor scandal that was soon overshadowed by prom drama and graduation preparations for the seniors. she joined the literary magazine staff, revealing a talent for photography that complemented your words in ways that surprised you both. together, you created a series of photo essays that won the publication its first national recognition.

lottie and laura lee welcomed jackie into your lunch table circle with minimal skepticism, though lottie made it clear in her eerily perceptive way that second betrayals would not be tolerated. travis became a friend to you both, his quiet intellect and complete lack of interest in high school politics making him a safe harbor in still-turbulent waters.

there were still whispers, still sidelong glances in hallways. but as spring progressed into summer, as junior year gave way to the promise of senior year and beyond, those voices seemed to matter less and less.

on the last day of school, you and jackie returned to the equipment shed—not out of secrecy now, but out of sentiment. you brought a blanket to spread over the dusty floor, a small basket of strawberries and chocolate, a bottle of sparkling cider smuggled from your parents' fridge.

"do you remember the first time we came here?" jackie asked, lying beside you on the blanket, her fingers intertwined with yours.

"seventh grade," you said. "after you scored the winning goal against westfield. you were so pumped up on adrenaline you practically dragged me in here."

she laughed. "i told you i wanted to show you something important."

"and then you kissed me."

"and then i kissed you," she agreed. "best impulse i ever had."

you turned to look at her, at the face you had loved in so many different ways throughout your shared life. "we took the long way around, didn't we?"

jackie's expression softened. "maybe we needed to. maybe i needed to understand what i'd be missing if i kept making the wrong choices."

"and now?"

"now i know." she shifted onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at you. "i know that nothing—not popularity or parental approval or some cookie-cutter future—is worth giving up what i feel when I'm with you."

you reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face. "and what do you feel when you're with me?"

"real," she said simply, echoing words from a night years ago. "like i don't have to pretend."

you pulled her down to you then, a kiss that tasted of strawberries and possibility, of winters survived and springs renewed.

outside, summer was asserting itself—the sun high and hot, the world lush with life. inside the small shed, time seemed suspended, the past and future collapsing into a perfect present.

later, walking home with your hands swinging between you, unafraid now of who might see, jackie stopped suddenly.

"what is it?" you asked.

she was looking at you with an expression of wonder, as if seeing you for the first time. "i just realized something."

"what?"

"im happy," she said, sounding surprised. "actually, genuinely happy."

you smiled, feeling the truth of it in your own chest—a lightness that had been absent for too long. "me too."

as you continued walking, you thought about the cycles of seasons, how winter always gives way to spring, how spring inevitably yields to summer. how nothing is permanent except change itself.

𝒢𝜚 💭 ࣪ ✸ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ∿ yuri is life :3 who missed me?

TAGLIST :: @carvedtits @et6rnalsun @wovenribbons @waitforyrlove @ncm9696 @marrykisskilled @m4gz-png @ifwdominicfike @honeymoonchem @ch6rm @freshloveee @theapollochronicles @mattsdolll @jetaimevous @secretlocket @saturniolo

[bumblebee-is-best-boi]

Ok im gonna think of something related to this for my next TFFL … but since oneshots are short I’ll probably do a one song is the overall tone of the oneshot thing and bAM I’ll have five oneshots…

songs:

Not Me Mix by *67 (that one Washing Machine Heart remix)

Oh no! By Marina and the Diamonds

GMFU by Otedari (or whoever idk)

Again by Crusher-P

You are my sunshine by Christina Perri

extra one because it’s cool:

Let it go from Frozen (I’m definitely using this for Megatron)

hdhgshddyrrurrhrygytrdyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaa let’s goooooooooooooo

music (fanfiction) writing challenge!!

use your music taste to write a fanfiction or any story in this challenge!

first open your music app of choice and make sure your playlist is on shuffle -- then the first 5 songs that pop up will determine your:

Premise -- What your story is going to be about in the first place. What is going to be the main "selling point" of the story that sets it apart from the rest.

Main character -- Your main character's personality or inner struggle.

Main conflict -- The main conflict that drives your story and becomes an obstacle for your main character.

Vibes -- Is this going to be a light-hearted story? Angsty? Romantic? Whatever matches the vibe of the song.

Ending -- How this story is going to end.

yes, this is very vague, but that is the point! this can give you some ideas of what to write while also leaving plenty of room to be creative. feel free to switch up what songs represent what or even shuffle them a couple more times!

[maudie-duan]

"Suddenly, the subway announcer was calling out the next station, snatching Harry from the trance she had him in, but the words seemed distant, muffled by the harsh thundering of Harry's heart pounding against his sternum. Yet, he couldn't look away, and in that moment, surrounded by strangers in a moving metal box beneath the streets of Manhattan, Harry, the no-nonsense, perfectly level-headed editor, the very man who was skeptical of fate itself, felt something shift inside him."

Word Count: 5.7K

Warnings: None (Just Harry’s angsty heart pining for a stranger he’s too afraid to reach out too. 🥹)

Part Two by @cloudyluun coming soon!

Many have been told that fate exists in the silence of everyday life.

A delicate thread woven by the hands of the universe, they say, can hold the power to thread through our existence with a ghostly purpose, those quiet hands stitching along the seams of our lives. The same silent hands quietly toiling in the shadows, weaving tapestries of tiny, intricate moments that have the ability to bind all the wandering souls who were always meant to find each other.

The ones that were truly meant to be.

For those who choose not to believe might disregard it as sheer coincidence, while others may exalt it as divine destiny, but those who have been lucky enough to have felt its tender touch know the captivating truth it holds, and that is this: No matter what, when two hearts are destined to beat as one, the cosmos herself will plot to bring their souls together, and that's when you better be paying attention because even the destined can lose their chance.

For Harry, a thirty-one-year-old senior book editor, fate had always been something he edited out of manuscripts—call him skeptical or immune to the convenient literary device of so many storylines, but he had always thought it was nothing more than pure fiction.

That was until that Tuesday when October graced him with another beautiful day, when autumn painted Central Park in hues of amber and gold like something out of a hallmark movie, and that day the fated subway car on the Q line would become the destined setting for his very own unwritten story.

Because here's the funny thing about New York City: It's the perfect playground for fate to play its tricky hand, a majestic labyrinth of dreams and desires, where millions of souls brush past one another daily, the grind of everyday living—exchanging glances but rarely names—this is where fate is bound to perform its most breathtaking miracles, orchestrating silent symphonies of chances that transform those ordinary moments into timeless first chapters of the most unforgettable love stories, you know, the ones you always hear about, but never think it will happen to you.

And that day had begun like any other. 

Harry woke to the early morning light filtering through the half-drawn blinds, the soft glow relentlessly illuminating the stacks of manuscripts that had unconsciously become the permanent fixtures on his coffee table. 

Here was the daunting truth about Harry's life: it was orderly, most times predictable, his everyday routine the same day after day—wake up, strong coffee, shower, dress in his signature dark jeans and crisp button-down, and head to the office where he knew piles of words awaited his critical eye.

And he was fine with that.

He liked his routine.

He liked words even more.

Because that was the thing about Harry. He found comfort in words. They were constant, most often pliable under his experienced touch, forever showcasing his keen mind. He could always shape and refine them, help authors transform good stories into great ones. It was a skill that had earned him respect in the cutthroat world of New York publishing. 

At Fifth Avenue Press, he specialized in literary fiction—stories that illustrated the essence of the human experience, stories that made readers feel something deep to their core. Manipulating words like some sort of magic trick. It was a feeling he knew he could always cultivate.

And trust me, the irony wasn't lost on him that morning as he rushed to catch the train, barely slipping past the closing doors before they sealed shut behind him. The sad truth was that his own story lately seemed to lack any sense of inspiration. 

Over time, relationships had come and gone, each beginning with the promise of something different, but like many before, fading like a forgotten character in the countless abandoned manuscripts, leaving the faintest impressions—their passing presence now ghosts haunting the margins of his memory rather than occupying the blank pages still waiting to be filled.

All the spaces between the pages, waiting for a story to bind them together. His last girlfriend, if you can call her that, was a quirky gallery owner, the type with a passion for contemporary art, the kind that always had an opinion on everything. 

The relationship barely lasted six months; aside from the mind blowing sex, there was a sense of lackluster on his part, a withdrawal of emotions. In fact, her parting words were a bit of a startling realization—one night, tangled in the sheets, her thoughts made their way to the tip of her tongue.

Her thoughts were that he lived too much in his head, that he would much rather reside in the fictional worlds made up by his authors, then be in theirs. 

"It just seems like you're always looking for the perfect narrative arc," she forced past the lump in her throat during their final conversation, her gaze sad but determined, because she knew how many had come before her, knew the strength it took to endure this distant love.

And all Harry could do was watch the pain sweep over her features, the same look he had seen so many times, the words she was bound to say, but when she said:

"God—you're so brilliant, but I don’t think you understand that real love is messy. It doesn't follow some kind of act or whatever structure you seem to live by, it's not a formula, and I feel sad for you...for us." He didn't even argue—partly because he knew she was right, partly because maybe, just maybe, her criticism had revealed something about himself he wasn't fully ready to acknowledge.

"It's almost like you edit life instead of living it, and I don't think I can live like that," she had told him as she dressed in the silence of his thoughts, and when she walked out the door that night. He knew it was over.

The subway lurched forward as Harry grabbed the overhead rail, his messenger bag heavy with manuscripts pressing against his side. The car was crowded, the usual, a microcosm of blended souls—stuffy businessmen in suits, students with their backpacks slung over their shoulders, or Harry's favorite the overly frantic tourists consulting maps, praying that they won't get lost in the underground maze that is New York City, and somehow a place where everyone's energy ebbs and flows together in the rhythmic motion of the train.

A realm of its own.

Where you're forced to surrender to the beautiful chaos of chance encounters.

And that's when he saw her.

There she was, three seats away. Her face was partly hidden by a book, but not just any book. It was a well-loved, clearly treasured copy of "Pride and Prejudice." 

The feeling was immediate, a physical pull so unexpected that he could barely name the feeling as it raced up his spine. Was it attraction? Was it curiosity? What was it about her that seemed to draw his eye, his mind already at work, trying to fit the feeling into that familiar formula as if feelings were that easily justified.

It wasn't simply that she was beautiful, though she without a doubt was—yes, she was visually stunning, to say the least, were talking a profile that could have been sketched by a master artist, but that wasn't it no, it was the way she held the book, the way her fingers gently traced each page with such tender regard for the worn edges, the slight smile that played on her lips as she read, her eyes gracefully sweeping over the page.

Harry knew that smile all too well.

A knowing feeling.

The subtle curve of her lips as the words moved through her mind meant that she was fully immersed, drawn into the Austen universe, where etiquette battled want, where hearts had to navigate the injustices of social rules, always longing, forever wanting. Harry had guided countless authors through the many arcs of romance. 

At this point, Harry could distinguish a casual reader from those who truly engaged, where the boundary between reader and text dissolved into a world of utter devotion. This woman wasn't simply consuming words; she was inhabiting them, living and breathing the same air as Elizabeth and Darcy, feeling each heartbeat of the narrative as if it were her own, and for a moment, Harry stood there, lost in the imaginary world she was devouring page by page. 

Because he knew it by heart, because he knew it like it was his own.

Suddenly, the subway announcer was calling out the next station, snatching Harry from the trance she had him in, but the words seemed distant, muffled by the harsh thundering of Harry's heart pounding against his sternum. Yet, he couldn't look away, and in that moment, surrounded by strangers in a moving metal box beneath the streets of Manhattan, Harry, the no-nonsense, perfectly level-headed editor, the very man who was skeptical of fate itself, felt something shift inside him.

Jarring him as it coursed through his body. 

Only he knew.

And he watched her dumbfounded as she turned a page, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, still lost in the world that was hers as she continued reading, completely unaware of the earthquake ripping through Harry's world, happening just a few feet away from her—an earthquake that would have Harry reeling in the aftermath because that was just the beginning .

In the days to come, Harry found himself fixated on the idea of seeing her again, taking the same subway at the same time each morning. Standing in the same spot, his eyes scanning each car for the woman with "Pride and Prejudice." in her hand.  It became a sort of ritual, this search, this hope. The man whose routine was almost a religious act started leaving his apartment earlier, giving himself time to walk through the station slowly, checking each car methodically before settling into one.

It wasn't until a week later that he saw her again. 

Same book, different outfit, of course. Harry couldn't help the quickening of his pulse as he casually took a seat across from her, trying to play it cool as he pretended to check emails on his phone, all the while stealing tiny glances at her absorbed expression, hoping that maybe she'll look up from her book today.

What was her name? Where was she going each morning? Was she a student, a professional, or an artist? There were so many questions multiplying in his mind, Harry creating countless narratives with endless possibilities. As an editor, Harry was used to filling in the gaps, with a trained mind for seeing the potential in unfinished stories. But this was different.

This was real life, this was his life, suddenly full of a yearning he hadn't felt in years.

If ever in his life.

In his office at Fifth Avenue Press, Harry found himself distracted yet again, ignoring the manuscript before him—Another promising debut novel, something about a war, falling in love, and something else, but he couldn't remember—the kind of story that would normally captivate him seemed to fall to the wayside. 

His head was somewhere else, his thoughts drifting into daydreams about the subway, to the woman with "Pride and Prejudice," to the way her eyes had danced across the page with such ease, with such focus that he wished he had been sitting next to her, taking in the very words she was reading, truly getting lost in the world that had stolen her attention each time he saw her.

"Wow, Styles, you look like you've seen a ghost," Mia, a close colleague, was standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe of his office, "or maybe fallen in love..." She joked, shifting on her feet.

"I guess that’s the same difference in this city." She adds, sending Harry a questioning look, and walked off.

As she walked off, Harry sat up in his chair, trying to laugh it off, but her words lingered. Had he fallen in love? Better yet, had he fallen in love with a stranger? Or had he fallen for the idea of a stranger? The whole thing seemed ridiculous, the foolish stuff of the very romance novels he often edited with a critical eye. Was there something happening? 

He couldn't deny the anticipation he felt every morning as he woke, each day starting and ending with a vision of her. His whole day centered around the moment he stepped onto that subway platform—where the fate of his day rested on his sole desire of seeing her, and when she wasn't there, the disappointment that took him nearly matched the euphoria of seeing her. 

Two very different feelings, now creating a steady conflict within him.

And that scared him.

When October gave way to November, Harry's sightings of the "Pride and Prejudice" woman became more regular, which gave him something to look forward to. Tuesdays and Thursdays, his "Subway Girl' was almost always there, always with the same book. Harry could tell she was taking her time—her progress, a poised act, slowly burning through the pages, was evident as Harry kept track of the days. 

That's when Harry began to notice the tiny details, like the small tattoo on her wrist that he couldn't quite make out or the variety of scarves she had on rotation for the days the chill seemed to pierce right through you. His favorite, where the days he sometimes caught her mouthing the words as she read the notably enchanting passages, that he just knew sent a flutter of joy to the pit of her stomach.

Sometimes he would imagine her voice.

Was it soft and timid, or clear and confident? Would it be easy to make her laugh? Did she love Austen for the romance alone, or was it Austen's sharp observation about society? Was she the type to pick up on the deeper insights hidden beneath the romantic plot, or was it purely for the love story? Was she looking for love? Would she find him interesting? Interesting enough to pursue? Did she hold the same passion for books and literature? 

Did she notice him at all?

On the days he didn't see her, were the days he lived in his mind. Those days were spent constructing different scenarios where they would meet properly. Maybe she would drop her book, and he would pick it up. Or maybe one day the subway would be so crowded that they would be forced to stand side by side, and he would comment on her book. This was his new norm, weaving these intricate moments when he could just simply gather his courage and sit beside her, introduce himself, and ask about the book she seemed to love so much.

It was that easy. 

That simple.

But every time the opportunity arose, Harry hesitated, allowing the fear to set in. What if she were indifferent to the idea of someone approaching her on the subway? Because let's get real. How many people want to be bothered, especially on the subway, where people are just trying to get to their planned destinations without a fuss. What if the magic he felt was one-sided? What if the reality of the world he was crafting couldn't live up to the story he had created in his mind? What if he wasn't capable of the messy, unstructured nature of an authentic connection?

What if his Ex was right?

Harry was aware of the cruel twist of circumstance he found himself in, the line he was toeing. In his professional life, Harry was decisive and confident, rarely did he question himself, always firm in his judgments about what made a story work. Yet here he was, paralyzed by uncertainty in his own narrative—He knew rejection was a possibility, a steep slope he felt he would have to climb.

But was he willing to take the emotional risk?

On a Thursday morning in late November, Harry noticed she was nearing the end of "Pride and Prejudice." The realization brought a strange pang of anxiety to the pit of his stomach. All this time, he was so wrapped up in the idea of her and the book being their only connection. He never thought about what would happen when she finally finished. Would she start a new book? Would she take a different train? Would this fragile connection, this unspoken relationship, end entirely?

The very thought of her finishing the book seemed to torment him all day, and there he was, carrying each hopeless thought he had tried to push to the back of his mind, with him, crossing the threshold of his apartment that evening, in pure agony. 

The first thing he did when he got home was pull his own precious copy of "Pride and Prejudice" from his bookshelf. It was a beautiful edition, given to him by his literature professor in college, the slim margins filled with youthful annotations, reflections he thought he had surpassed at his current age, but maybe that was what love sought to find in us, that youthful gesture of not overthinking, to take that leap of faith, even if the outcome wasn't always guaranteed.

As he began to read, feeling a strange communion in knowing that somewhere in the city, she was reading these very words, he let his misery fall away, immersing himself in Austen's world. 

That's when Harry found himself drawing unwavering parallels. Was he, himself, like Darcy, too proud to approach her? Or was he, like Elizabeth, prejudiced against the idea that something so serendipitous could be real? Two souls on opposite plains, unknowing of the universe's plan, their fate nearly a missed connection. Could Harry's journey mirror Elizabeth and Darcy's misunderstanding to love? 

Because suddenly their journey felt personal, now a reflection of his own internal struggle.

November came and went, and there was December, sure to usher in a festive energy as holiday music spilled from storefronts, their elaborate window displays sure to make you a believer in anything magic, because all it would take was walking by the iconic Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree, and you were a goner. But this also meant in the publishing world, December brought chaos, full of holiday parties and end-of-year deadlines. This was the time of year Harry found himself working late, rushing manuscripts through final edits before the industry's collective pause for the holidays, snuffed out the fury. Yet, even in his busiest moments, thoughts of his "Subway Girl" remained.

She became his sense of comfort on the long, grueling days that left him with little chance for peace. Those were the days he imagined her in different settings—Maybe she was reading "Pride and Prejudice" in a cozy café that morning, steam from her Earl Grey tea curling around her as she turned the pages. What if she decided to stop in Central Park that afternoon? The weather was fair today, tolerable enough to sit on a bench for a quick respite before her next destination. Would she read it before bed, each worn page illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp as the city hummed outside her window?

These delicate imaginings became his solace on those trying days, a private world he could retreat to when those daunting meetings dragged on or when a manuscript failed to draw him in. In his mind, she became a companion, someone who understood the power of words, the magic of storytelling—someone who understood his world and everything that came with it.

The first snow of the season happened on a Tuesday. Bringing with it the feel of enchantment, the feeling that anything could happen. When Harry reached the subway platform, he stood there watching tiny white flakes drift down through the grated ceiling of the station. The moment the train arrived, he rushed inside, shaking snowflakes from his coat, and there she was—his “Subway Girl” sitting there, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her book open to the final chapters.

Harry’s heart fell as he took a seat nearby, close enough to see the text but not so close as to seem intrusive. She was reading the scene where Darcy and Elizabeth finally overcome their misunderstandings, when their love triumphs over pride and prejudice, and from the corner of his eye he caught the smile playing on her lips, that same familiar smile Harry had witnessed weeks ago, the first smile he ever saw on her face. 

Here he was, he thought, what a privilege this was—this sacred moment in time, a moment so rare, that he was going to be fortunate enough to witness yet another precious moment as she read about one of literature's most famous declarations of love, and he felt it running through him, that feeling, that same moment of communion. 

Here they were, two strangers on a subway, yet linked by the timeless words of Jane Austen, by the universal experience of seeing oneself in a story written centuries ago. He wanted to stay in that moment forever.

Desperate to manipulate the hands of fate. 

But then the subway announcer was breaking the spell. Harry looked up at the screen reading the listings for the next stop—Harry's stop. As the train slowed, he reluctantly gathered his things, hopelessly stealing one last glance at her. To his surprise, she looked up, meeting his gaze directly for the first time, and he was stunned into stillness as her warm eyes stared back at him, intelligent and curious. 

And for a heartbeat, they simply looked at each other, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them.

Two ships finally finding their harbor.

And here was the fear creeping in. 

Harry felt the words forming in his throat—hello, I’m sorry to bother you, I couldn't help but notice your book—but the fear was crippling, and before he could speak, the doors opened, and the flow of commuters came in with the same flurry of the morning, pushing Harry toward the doors, and onto the platform. 

He had to move. 

He couldn’t just stand there

And when he turned back, she had already returned to her reading, the fleeting moment lost in the relentless forward motion of New York City.

If Harry thought he knew torment before, this was that times ten folds. He couldn’t believe he would let the opportunity pass like that, and that evening, he would spend all his waking hours replaying the missed chance, to that brief exchange—that single glance, to the possibilities that had hovered in the air between them, so close he could have touched it. 

Shaken her hand. 

Anything.

When he thought he couldn’t take any more, he sat at his desk, opened his laptop, and began to write—no more edits , no more comments, but his own words, pouring out the waking thoughts that plagued him, tortured his mind. He would write about fate, yes, fate, about the chance encounter that sent a ripple through his world, about the woman on the subway, and the book that tethered them to one another.

What Harry didn’t expect was the way the words seemed to flow with ease, more easily than they had in years. So this is what he did, Harry wrote late into the night, filling page after page with reflections on love and literature, on the stories we tell ourselves about strangers, on the courage it would take to step from the imaginary realm in our minds into reality.

Something real, something tangible. 

As December passed with every snowfall that blanketed the city in a white winter wonderland, Harry began to notice a change in his “Subway Girl’s reading habits. She seemed to be slowing down, lingering over the final chapters as if reluctant to reach the end. Harry understood the feeling all too well—the bittersweet reluctance to finish a beloved book, to say goodbye to characters who had become friends, to leave all the moments each page brought you. 

Harry, too, found himself particularly struck by a line he had underlined years ago: "I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun."

And when he repeated to himself that morning:

“…I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun…”

The line would be forever burned to his memory. 

That very line, Darcy's humble description of falling in love with Elizabeth resonated so deep he could feel it in his bones. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when his fascination with the subway reader had transformed into something more profound, something that felt remarkably and utterly like love, yes, love.

He knew the thought seemed absurd—loving someone he had never even spoken to—yet the feeling persisted like a toothache, gnawing at his insides with longing, growing stronger with every passing week, with every chance he saw her. 

The week before Christmas, New York had fully transformed into a postcard vision that would take anyone’s breath away. That Thursday morning, Harry spotted her immediately as he entered the subway car. She was wearing a deep green coat, with a red scarf wound around her neck—holiday colors that made her look like a gift against the drab backdrop of the dull subway. 

And there she sat reading the final pages of "Pride and Prejudice.”

The page was resting between her thumb and index finger. The feeling that came with this knowledge became a slow crawl of longing down his spine, stretching through his body like sand, weighing him down, pinning him in place with every passing second. 

It’s funny how quick longing can turn to grief or were they the same thing? He didn’t know anymore. This was it—the end of the book, perhaps the end of this unspoken connection that had taken over his life. What would she read next? Would he recognize her without "Pride and Prejudice" in her hands?

Would she still be the same person in his mind? 

As the subway rumbled through the tunnels beneath the city, Harry watched as sorrow took him with the final turn of her page, a sweet smile playing on her lips as she read Austen's closing words, and just like that, she finished, closing the book slowly as she ran her fingers over the cover gentle with every movement as if saying goodbye to her old friends, keeping Harry in the moment with her. 

Then she looked up, and once again, her eyes met Harry's. This time, her gaze lingered, curious, maybe even recognizing him from their previous exchange. Harry’s heart picked up then, this was the moment—this was the exact opening he was looking for, the perfect Segway to bridge the gap between imagination and reality.

So he took a deep breath, preparing himself mentally to stand to his feet, to move toward her, to finally introduce himself, yes, you heard that right, finally introduce himself. But as he shifted in his seat, doubt dared to show its ugly face. What the hell would he say? How could any words live up to the story he had been creating in his mind? What if the mere reality of speaking face to face, shattered the perfect connection he had envisioned.

And like the many times before the subway announcer was calling his stop, the words moving like mudd through his ears. Harry hesitated, again, torn between stepping forward into the unknown and remaining in the safety of this private narrative that had been carrying him all this time. 

Then the train was lurching to a stop, the doors opening as commuters pushed past him, entering and exiting in the daily choreography of the city.

And all it took was a moment of hesitation. 

For Harry’s fickle mind to second-guess his quest, and in that moment of debilitating indecision, the woman with "Pride and Prejudice" slipped the book into her bag, stood, and moved toward the doors at the opposite end of the car. She was leaving, disappearing into the crowd, and with her every possibility that Harry had imagined.

Like a fool, he watched her go, a figure in green vanishing among the sea of winter coats, drifting further, and further. The doors closed with a finality that left Harry with the aching seed of regret already rooting itself into his disparaging thoughts, and as the subway continued its journey, carrying Harry away from what might have been.

He was left in the aftermath of every chance he never took. 

The days that followed seemed to open a hollow somewhere deep within. Harry found himself thinking about the choices we make, all the moments we let slip through our grasp. As an editor, he was accustomed to helping authors craft satisfying endings, to ensure that character arcs reached their natural conclusion. Yet in his own story, he had faltered in the crucial moment that mattered the most, and in doing so let his fear override possibility.

Christmas came and went. New York quieted briefly before gearing up for the New Year's celebrations. Harry attended the Fifth Avenue Press holiday party, mingled with authors and colleagues, discussed upcoming projects with enthusiasm. But beneath the professional conversation, thoughts of the woman with "Pride and Prejudice" persisted.

On New Year's Eve, as the city prepared to bid farewell to another year, Harry found himself walking through the snow-covered paths of Central Park. The cold air was bracing, clearing his mind as he reflected on the past months, on the strange, unspoken connection he had felt with a woman whose name he didn't know.

Perhaps it was better this way, he thought. Perhaps the magic had been in the not knowing, in the pure potential of what might have been. In reality, they might have had nothing in common beyond a love for Austen. The conversation might have been awkward, disappointing. 

Or maybe.

And this thought was almost too painful to contemplate.

What if they had connected? If they had stumbled upon that elusive connection. Two people discovering the rare act of destiny, forming the sacred understanding that comes when two souls glimpse something of themselves in the other, as if their souls had been whispering to each other long before their bodies ever met.

That night, as the city was bringing in the New Year, Harry opened his faithful copy of "Pride and Prejudice" to the final page, reading Austen's words about the happiness that Darcy and Elizabeth found in each other, about the hopeless journey they had taken to reach their happy ending. Harry thought about his own journey, about the woman on the subway, about the story that would remain unfinished between them. 

Maybe there was a beauty in that, too, he realized.

In the unwritten ending.

A hopeless beauty in the possibilities that would always exist in the realm of imagination.

And maybe that would be enough this time. 

So as the new year began, and like the rhythmic soul Harry was, he continued to take the same subway line, his eyes still scanning each car for a glimpse of the face he had come to cherish, sometimes searching for that familiar cover of "Pride and Prejudice." There were a few times he thought he had seen her in the crowd, only to realize it was someone else. Those were the times he would imagine what he would say if, by some miracle of the universe, they did meet again, the words he would finally find the courage to speak.

But as winter melted into spring, He never saw her, and when spring blossomed into summer, the sightings ceased altogether, and unfortunately, his life had to continue. There was always going to be manuscripts to edit, authors to guide. In the publishing world, Harry was known for his ability to recognize potential, to see the heart of a story beneath rough drafts and unpolished prose. He had seen the potential in "Subway Girl" and even glimpsed the heart of a story that might have been theirs. 

But some stories were destined to remain unwritten.

Some connections left unfulfilled.

And yet, in those quiet moments, when the city slowed and the noise was a low hum in the background of his mind, Harry would remember her—the way she held the book as if it were her most prized possession, that soft smile that turned up the corners of her mouth as she read, the brief, but lasting glance that seemed to have held a universe of possibility. 

He would remember, and in remembering, would feel in himself yet again that strange, spellbinding awareness that had come over him that first day on the subway—there was a certainty in his knowing, a certainty that fate, as elusive and unpredictable as it was, had whispered across his life, offering a promising glimpse of what might have been.

And now he had to let it go.

In the end, that would be enough.

This was the beauty of love that people fought to feel, to feel something powerful, something profound, something bigger than us. Even if Harry didn't get his happy ending, how many of us can say that they have been moved by the simple sight of a stranger reading a beloved book? Can speak of the peculiar magic they experienced in those fleeting moments. There was something to take away from this, Harry thought, that sometimes the most beautiful moments in our lives can occur in the most ordinary places. 

Maybe the true romance hadn't been with the woman herself, but in the boundless possibilities she had represented. She was more than just a woman with a book; she was the universe's poetry made flesh, a stunning reminder that even in a city of millions, loneliness can feel most acute to those who allow it, but maybe, if you allow fate to work her hand, those individual hearts could still have a chance at recognizing each other from across a crowded subway car. Perhaps, this was the beauty of love that poets sought to capture, those transcendent moments we only read about.

So this was it.

And as New York pressed on with its relentless pace around him, Harry carried with him the memory of those subway encounters like a sacred secret, his and his alone, a private story that would remain eternally in the realm of what might have been. Forever unspoken, forever unwritten, but no less real for having existed only in the space between two strangers who shared, for a fleeting moment, the same pages.

And those moments would forever be the space between the pages. 

A/N: You Guys! this was the fastest I've ever had to put out a story. Hope it doesn't show! What an experience! Thanks @cloudyluun for the first collab! 😘

Tag List: @kiwitsayedsugar @alohajix @harrywavycurly @sassamanda77 @panini

@unfuckwitablenarry @triski73 @haleyannaw

@dipmeinhoneyh @lizsogolden @spinninc

@iloveharrystyles04 @mema10 @harryyloverrr

Taglist Open -> My Growing Masterlist -> Talk to me

[tojigasm]

﹒୨𝑒 ﾟ ˖ ⠀Etienne

ᥫ᭡... Kylo Ren x female!reader

Warnings: reader is having a bad day | Kylo and Reader have an established "relationship" for fucking, these bitches are in love | angst | fluff | pet names | crying | kylo is a good dom <3 | NSFW Minors DNI

⊹₊˚ꕤ˚₊⊹ Inspired by Adam Driver when he was asked how Kylo Ren would be like in a marriage: "gentle, understanding, and tall"

You and Kylo have an arrangement – an unusually intimate relationship of sorts.

A relationship that bears the weight of the relentless stress and all-consuming anxiety of life aboard Star Killer Base.

A bond that has evolved, transforming from monthly rendezvous to weekly encounters, now nearly daily confessions.

One that has shifted, over time, into a more casual and complex knowing of one another — What once was an escape from the unceasing abuse you endured at the hands of your bosses, and the immense stress Kylo was routinely under evolved into a transformed comfort in the complexity of your shared presence.

And over time, since you've settled into that knowing of Kylo, into who and what he is, you've found yourself craving something from him. Something incorrigible and filled with an uncouth carnality.

Beneath the foreign simulacrum of your entangled existence lies the undeniable truth that you both are bound by your ordained roles.

You remain a submissive entity in Kylo's life, surrendering to his dominance in ways that leave little room for his own influence.

He takes, and you give.

And it flows both ways—he often reminds you.

Reminding you when you're buried in assignments, lost in data transfers, and consumed by meetings, to the point where you forget to eat or rest.

At times, he steers you away amidst the labyrinth of the base, pressing a piece of bread or fruit into your hands before marching off to whatever he was called off to next.

Other times, through the modulated hiss of his mask, he commands in a whisper;

'Eat.'

It's not often that you find yourself buckling beneath the stress of working among the First Order. You pride yourself in being a dedicated worker – After all, that's how your relationship with Kylo had begun, with him pulling you away to promote you. To acknowledge your commitment to the cause.

The usual days are filled with meetings, assignments, data control and input, finalizing plans, etc. So much happens so fast throughout the day that it's rare you have a moment to think of anything but your next task.

But today is just... different.

Everything seems to be moving in slow motion. your vision blurred in your meeting earlier, and you nearly walked into the wrong room to input your data and almost tripped on your own feet while walking throughout the base.

Kylo had caught a glimpse of you from across the hall while speaking with one of the lieutenants.

from anyone else's perspective, it would've appeared as though he hadn't even noticed you there, but you knew he was staring at you by the small twitch of his head towards you.

You'd been avoiding him.

Being vulnerable was not something that came easy to you. Being able to strip yourself bare and present your very being to someone or something was intimidating.

With time, the entangled web of your convoluted relationship began to unfurl. You had imagined Kylo would be the one to unravel at your hand.

To roll over on his back in trust that you'd take the reigns; rose-petal lips pushed into a petulant pout, tears stringing thick lashes together along his honey-amber eyes.

The brutal weight of his position; as an Apprentice of the First Order, does not go unnoticed to you.

The very thought makes you raw with nausea.

When the end of the day crawls to an end, you find yorself stumbling into your quarters, peeling off your uniform before falling onto your bed with a shaky grunt.

You can feel the tears welling up in your eyes. the sobs rolling up the back of your throat.

Your Datapad pings

"Kylo Ren requests your presence in his quarters"

Pulling yourself up from your bed with a groan, you throw on a more casual uniform and your boots before leaving your room and making your way towards Kylo's.

The walk across base from your quarters to Kylo's is about ten minutes, and with each step, you can feel your resolve, begin to break, and anxiety filling out every corner of your mind.

You know what awaits you behind the door to his room, and it terrifies you so – the intimate truth that he'll make you submit to him and yourself brings tears to your waterline.

When the door begins to slide open with a gasping hiss, you consider tucking tail and running. He'd catch you.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

In his room, you sit on his floor; his idea. The cool of the tile settles into your tight and hot skin, urging you to at least breathe properly while Kylo waits for you.

He's sat on his couch, watching you laid out on your back, your arm thrown over your eyes and bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you try to stifle the watery tone of your voice when he asks why you've come here.

And it's the truth. You had every ounce of control in the decision to visit him, as you've exercised throughout the past few weeks by choosing to ignore him.

You're not sure what you need. But you're completely sure you can't bring yourself to admit that fact.

Guilt gnaws at you as you curl up on the cold floor, your vulnerability laid bare. You choke on a wet sob, muffled by the skin of your forearm as you sink your teeth into yourself.

Kylo stands up from the couch to crouch beside your form, gently pulling your arm from over your eyes.

"I can't help unless you talk to me."

Kylo's voice pierces through the thick, hazy fog that envelops your mind. The ache in your head throbs against your skull.

You're just so —

"M'tired." Is all you can manage

You’re teetering on the edge, the weight of it all clawing at your insides, desperate to spill over and drown you. You want so badly to hurl it all at Kylo, to let him bear your burdens, to let him remind you in his brooding way that you’re not alone in this vast universe.

The urge shatter completely is a malignant beast, writhing and rooting itself in your lungs and gnawing its way up your throat, threatening to spill over in a vulgar torrent of sobs.

Kylo's voice cuts through the turmoil, distant, but you can feel him amidst the foggy cloud that's clogged your brain. Your ears suddenly feel stuffy, and you can't focus on the floor beneath you. His gloved hand wraps around your neck, anchoring you, dragging you back from the edge, his touch grounding you in the maelstrom.

You’re splintering, fragments of your mind breaking apart as you spiral into a maelstrom, unable to grasp at any semblance of calm.

"Settle," Kylo's voice slices through the madness, a stern anchor in your chaos.

A fleeting, grounding thought slips through: gratitude. Gratitude for his restraint, for not using the force to silence your brain, effectively 'shutting it off,' as you'd told him once.

He hadn't thought that was funny.

That was one of the first rules you set when this whole thing started—no forceful mind control. It felt too invasive, too overwhelming. But if ever the need arose, Kylo would know.

And he understood, like he always does.

Kylo's touch is steady, his fingers gentle yet grounding as they form a 'v' at the base of your neck. The way he squeezes and strokes, it’s a silent promise—a delicate balance between power and restraint, echoing the unspoken rules that warms beneath the surface of it all.

He soothes you, firm touch reminding you that he's here with you.

That he'll take care of you.

"What do you need?"

You've come to unravel Kylo. To know his existence and to understand that his offer stretches beyond the confines of what he can tangibly provide.

He's laid himself bare before you, stripped of all pretense, offering himself up in raw vulnerability, just as you've done for him countless times before.

There's an undeniable, visceral need between you – a deep-rooted wanting for Kylo to dismantle you, piece by piece. Meticulously reconstructing your shattered fragments into something whole once more.

In this raw, all-consuming bond, the edges of your souls bleed into each other, your desires twisted and inseparable, fueled by a primal, haunting need that neither of you can fully comprehend but both are helpless to resist. It's a dark baptism – a carnal need for Kylo to consume you.

To invade every corner of your mind and envelop your body with his own until you fuse together into one entity.

The pad of his thumb traces over your taut skin, and you instinctively press up against his hand with a sniffle, rising to settle back on your haunches.

Kylo's hold remains firm as he examines you, his gaze burning through every layer of your being, leaving you feeling exposed. A gentle hum simmers in your mind, and you feel yourself relax under him.

When you lean in, he meets you halfway, your teeth clashing and lips pressed against one another in a mess of desire and desperation.

His taste is a heady mix of vanilla and leather, intoxicating and overwhelming, as his strong nose brushes against your cheek.

His plush lips press against your swollen ones, and with a clumsy urgency, he pulls you into his lap, forcing you to straddle him. You're left breathless, inhaling through your nose as Kylo deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing the arch of your mouth before he captures your bottom lip between his teeth, sending shivers down your spine.

You're starving for him, desperation woven through every nerve rubbed raw and exposed under the rough of his leather gloves, the thick fabric of his cowl grazing your sensitive skin.

He's hungry for you. You crave to be devoured by him — to be completely consumed by him.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

"Stop fighting me." Kylo speaks lowly, gloved hands gripping the plush of your thighs, holding you open as his cock rests against your soaked folds.

Kylo remains fully dressed, opposed to your naked form under him; your clammy skin steams against the thick fabric of his heavy robes.

The stark polarity is routine.

He's got you propped up on the leather cushion of his couch; kneeling on the floor with his hands holding you open by the underneath of your shaky thighs.

You just can't relax.

"Can feel you tensing up," He states gently, the gloved pad of his thumb circling your skin softly, "You need to relax."

It's so hard.

It is so hard to just let your mind relax and relinquish your beingness in every waking second

Kylo knows you. Knows that you're tangled up in your mind, drifting aimlessly. You trust him to pull you back, as he always does.

And you're trying so hard to relax but with your tight hole clenching around nothing and the fat tip of Kylo's cock resting between your folds, it's beginning to feel damn near impossible.

"Canto?" he asks, watching your eyes keenly.

It takes you a moment to register the safe word and its meaning before you're adamantly shaking your head, mustering up a deep sigh in an attempt to relax yourself.

"I'm okay," you nod, pushing yourself up to rest on your elbows to look where your bodies meet, "Just-"

Kylo pulls away from you, and for a moment, you panic at the thought that this has gotten to be too much for him.

your panic must be evident in your expression by the way Kylo's eyes widen some, slipping your legs over his shoulders.

"You have got to relax."

"M'trying." You mumble abshadly, lowering your eyes.

"No, you're not," Kylo leans further down.

You're too tired and frustrated to argue back.

Kylo strokes the underside of your knee, "I'm just gonna help you out a bit. Can I do that?"

You nod, letting yourself sink back into the cushions of the couch.

Kylo's tongue runs flat against the sopping folds of your pussy, dragging it up to peck your clit.

He's quiet as he does so; dark and thick hair tickles the insides of your thighs and you nearly cum at the existence of Kylo Ren, an apprentice of the First Order, on his knees eating you out.

You must've said that thought aloud somehow because he makes an amused hum as he slips his tongue past your folds.

Your nails dig into the leather of his couch, and you give a light and shaky moan.

Kylo's hands move from their place on your hips to pull your hands up to rest in his hair to which you immediately seek purchase.

His nose bumps against your clit and you gasp, pulling at his hair to drag him upwards.

Kylo follows your lead, meeting your lips in a lazy kiss. Your taste on his lips pulls a sob from your throat.

"You okay?" he asks, pressing his forehead to your own.

You nod and Kylo leans back to slip his cock up and down your folds again. Your cunt easily swallows his length as he sinks into you.

"There we go," Kylo praises, pressing your legs back to their original position, spread out, and pressed flush against your chest.

The angle and your relaxed cunt pairs perfectly as he strokes the insides of your walls with his girthy length.

A small furrow of his brow lets you know he's enjoying this just as much as you are. You've come to know his tells.

You can never understand how he composes himself so well while you remain a writhing mess beneath him no matter the routine.

And you're so full with him that your thighs shake as Kylo takes hold of one of them and pulls it up to rest over his shoulder.

You nearly cum when he meets your eyes, gaze unfaltering as he presses a gentle kiss to your ankle.

The rock of his thrusts is piquant; rendering your mind numb and your body humming in response to his every touch.

"O-oh, Kylo," you nearly fucking purr, digging your nails into the fabric of his sleeve. The reminder of the power imbalance in your ranks sends a shiver down your spine.

Kylo presses himself into you at your sobs, thick fabric rubbing coarsely against your bare chest; adding a new layer of deliciousness to how full you already feel.

"See?" Kylo hums, the weight of him makes you keen, "It's not so hard to ask for help, is it?"

You feel like crying – suspended in an overwhelming haze of exhaustion and submissiveness.

Kylo.

Kylo is the only thing you can focus on in the heat of it all.

The weight of him, the stretch of his cock, his robes, his soft hair, his voice, his hands, his touch, his-

"Just need someone to take care of you, huh, sweetheart."

you're fully sobbing, chest heaving under him as the stress washes off of you.

You can feel Kylo pull out of you before you're being picked up. Your legs automatically wrap around his waist as he settles onto the couch, holding you in his lap.

Kylo shushes you softly, his strong nose stroking your soft skin as he presses kisses to your jaw and chin.

you grind into his lap, through the whirlwind of your emotion, sitll seeking pleasure from him, the ache of it throbbing in your heat.

"Need you," you sniffle into a sloppy kiss.

Kylo shuffles beneath you, moving you so that your cunt lines up with the fat head of his cock.

He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth as he sinks you down on him with a stifled groan.

Frustrated, you go to move only for Kylo to stop you. Bringing his hands from your hips up to cup your cheeks, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Just let me do it," He says softly, kissing the tip of your nose, "Let me in."

You're hesitant as you pulse around him before you give a soft nod, "Okay."

And in instant, you feel lightless; the weight of your stress and anxiety completely dissipates, absolved by the room and Kylo and the whole universe.

And in the same moment, he thrusts beneath you some, dropping a hand to your hip to help guide you.

You can't focus on anything but him as you rest your forehead against his.

"Let me take care of you."

His room feels and sounds comfortably quiet; the hum of the base disappears and there's nothing left but your gentle moans and Kylo's bated breath beneath you.

you can feel the force everywhere – inside of you, on you, with you. It's addicting and you grasp for Kylo in the fog of it.

"I know, I know."

your breath hitches, an inescapable sob falling from your swollen lips.

"You're so big," you say softly, almost a whisper of it on your lips.

Kylo hums, continuing your steady rock against him.

"R'you close?" You manage through a wine, wrapping a weak arm around his neck to hold you up.

Kylo nods against your forehead, "Yeah, sweetheart."

When you cum, the soft quiet of the room pulses around you – a warm hum that rides over your skin in waves.

Kylo's quick to follow when you whine and squeeze around his swollen length, pulling you down to him as he fills you.

You feel him press a kiss to your temple, smoothing your hair off of your sweaty forehead.

"Tell me what you need."

A deep sigh.

"Just you."

[bumblebee-is-best-boi]

I finally finished the OptiRatch oneshot

Its a little short, but wonderful

Here it is

vvvvvv

Dont Go.

The footsteps echoing throughout the medbay caught Ratchet’s attention, making his antenna and finials quiver for a slight second from the vibrations before settling. These were not the scampering footsteps of minibots, nor was it like any of the racer Autobots; these were the footsteps of someone big. Setting down his datapad, he turned around from his desk to look at who entered the medbay. Hopefully it wasn't some dumbaft who blew themselves up playing around with weapons, he had no patience for such patients anymore today… they kept giving him a helmache…

No… it wasn't even a patient at all. It was Optimus Prime… his lovely conjunx. His lovely, sweet, and elegant conjunx, his forever sweetspark, his everything… Ratchet couldn’t help but soften his gaze at the Prime. The sun was at just the right angle that made Optimus’s frame shimmer brightly in the rays of the sun. He was glowing, as if Primus was shining his divine light on him. Ratchet stared longingly at his conjunx’s frame before gaining his composure and professionalism, standing up straight and looking into Optimus’s optics.

Now wasn't the time to look at his conjunx like… that. There was work to be done… they could do anything they wanted in their quarters later when he was off his shift…

“Good morning Optimus.” Ratchet said before looking around and looking up at Optimus, slight fear dawning in his optics.

Their sparklings were nowhere to be seen!

“Where are Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, Smokescreen, Mirage, and Rodimus? Are they somewhere nearby? Are they anywhere in the base at all? Please don't tell me they went out scouting without telling anyone again…”

A hidden panic bubbled up in his spark. What if someone hurt them? What if they accidentally hurt themselves? What if the Decepticons kidnapped them? What if-

What if they were dead again?

Optimus noticed how scared Ratchet seemed and smiled, putting a stop to Ratchet’s worries, “They’re out racing. After the whole…” Optimus’s smile faltered, almost fading away, at this, but he composed himself and continued, “situation… they haven’t really been leaving each other’s sides. I think I saw Smokescreen clinging to Rodimus before they left with the others to race. I don't think Smokescreen will be letting go of any of them any time soon. I don't even think we can separate any of them from each other any time soon…”

“Understandable.” Ratchet sighed, averting his optics from the Prime’s gaze.

He also felt the same way. His conjunx and all of his sparklings except for one… had all died due to some battle that went way differently than everyone had expected… one that went from a simple battle… to an utter bloodbath… Thank Primus for bringing them back to life. This was probably one of the only times he prayed for Primus… he was lucky enough that his prayers were answered and he got his conjunx and sparklings back. But Ratchet couldn’t help but feel scared. What if all of a sudden, he would lose them again? His audial fins lowered at the thought… it had haunted him for solar cycles, stolen countless sessions of recharges from him… and brought him back to as horrible as he felt at the height of the war.

All of a sudden Ratchet realized that Optimus was still staring at him… how long had he been standing there now? Ratchet had completely lost track of time.

“Is something wrong, Ratchet? You seem… sad. Very sad, dear conjunx.” Optimus looked at Ratchet with a concerned expression on his faceplate.

Ratchet paused, then shook his head, “No… I’m fine. I'm really fine. Dont worry about me, I'll be okay. I promise, sweetspark.”

Ratchet knew it was horrible to be pushing Optimus away like this again, but he didn’t want to bother Optimus with his worries anymore. Optimus had too much on his plate already… being revived from the well of allsparks isn't fun, and Ratchet felt like he would just be a burden… which he hated. 

Of course, Ratchet knew that Optimus would notice that he wasn’t saying the truth, and Ratchet hoped that this time, Optimus would let it slide, and not make a big discussion out of it. They were both still dealing with the whole… death situation, and no matter how much they tried to avoid talking about it, it lingered over them like a shadow, waiting for its time to strike.

Not wanting to deal with it right now, Ratchet turned his focus back onto his datapads, hoping that the tenseness would dissipate. But when he heard Optimus leaving, he couldn’t help but say, in a voice that betrayed a great sadness:

“… Stay. Don’t go. Please.”

Optimus stopped and turned around to look at Ratchet, a concerned look forming on his faceplate. After a while of staying still, he eventually started walking back towards Ratchet. Wrapping his servos around his conjunx’s frame, he held Ratchet in a loving embrace, never wanting to let go.

“I won't. I’ll stay right with you, my sweetspark.”

“Please. I don't want to lose you again.”

“Don't worry, I don't plan on ever leaving, my dear dear conjunx.”

They stayed in their embrace for many moments, not wanting to let the other go… 

After a while, Optimus spoke up, breaking the silence: “Ratchet, I guess it's best for you to stop working, come along, have some energon, and spend some time with me… just for a couple of joors, okay?”

Ratchet looked up at Optimus. At this angle, Optimus’s optics looked like wonderfully polished sapphires; optics that could tell millions of years worth of stories, ones that were burdened with troubles, and yet so peaceful… What a wonderful sight.

But wait! He still had work to do… Ratchet looked at his desk, where the datapad was laying…

Frag it.

He went with Optimus.

..............................................................................................................................

@optimusprime-stuffs, @ultra-phthalo here ya go! (I forgot if you guys wanted to be tagged or not sorry T>T)

[tech-obssessed-shark]

TFFL Sentinel Prime

canniablism warning hehe:

Imagine having your own limbs torn off in front of you and being eaten like a salad. You’re forced to watch not because they want to hurt you, but because they just can’t be bothered to kill you yet. They think it’s funny because of COURSE it is. Ha. Knowing that you can only watch because what else can you do.

“He was just eating my own limbs! In front of me! Like I was nothing but scrap- And you know the worst thing about it- I couldn’t think about anyway to get out of it! All I could do was sit and watch… I didn’t even have the hope that someone would come and save me, because I know that nobody would.” -TFFL Sentinel Prime

haha yeah me and @bumblebee-is-best-boi were talking and I kind of made Salad Prime my son now so yeah I’m just going to put this here-

[meganegatari]

SUPERBLOOD WOLFMOON | teaser + summary

♡: spider!ellie williams x reader

FULL SYNOPSIS: in a city shrouded with mystery, lovable loser ellie williams leads a double life. by day, she's an ordinary young adult. she juggles her studies, a boring job at a run-down record store for a few extra bucks, playing guitar in her free time, and ignoring your texts, the usual. but by night, she transforms into a famed superhero, beloved by the country. she's there when any problems arise, whenever she is needed to sort a squabble out. however, maintaining anonymity as arachnelle is of utmost importance to her. she vowed to take that to her grave, it was just easier this way, keeping her life split in two.

as her most dear friend since the earliest days of childhood, you've always sensed there was a lot more to her than meets the eye, and in recent times your suspicions have reached an all-time high, with her being even more strange and avoidant than usual. your patience is running thin, as well as your curiosity rising, and you cannot help but pry into her affairs. but as you delve deeper into her secrets, you uncover a horrifying web of intrigue, crime, and danger, with a shadowy figure known only as the "claw" pulling the strings from behind the scenes, and potentially being the very source for any and all peril occurring in the city. amidst the whirlwind of chaos, blossoming romantic feelings begin to accumulate for your best friend, only complicating the already bizarre relationship between the two of you more. as you become entangled in this whole ordeal which all started with a few simple peculiarities—a fiasco you never grasped the true severity of before diving headfirst in—you'll traverse the labyrinth of hidden truths and city-wide corruption, all while grappling with your own personal emotions and doubts at the core. you'll be forced to face the daunting question of how much risk you're willing to endure in pursuit of the complete truth, and whether the sacrifices made along the way were truly worthwhile in the end.

read this first! ▪︎ daily click ▪︎ series playlist ▪︎ series masterlist

☆: yeah i can't keep a single thing to myself like ever i'm wayyyy too impatient and excited to share new things. new series!! i'm sososo hyped for this one :) lmk if you'd like to be added to the series taglist whichever way! the formatting of this is nicer on desktop trust me...

[margaretkart]

I have no idea why some people have the general misconception that Ariadne is "boring" because her story isn't like every modern day retelling but here are some proofs of Ariadne definitely being anything but boring:

She was clever enough to help Theseus escape the labyrinth.

She stood up to her powerful family to do what she felt was right.

She made a selfless choice to save lives, even if it meant betraying her own people.

She grew up surrounded by fear and death, and still acted with compassion.

She was abandoned by Theseus after everything she did for him.

She was found by Dionysus and married him she didn’t stay broken.

She fought beside Dionysus in his mythological wars.

She became a goddess and was worshipped across the Greek world.

Her cult was especially important in Naxos, where people saw her as a protector.

In some versions, she shares in Dionysus’ divine power and is one of the few mortals to fully become immortal.

Ancient Greeks saw her not just as a wife, but as a symbol of renewal, passage, and divine transformation.

Ariadne's story in general is about the women who go through tremendous phycological damage due to toxic parenting. We can of course understand the complexity of her parents, but her every year seeing innocents die and her half brother being a monster, would have been overwhelming. Yet she desired to be free and break the cycle of abuse. She also is for the girls who get heartbreak from a first love, only to find a second chance in romance and live happy.

Her story it’s human, brave, painful, relatable. She doesn’t need to wield a sword or start wars to matter. Her strength is in her choices, her endurance, her compassion, and the quiet way she changed everything around her. Stories like hers remind us that softness isn’t weakness, and that transformation, love, and survival are just as heroic as any battle. It's time we stop measuring worth by how loud someone fights, and start seeing the depth in the ones who carry in their silence.

[marzipanny]

MY KINGDOMMM FOR A HOOORSE

manolo, prince of the fae for @marzipanny's fantasy au =^0^=)

+ extra of jenn aftermath of antagonizing a fae prince -_-

[nothingbutsweetwords]

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ

"…ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ."

Word count: 4,900.

Fandom: House of the Dragon.

Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.

DISTANCE — 10. Him.

When she left King's Landing, it was as if a black shadow had settled over the entire city, a dark suffocating mist smothering any ray of light despite the sun's bright rays. The Red Keep became cold and hollow. It transformed into a labyrinth of echoes from shared memories, now faded in time, like a persistent lament that could be heard in every corner. 

As the days passed, he sought refuge in a rigorous and emotionless routine. Breakfasts became occasions for his mother's presence, and lunches were spent with his sister, though the conversation lacked the vimness it once had. 

It was a comfort, albeit a fragmented one. Alicent was always attentive, quick to notice every visible need. However, her affection manifested in an attempt to keep him safe, shielding him from any perceived dangers, but not from the stormy sea of his own emotions. She was aware of his pain, but they never spoke openly about what truly troubled him, fearing that stirring those deep waters might overflow them. Instead, she offered practical advice and an outward calm that barely touched the surface of his emotional distress. 

Helaena, with her serene and enigmatic nature, was a peculiar source of comfort. Her visions and whispers, often cryptic, seemed to touch the chords of his deepest thoughts, as if she could see beyond the obvious. In her presence, he found fleeting moments of peace.

The loss of her usual brightness after her marriage to Aegon only accentuated the air of affliction in the castle, revealing a wound in her soul that resonated with his own. It was clear that neither of them had wanted that union, but it was she who had suffered a brutal clash between her ideals and a starkly different reality she faced.

Despite this, she often repeated to him that phrase he had heard for the first time so many years ago, accompanied by a small, wistful smile: "Our wait will be rewarded." 

He found it increasingly difficult to hold onto trust in those words. They had become a thin fragile thread, turning his faith into a dull ache and keeping him anchored to a life that felt increasingly distant and unrecognizable.

Her absence left him with an overwhelming void, a sense of loss so profound that it seemed to consume every corner of his being—worse even than the loss of his eye, as if a part of his soul had departed with her, his best friend, his love. 

He wrote to her many times, pouring into the pages a torrent of emotions he couldn't express aloud. Each one contained a silent plea for a response, a sign that she still thought of him. But her replies never came, and with each day of silence, his misery grew like a storm that besieged him without respite.

He immersed himself in a series of mental scenarios, imagining every possible reason for the lack of response. Had she heard about his indiscretions the night before she left? Or was she angry because he hadn't allowed her to visit when she needed him the most? 

He tried to convince himself that she needed space, that time and distance would heal their wounds, but as the weeks turned into moons, the lack of words became an increasingly heavy burden, leading him to question and finally accept that, perhaps, he deserved the silence.

Sometimes, when fate offered a reprieve and luck favored him, he would see her in his dreams, even if they were tumultuous. In them, she would drift away whenever he tried to reach her, her expression distraught at his sullied touch. The pain of her absence mingled with the fleeting joy of seeing her face again, creating a cut that seemed impossible to heal.

There were moments when he nearly mounted Vhagar, to escape the place where his memories kept him imprisoned, and fly to her. But fear and insecurity held him back. His heart, wounded and fragile, couldn't bear the possibility of meeting a version of her who no longer wished to see him. The thought of facing that rejection was too devastating.

His connection with Vhagar was another of the few true comforts he had left. Flying with her offered a breath from his earthly troubles, a sense of freedom and power that he found nowhere else. However, even this source of relief was restricted. His mother feared the dragon, not just for her size and might, but for what she represented: an unbridled power and independence that she could not control. With maternal concern deeply rooted in her, she limited his opportunities to fly, fearing that something might go wrong.

He and his siblings were now only permitted to fly during royal journeys, which had drastically decreased over the years, along with the king's health. 

These limitations felt like heavy chains pressing down on him more and more. His desire to fly, to feel the wind on his face and Vhagar's roar beneath him, was an essential part of his being—a way to feel free and leave his worries behind if only for a brief moment. Every time it was denied to him, the frustration and resentment grew, adding to the tangled web of conflictions that tormented him.

He threw himself into his studies with an almost obsessive intensity, as if each text and lesson could offer a distraction. This rigorous pursuit of knowledge was more than just a means to an end; it was a way to drown out the loneliness that gnawed at his insides.  Instead of confronting his pain, he buried it under a façade of determination, finding in discipline another means of desertion.

Physical training became another outlet. Every sword strike, every grueling exercise, was a cathartic release, a way to channel his frustration and sadness into something tangible. He often pushed beyond the limits of prudence, driving his body to exhaustion. 

The relentless ache became an inescapable companion, following him even in his busiest moments. Despite his efforts to keep his mind focused on other tasks, the image of her smile and the echo of her laughter lingered like ghosts that refused to be exorcized. 

He found himself wondering, with a knot tightening in his chest, if she had forgotten him, if she had found a new life on the island and no longer thought of him. This uncertainty consumed him inside, like a flame that never went out.

The nights were especially cruel, filled with restless tossing and turning as his mind replayed memories and imagined scenarios. The fear of having lost her forever and the guilt for not having done more intertwined, creating an internal struggle that left him exhausted and unable to find sleep. 

As the months stretched into years, he adapted to an existence where her absence was a constant. Yet, he never stopped missing her, nor did he stop yearning for the joy her presence had once brought into his life. It was a quiet, persistent longing that he learned to live with.

His kind sister continued to bring him fresh roses every week, a simple yet constant gesture that tried to fill some of the emptiness. Sometimes, in his frustration and pain, he rejected them, leaving them to wither untouched. Other times, in a fit of desperation, he would throw them away, as if by doing so he could uproot the feelings that consumed him. But there were moments when, with an almost reverent stillness, he would lean over them, breathing in their fragrance and letting the soft petals brush against his skin, searching for a trace of the connection they once shared.

On one particularly lonely night, he dusted off the gift she had given him, a tangible symbol of their bond. He wore it with pride, like a talisman against the encroaching sadness. Next to the cherished case, on his nightstand, he kept a piece of the sapphire. Each time he looked at it, he imagined her, and clinged to the memory of her with all the strength he could muster. It was a small comfort, a glimmer of the love and friendship that had once been his.

He was sitting at the table, engrossed in conversation with his mother. It was a quiet breakfast, one of those rare moments of peace they could enjoy together lately, as she had been increasingly occupied with court matters. 

She was giving him news about Daeron and the impending arrival of some nobles for the festivities in his father's honor. Everything seemed routine, just a simple update on the day's affairs. 

But then, almost as if it were of no consequence, she mentioned: "A raven has arrived from Dragonstone." Her tone was casual, almost offhand, as if she were talking about the weather or some other minor detail. However, the words fell like lead. "Rhaenyra and her family shall be joining us."

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. He stopped eating, his fork halted midway to his mouth, and he sat motionless. His mind went blank, struggling to process what he had just heard. She, the girl who had filled his thoughts and dreams for all those years, would be returning.

Alicent, keenly aware of her son's reaction, watched his face carefully. Despite her attempts to maintain an air of indifference, her eyes showed a flicker of concern. She knew the significance of the announcement for him, and though she tried to downplay it, she couldn't ignore the palpable tension that hung in the air.

He finally set the fork down, his mind swirling. He tried to maintain his composure, but the lump in his throat and the quickening of his beatings were hard to hide. "When, precisely?" he asked, his voice taut with barely suppressed anxiety.

"A few days before it begins, I suppose" she replied, not taking her eyes off him. "Nothing to be concerned about." But they both knew that was far from the truth. The news was anything but trivial. Her arrival was not just another court event; it was an emotional earthquake threatening to shatter the fragile calm he had painstakingly built over the years.

As the days crept closer to the celebrations, the nights grew longer and more sleepless. He found himself going over every possible encounter, every word he wanted to say to her. Anxiety gripped him, a gnawing fear that she had changed, that the woman he had loved and lost might no longer exist in the form he remembered. The thought that perhaps nothing remained of what they once shared was a weight he couldn't bear, leaving him on edge.

The days passed wrapped in a fog of anticipation. The news loomed over him inevitably and followed him wherever he went. The arrival of servants from Dragonstone only intensified this sense of imminence. 

Among these newcomers was Lyra, the lady-in-waiting who, years ago, had wished him a happy birthday with genuine warmth. Now, however, her gaze was tinged with disapproval, her brows furrowed, and her expression hardened. He felt each of these gestures like a small sign of what was to come, amplifying his own discomfort.

He had set aside the books, as they no longer worked; the words blurred in his mind, and he was unable to concentrate. Instead, he spent those hours wielding the sword, until the skin of his palms became rough and calloused. 

One day, waiting for his sister for lunch, he anxiously eyed the usual vase of roses, which already appeared wilted. Helaena arrived with a smile he hadn't seen in a long time, it was bright, contrasting with the gravity of his own thoughts; however, she did not bring new roses as she usually did. 

She noticed his unease and, in a casual tone, remarked, "you shan’t need them for some time, I believe." 

During lunch, she spoke with overflowing energy, filling the silence of the room. He, though less communicative, felt relieved by her presence and liveliness. 

As they finished, he accompanied her to the door. She bid him farewell with contagious cheerfulness and went to her room, leaving him deep in thought. He lingered in the hallway, contemplating the change in her demeanor, wondering what she had meant.

Just then a roar from Vhagar echoed through the air, strong and clear. It was soon followed by another. The sound, different from usual, carried a tone of joy, almost of celebration. It caught his attention, pulling him from his reverie. 

Nervous and conflicted, he closed the door and sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands. He didn't feel ready for what was coming; the feeling of losing control overwhelmed him, it was a sensation he despised more than any other.

After some period of introspection and as the commotion on the floor of the chambers died down, he decided to head to the yard. There, more crowded than usual, he found the usual scene: guards and nobles training fervently. Criston Cole waiting for him, stood ready, morningstar in hand.

"Are you ready, my prince?" Criston asked, his voice laced with challenge and a slight smile playing on his lips.

He nodded, taking a wooden shield and a sword from the armory table. They both faced each other, taking their positions. With every muscle tense and alert, he began to move his body, eager to release the pent-up nerves consuming him.

Criston was the first to attack, his movements swift and precise. He, instead, chose to maintain a defensive stance, blocking and dodging. He heard each clash, the impact of metal against wood and the crunch of the ground beneath their feet. 

As the fight progressed, Cole increased his aggression, launching more powerful attacks. At one point, he managed to hit his shield, splintering and breaking the wood. He threw the remnants aside, adjusting his grip on the sword. Even without a defense, he kept his composure, with more calculated movements. 

They moved in circles, gauging each other's reactions. It was then that he spotted his nephews among the spectators. The sight of him, whom he had not seen since the attack that cost him an eye, ignited a flare of anger within him. He bitterly remembered the injustice of that day, how Lucerys had emerged unscathed while he bore the scar, a permanent reminder.

Criston, sensing the shift in his energy, redoubled his efforts, but he, driven by a surge of emotion, held his ground. With precision, he found an opening in Cole's defense. With a quick and decisive maneuver, he ended the fight with the sword pressed against his opponent’s neck, securing a clear victory. The yard erupted in applause and murmurs.

Criston, breathing heavily, looked at him with a mix of respect and pride. "Well done, my prince. You’ll be winning tourneys in no time" he said, with a playful smile.

He had little interest in such spectacles. He viewed tournaments as mere displays, insufficient to measure a warrior's true worth. 

Aemond, with heavy breathing, replied firmly with an icy tone: "I don’t give a shit about tourneys." Then, with his gaze fixed on his nephews, he addressed them "Nephews, have you come to train?" The question carried a sharp edge, a latent provocation that resonated with the unresolved hostility between them.

The young men remained silent, their expressions serious. Without waiting for a response, he turned back to the armory table and took another shield, determined to continue.

As he walked behind his mother, his gaze was fixed ahead with his siblings flanking him on either side, all heading towards the hall where breakfast would be served. 

The night before, she had been absent from supper, and while he felt a temporary relief that the encounter had been postponed, it was mixed with the sadness of not having seen her.

As he entered the room, his heart skipped a beat. His gaze instinctively sought her among the others, and when he found her, it felt as though time had stopped. He tried to walk with apparent calm, though inside, a battle was raging. 

She was watching him too, and in that brief moment their eyes met, he felt a jolt course through his body. None of the fantasies he had harbored about this moment could have prepared him for the reality. She was completely different, yet unmistakably the same, her essence unchanged. 

She was more radiant than he had ever imagined. There was an air of dignity, confidence and grace in her bearing that left him breathless. There was a dignity in her presence, a poise that was almost otherworldly, captivating him beyond mere words. Her gaze, filled with a subtle strength, seemed to pierce through his defenses, making him feel as though he were standing on the precipice of an emotional abyss. 

He quickly averted his eye, fearing that his emotions might overflow if he maintained contact any longer. He took his seat, and the ensuing silence was almost palpable, heavy with tension and unspoken feelings.

As breakfast progressed, he tried to maintain his composure, but his mind was in turmoil. Every gesture she made, every word she spoke, was a new wave crashing over him. Seeing her after so long was both a blessing and a torment. His hands clenched together on top of the table as he noticed her eyes following him, her gaze inscrutable.

She was even more enchanting than what he thought was possible. The maturity of her features only served to enhance her natural allure, making her beauty more profound. Her face, framed by the dark cascade of her curls, seemed to shine with an inner light. 

Every detail, from the way her eyes sparkled with hidden depths to the delicate curve of her lips, revealed the woman she had become. Her attire, the deep black fabric draping elegantly over her, accentuated her striking features.

Each glance at her was a painful, bittersweet reminder of the time past and lost. 

His mother’s words echoed in his mind: “Nothing to be concerned about.” Everything in him was concerned, everything in him was engaged.

The mere mention of Dragonstone seemed to light up her face; the joy in her expression and the smile he adored were unmistakable. At that moment, he knew her stay would be temporary. She had found a new home, a new life away from him, and the realization was like a dagger.

Upon learning that she had become a dragonrider, he felt a profound joy for her. He recalled the long nights they had spent talking about dragons, imagining what it would be like to fly. He wished he had been there to see her take flight for the first time.

When the king remarked, “The mount of the Good Queen Alysanne. It suits you well” and Helaena, by his side, nodded slightly, a dark fear settled in his chest. It was a gesture laden with foreboding that he was reluctant to explore.

A few hours later, he found himself having lunch with Helaena in her room. The soft afternoon light filtered through the windows, bathing the space in a warm golden glow. Despite the cozy atmosphere, he was lost in thought, his mind still dwelling on the events of that morrow and the memories they had stirred.

Helaena, ever perceptive, noticed his distraction. “Brother” she said softly, her voice filling the room with calmness. When he looked up, she was watching him with a tender expression. “Are you well?”

He hesitated, the words he had kept buried for so long finally emerging. “Will we be together?” he asked quietly, his uncertainty and longing for answers evident. He trusted that fate had its own path, but he needed to know if there was any possibility of a future for them.

She tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful as she chose her words carefully. “Some things will depend on you; others are already woven into the fabric of destiny. But I have found that after a long winter, summer is appreciated more” she replied with a wisdom that seemed to come from a deep place. His brows furrowed with a hint of concern. “But you must always keep the door open.”

He nodded, caught between optimism and resignation. He bid farewell to Helaena, each step he took feeling heavier under the weight of her words. As he opened the door, he found himself face to face with the person who had been occupying his thoughts. For a moment, he was caught off guard, stunned by the unexpected encounter.

“Niece” he greeted with a courteous gesture, inclining his head

“Uncle” she replied with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, a barrier he recognized immediately. “I was looking for Helaena.”

“Of course” he said, stepping aside to let her pass and holding the door open for her. With another polite gesture, she moved past him, her presence filling the space of the room. Helaena gave him a small knowing smile as the princess entered.

He let out a long weary sigh as he closed the door, feeling a growing sense of unease. 

That night, after a long bath, he once again found himself unable to sleep. Sitting at the edge of his window, he gazed out at the clear sky while idly spinning a sapphire between his fingers. The distant roar of Vhagar echoed, and the restless tides mirrored his own agitation.

With a long sigh and a sudden resolve, he adjusted his patch back in place, rose and walked toward the fire crackling in his room. Lighting a candle, he moved quietly towards the back door, leaving the sapphire behind. 

It had been years since he last opened it; since that night, he had avoided the path, as if keeping it shut could keep that memory at bay. Now, driven by an unknown force, he opened it swiftly and stepped into the hallway.

A light from the other end caught his attention. It was her, holding a candle, walking toward him with a serious and determined face. Upon seeing him, her eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. They both stopped in their tracks, staring at each other. Words crowded in his throat, unable to be spoken.

“I wished to speak with you” she said softly, breaking the silence gently. He nodded, still silent, fearful that his voice would betray him. “Shall we go to your chambers?” she suggested, her tone firm but laden with silent expectation.

He nodded again, feeling foolish for having been paralyzed. He gestured towards the way, even though she knew it by memory. Stepping aside to let her pass, his heart pounded with a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm. She pushed open the door that had remained ajar and entered with the same familiarity of years past.

He closed the door behind them and approached cautiously. She moved to the window, where the moonlight bathed her in a silvery glow. He noticed then how she was dressed, wearing a robe over her nightgown and her curls disheveled, contrasting with the elegance of the breakfast, yet to him, she looked utterly divine.

She faced him. A pang of sorrow struck him at her expression. “Why?” she asked, showing a vulnerability that made him feel even more guilty.

“Why what?” he replied, dreading what was to come.

“Why did you never come to see me?” The question felt like a dagger, striking with precision. He looked at her, feeling a knot in his stomach.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words escaped him. Finally, he found his voice, though weak. “I did not know if you wished for my presence” he murmured, his words sounding hollow even to himself.

She looked at him as if unable to believe what she was hearing. “Is this some jest? I asked you so many times” she said, her tone incredulous. He furrowed his brow. “Did my letters mean so little to you that you did not even take the time to read them?” she added, her bitterness palpable.

He felt as though the world was swaying beneath him. “What letters?” he asked, trying to process everything, his voice softer, trying not to alarm her further.

“The letters!” she said, her words laced with indignation and sadness. “The ones I sent you” she continued. “I thought we had something special. Did I imagine it?” Her tone trembled with emotion. “I waited for so long, I wrote to you so many times, like a fool.” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands. “I hoped… I hoped for a response, a visit, something to let me know you hadn’t forgotten me.”

He took a step forward quickly, his heart pounding against his chest, feeling an urgency he could not ignore. “You wrote me?” he asked, incredulous.

She lowered her hands, her eyes burning with impotent fury. “Do not mock me” she said, turning away, looking out the window again.

He followed her, overwhelmed by a newly discovered helplessness and a fluttering hope of reconciliation. “I wrote to you as well, hundreds of times” he tried to meet her gaze, seeking some glimmer of understanding. “I swear this to you, by all the gods” he pleaded.

“I never received a single letter from you” she replied, finally looking at him with her beautiful eyes shining under the moonlight, her anger softening momentarily with disbelief.

"Nor did I. Not one. Had I received any, I would have come to you at once. You must believe me," he said, “I thought you did not want to hear from me” he whispered desperately, his deepest fears laid bare.

“Why would I not?” she asked, still with a hint of distrust in her eyes from the revelation. Everything seemed so absurd and cruel, yet he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. 

She shook her head, her steps carrying her nervously back and forth in the room, her mind working frantically to understand. “It does not make any sense” her voice was a barely audible murmur, more to herself than to him. “Why?” She continued to mutter, her voice filled with a mixture of frustration and anguish, while he merely watched her.

Suddenly, she turned to face him, her eyes searching for an answer he did not have. “Are you not upset about this?” she asked, her voice rising slightly, annoyed.

He continued to watch her, feeling a strange sense of peace amid the chaos. "I cannot find it within myself to be angry at this moment," he replied, "not when you are here before me once more." His voice was filled with a sincerity that surprised even him.

There were so many emotions at play, so many unresolved things, but at that moment, all that mattered was that they were face to face once more.

“I never stopped thinking about you, wondering why I never heard from you, missing you.” He wanted to reach out, touch her, somehow close the distance that had formed between them, but he couldn’t. “I never wanted to lose you.”

“Is that true?” she asked, almost whispering. “Did you truly never stop thinking about me?” She looked at him, her eyes filled with unshed tears. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, and in that shared silence, he understood the magnitude of what they had lost and what they might still recover.

He took another step towards her, his expression sincere. “Never” he said firmly, hoping she could see the truth in his eyes. “Not for a single second.”

She looked at him, her expression softening, and bit her lip, struggling to hold back the flood of emotions.. But the pain and confusion were still present, like a shadow that refused to dissipate. “This is… too much” she murmured, shaking her head slightly.

He nodded, understanding the enormity of what they had just uncovered. “I understand” he said softly. “Take all the time you need.” 

She turned, intending to leave the room, and he followed, prepared to escort her to her door. But just before they could move too far, she suddenly stopped and turned back to him. In an impulsive move, she threw herself at him with force, wrapping her arms around his waist in a desperate embrace. She pressed her face against his chest, her hands clasped tightly on his back, holding him with an intensity that suggested she feared losing him forever if she let go.

He, taken aback by the gesture and despite feeling he didn’t deserve her pure affection, couldn’t help but reciprocate the embrace. He wrapped his arms around her with a tenderness he rarely showed, letting himself be carried away by the moment. He rested his face on the crown of her head, breathing deeply, the sweetest and freshest scent of roses filling his senses, enveloping him in an intoxicating warmth.

It was a silent comfort. He realized how much he had longed for this contact, this closeness, more than he had even admitted to himself.

"I'm sorry" she murmured against his chest. "I'm sorry for everything." Tears began to fall, dampening his shirt. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his body.

She lifted her head, her eyes shimmering with something more. He found himself getting lost in that gaze. “What do we do now?”

With a gentle smile, he caressed her cheek with his thumb, wiping away a tear that had escaped. "I won’t let us be separated again" he promised, his voice firm yet tender. “If you will allow me, I wish to mend what has been broken.”

She nodded, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to shrink to the small space between them, where only the two of them existed.

@helaenaluvr @purplegardenwhispers @callsignwidow @squidscottjeans @scarletbedlam @fics-i-love-and-recommend @oh-you-mean-me @fossface @truly-abysmal

[atamascolily]

Countdown to Homulilly

Like Walpurgisnacht before her, Homulilly's formal entrance to the narrative is heralded with a the whirring of a projector and dramatic countdown using film leaders (though technically speaking, she's been there from the very beginning as both Homura and the entire false Mitakihara). I've already talked about how Homulilly's countdown signs evoke Walpurgisnacht's, so I won't go into too much here except to say that the Rebellion Production Note explicitly confirms as much; instead, I'll focus on what else is going on in this sequence as the rest of the Holy Quintet braces themselves for impact.

Rebellion thrives on surrealism and dream-logic, and it's unclear how much is meant to be taken literally here. The stylized format makes it feel like we are watching actors on a stage as they prepare for a big scene, and I don't think that's a coincidence.

Regardless, note that of the girls are already transformed and wearing their magical girl costumes, presumably because the city going up in flames as the biggest Nightmare of them all gets going and they are the only ones who can deal with it, even if only Sayaka and Nagisa/Bebe have the mental framework for what is actually happening.

First up is Madoka, hiding behind a wall of ticking clocks. Unlike the clocks chiming midnight that marked Homura's revelation of her witchhood, most of these clocks are set for 4 am--which, along with midnight, is known as "the witching hour". (There's also one clock set for 3 and another a little after 5, and I'm not sure why--"the time is out of joint, O cursed spite / that ever I was born to set it right", perhaps?)

Also, the gap between midnight and 4 am suggests that Kyubey's explanatory monologue and argument with Homura was four hours long in-universe, which is just too funny for words. Alternately, the more depressing theory is that Homura got "stuck" in her own despair before she emerged in her witch form. But like everything else in Homura's labyrinth, time is malleable, so I wouldn't think too hard about it--everything happens at the most dramatic moment possible, regardless of logic or logistics.

(Still, it's kind of insane that starting with the sunset bus ride to Kazaimino about thirty minutes in, everything after that takes place in a single night, at least until Homura wakes up and resets everything. Not to mention that this all goes down approximately one month after Homura's first day of school, as if Homura can't escape her loops even in her dreams. The chronology of Rebellion is both entirely deliberate and fucking wild.)

Behind Madoka on the shelf are two teacups that previously appeared on the street as Homura walks to Mami's apartment. I confess I don't really know what's going on with these teacups--tea is usually associated with Mami but her cups are in a different style, and I've only been able to find the cups in the drawing with the clocks in the Production Note. So clearly they mean something to Inu Curry, but what I'm not sure.

Unlike the earlier film leaders, which were floating in a nebulous meta state, the rest of Homulilly's countdown signs are projected onto the landscape. This makes perfect sense when you remember that the entire false Mitakihara is Homulilly's labyrinth, so there is no separation between them. Here it's reflected on the floor of the alleyway where Homura confronted Sayaka... and sure enough, a second later we see Sayaka in silhouette, working "behind the scenes" to ensure that their plan to rescue Homura comes to fruition.

Sayaka is frequently associated with "black and white" during her transformation sequence and elsewhere during the later battle sequence, some of which is deliberately borrowing from the witch Elsa Maria from the original series who was Sayaka's foil and some of which is just because it makes some nifty artistic shots.

#3 is the bridge over the highway where Sayaka and Kyouko fought in the original series, with a glow-up even beyond what it got in the Beginnings recap film (below).

I don't know why this bridge is associated with Mami here, and I don't think it was featured in any of the establishing landscape shots earlier. It's also much better illuminated that in the original series, with a new design of lamppost I haven't seen before.

Number 2 is also on the bridge, this time next to Bebe, and we get a nice close-up of the intricate tilework that was added in for Beginnings. Also I love that Bebe's jacket has Charlotte's face on it.

Mami stands up, ready to face the witch, because that's what magical girls do, even if she doesn't realize it because her memories have been wiped. Instead, she bravely faces the unknown, and I think that's beautiful.

(Note that the fence/railing that was visible in the previous shot disappeared because reality continues to mess with us. Or, alternately, you could interpret this as the "guardrails being off", i.e., the normal rules no longer applying.)

Cut to Kyouko, hunched in her chair in front of a red curtain. The camera pans out to reveal she's at the cafe again, except that the braided innocent Homura from earlier is missing the upper portion of her head.

Abruptly and without any warning, the table is gone, allowing Kyouko to reach out to Homura as the curtain rises. Note that her posture means she is unable to look Homura in the face even if Homura had one in the first place.

Furthermore, while the curtain was closed, the background set has changed, and Homulilly is formally introduced to the narrative.

Why is Kyouko so depressed here? Well, it's not just because she cares about Homura (although there's no question that she does). The next time we see her, she's more or less in the same position, isolated away from the others. Because of the way reality works in ths movie, it's likely she was always like that, and what we saw before was just a symbolic rendering; the same action viewed in two different ways (although other readings are certainly possible).

Homura's awakening as a witch isn't simply horrific for its own sake; it means the end of Kyouko's happy dream life, and she's not happy about it. As she tells Sayaka, "I had a horrible dream about you last night. You were... dead. But it wasn't a dream, it was real, wasn't it? This, right here, us fighting side by side, is the dream, ain't it?"

Every scene in Rebellion has its counterpart somewhere, and this one echoes what Homura says to Madoka in the second flower field scene, "I had a dream and it scared me. ...In my dream, you went someplace far away and it was so far, I wasn't going to be able to see you again and everyone forgot about you."

Homura and Kyouko are kindred souls in more ways than one, but especially in that they can only meet the person they love in this dream. This is why Kyouko doesn't join the fight until Sayaka is swallowed up by one of Homura's familiars, and why she's not very active in working against Homulilly. On some level, Kyouko would be happier if Homura succeeded! And when Kyouko does fight, it's because it means she can be with Sayaka one last time before the dream ends, and there's something so bittersweet about that.

Anyway, while that particular topic is worth a whole essay in itself, I think it's fascinating that each of these five characters has a very different reaction to Homulilly's emergence, and how that's reflected in both their surroundings and the way they carry themselves.