#{each comma is a pause in his speech

[responsible-lime]

Top 5 Tips To Remember Basic Grammar Rules in English

Whether you are a beginner or an advanced learner, understanding and applying basic grammar rules is crucial for mastering the English language. Without a solid foundation in grammar, your communication skills can suffer, leading to misunderstandings and confusion. So it is advisable to follow best english and writing guide.

In this blog article, we will explore essential basic grammar rules that every English learner should know. We will give you some tips that will help you to remember these basic grammar rules.

Top Tips to Remember Basic Grammar Rules in English  

Here are some tips and tricks that will help you to remember the basic grammar rules in English -

Use Proper Pronouns  

Know when to use personal pronouns (such as I, you, he, she, it, we, they) and possessive pronouns (mine, yours, his, hers, ours, theirs). Ensure that pronouns are used correctly and agree in person, number, and gender with the antecedents.

One of the main confusions that beginners in the English language face while learning pronouns is whether it should be ‘are vs is.’ Mastering subject-verb agreement, which is another basic grammar rule, will help them to know when to use are vs is.

Understand Parts of Speech  

Familiarize yourself with the different parts of speech, such as nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, pronouns, prepositions, and conjunctions. Learn their functions and how they relate to each other in a sentence.

Study Sentence Structure  

Know the basic sentence structure in English, which typically follows the pattern of subject-verb-object (SVO). This understanding will help you construct grammatically correct sentences.

Avoid Run-On Sentences and Fragments  

A run-on sentence occurs when two or more independent clauses are improperly joined, while a fragment is an incomplete sentence. Practice constructing complete sentences and using appropriate punctuation to avoid these errors.

Be Consistent with Verb Tenses  

Maintain consistency in verb tenses within a sentence or paragraph unless there's a specific reason to switch tenses. Mixing tenses can confuse the reader and disrupt the flow of your writing.

Basic Grammar Rules That Everyone Should Know  

Here are some Basic Grammar rules that everyone needs to know.

Subject-Verb Agreement: Understanding and Applying this Rule  

Subject-verb formation is one of the most basic rules in English grammar. This rule states that the verb in a sentence must agree with the subject in terms of number and person.

For instance, the verb should be singular when the subject/subjects are singular in a sentence and vice versa. This rule may seem simple, but it can be a stumbling block for many English learners.

To ensure subject-verb agreement, it is important to identify the subject and understand its number and person. Keep in mind that subject-verb agreement applies not only to present tense verbs but also to past and future tenses.

Using the correct verb form will make your sentences grammatically correct and easier to understand. Practice this rule by creating sentences with different subjects and verbs, and pay attention to the agreement between them. With time and practice, subject-verb agreement will become second nature to you.

Proper Use of Punctuation Marks: Commas, Periods, and More  

Punctuation marks play a crucial role in conveying meaning and clarity in written English. They help separate ideas, indicate pauses, and organize thoughts. One of the most commonly used punctuation marks is the comma.

Commas are used to separate items in a list, set off introductory phrases, and connect independent clauses. However, it is important to use commas judiciously and avoid unnecessary comma splices.

Another important punctuation mark is the period. It is used to indicate the end of a sentence. Periods are essential for creating well-structured and coherent writing. Additionally, other punctuation marks such as question marks, exclamation marks, and quotation marks add variety and nuance to your sentences. Understanding the proper use of these marks will elevate your writing and make it more engaging to readers.

Mastering Verb Tenses: Present, Past, and Future  

Verb tenses are the backbone of English grammar. They allow us to express actions and states at different points in time. Understanding and mastering verb tenses is essential for effective communication. The three main verb tenses in English are the present, past, and future. Each tense has its own set of rules and forms.

The present tense is used to describe current actions or ongoing situations. It is formed by adding the base form of the verb to the subject. The past tense, on the other hand, is used to talk about completed actions in the past.

Lastly, the future tense is used to express actions that will happen in the future. It is formed by using "will" or "shall" before the base form of the verb.

To master verb tenses, it is important to practice using them in different contexts. Read and listen to English materials, and pay attention to how verbs are used in different tenses. With practice, you will become more comfortable and confident in using the appropriate verb tense in your speech and writing.

The Benefits of Improving Grammar Skills  

Improving your grammar skills is a journey that requires time, effort, and dedication. However, the benefits of mastering basic grammar rules are numerous. Clear and correct grammar enhances your communication abilities and allows you to express yourself accurately and effectively.

So, take the time to study and practice grammar regularly. Your efforts will pay off, and you will reap the rewards of improved grammar skills in all aspects of your life.

#are vs is #writing guide #english grammar

[hardcore-otaku]

Levi, I know you stayed up all night playing your video games... Please get some sleep! The lack of sleep will damage your skin :(

Ehh? How could you expect me NOT to stay up all night, the new update for Mononoke Land came out and the first 20 people to collect all the new spirits win a special exclusive ultra spirit hunter merch package!!

But, thanks Asmo, I'm, not used to you, caring about me, even if it is about my skin...

#om levi rp blog #obey me levi #om levi #obey me levi rp #om asmp rp #obey me asmo #obey me asmo rp #{each comma is a pause in his speech

[grogu-pascal]

Tension | Din Djarin x Reader

ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN // ALL WORKS

Excerpt: As he watches you beneath him, he finds himself grappling for sympathy. Guilt tickles at his nape, but then he remembers how you two got here: with your tongue hot on ingratitude and his patience wearing; tension thick and building within the confines of the ship. Skirts too short and gazes too long.

Explicit | Din Djarin x Reader | 1.7k words | Read tags carefully

Tags: rough sex, cult member!din, yandere!din misogyny kink, breeding kink, wife kink, implied age gap, breaking celibacy vows (not our reader), shame, dom/sub undertones, non-con element at end of fic, unhealthy relationships, not beta’d, comma-indulgent

A bead of sweat trickles down the stretch of your shoulder as you struggle to keep pace. Din is pumping and pumping and pumping and each meeting of his hip against the flesh of your ass provokes your mind further into thoughtlessness. His skin is scorching against yours and his mouth is just as fiery: mumbling curses against your skin; muttering praises into your hair. 

You fumble to remember exactly what had gotten you in this position: panting like a whore on all fours, tears of mascara hot on your cheeks. The two of you had been at this since the mandalorian returned to the Crest earlier, silent and sweaty and trailing in mud. Maybe you had mumbled something about keeping the floors clean. Maybe he had lowered his voice in return; warned you about watching that smart mouth of yours. 

But deep down you knew that this flame had been lit weeks ago. You had been poking and prodding at his fire, leaving sparks in your wake. You wanted him to engulf you. To have him burn him down with it. And here you are, teetering on the edge of orgasm and exhaustion, littered with bruises and love bites, desire blushing red on your skin. 

An ill-timed thrust makes you grapple forward, sliding your knees away from him. You can feel the way he stills at the sudden removal of your warmth from his length, but pay no mind, taking the lapse in fucking to lazily brush your fingers across your swollen lips, massaging away the dull pain his stretching has given you. 

Din notes how pretty you look like this: all fucked out and on display. Absentmindedly wonders if you've ever looked this pretty for anyone else. As he watches you steady your breath, he finds himself grappling for sympathy. Guilt tickles at his nape, tries to swallow his psyche whole, but then he remembers how you two got here: with your tongue hot on ingratitude and his patience wearing; tension thick and building within the confines of the ship. Skirts too short and gazes too long.

And so he lines himself up at your entrance, selfishly plunging his cock back into your slick. An intelligible cry falls from your lips. Something about behaving. About speaking respectfully and lowering your voice. But the mandalorian is past pleas. He knows he'll regret how rough he's been: pulling your jaw forward to work his cock down your throat, ghosting gloved fingers over your clit until you beg him for release, gripping your hips so hard he kneads the bones beneath. 

Despite himself, he excuses his actions and blames you instead. If you wore less skimpy tunics and said thank you every now and then, maybe he could gather the restraint to be a more decent man right now. 

But his pity for you has worn too thin, and he's too enthralled in the clench of your cunt around him to let up.

You're begging his name now, promising how good you'll be for him—how you'll shut up and listen when he speaks; how dinner will be ready when he gets home; how you'll never curse at him again and it's all a fucking lie and you know it and he knows it but maker you'll say anything to feel his fingers dance around your clit again. 

Pain needles its way across your scalp as Din winds the silk of your hair into a ponytail around his fist, sending your body forward with a thrust. Your arms are flat in front of you now and the cool metal of the ship presses against your tits, hardening you nippes through your tunic.

Two of his fingers jett in front of your face expectantly. "Suck," he says. You obey, lips slobbering over his digits, coating them with saliva all the way down to the rough of his knuckle. It's difficult to even keep them in your mouth. With each thrust they fumble around, pressing against your teeth, tempting a gag from your throat. You don’t know how much longer you can keep it up until he removes them without a word, trailing them down the lips of your pussy. He circles them slowly once they reach your bead and the pressure excites you enough to force your hips back down onto him, moaning loudly. You hear the wetness of your pussy sob against the air as he alternates speeds. You are dizzy with desire.

“Din," you moan through gritted teeth, "please." 

"Can't you"—his voice cracks—"take it?"

"Nng," you manage, shaking your head. "Can't. Need to cum." Din is too much and not enough right now. Pain begins to seep into your pleasure as you him ride indelicately. You are stretched beyond belief and it's beginning to feel like too much. 

"Be patient," he replies cooly, voice taut and clipped.

His tone brings a fire to your chest. Who is he to tell you to be patient? Acting like he hasn't been fucking into you for 30 minutes. Like it wasn't he who stripped you bare with hands full of urgency in the first place. You have been patient but he is pushing you to wits end. 

You speak before the words can be bitten back into your chest. "M-me?" you say incredulously. "I'm not the one who c-couldn't wait 'til marriage."

Din fumes under his helmet at your provocation. He releases his tight grip on your hair and brings a hand to your jaw. "That mouth," he sheaths inside you fully, "is what got you here in the first place."

Secretly, he hates that you're right. But hates you a little more for it. Despite your ways, the mandalorian had been planning on bringing you back home with him soon. You were young and smart and quick to learn, he reasoned, and the attitude you constantly found yourself with could be trained out of you. You could be a good wife: cooking and cleaning and flittering about with his younglings. Unbeknownst to you, the two of you were scheduled to meet with the armorer during your visit. Maybe once she saw the value you held: all plush and young and fertile, the armorer would grant his request for an aruetii-mandalorian marriage.

But, as he was balls deep in you at this moment—things had changed.

In consummating you before marriage, he had broken a tenant of his creed. Pending this lapse in celibacy, he would need to wait to bring you back with him. Maybe, he pondered, 8 months or so. It was one thing to return with a non-Mandalorian, but one that already been used? Fucked open before the ceremony? That wouldn't do. Unless there were extenuating circumstances. Like a youngling, growing inside of you.

"Please, Din," you say, snapping him from his thoughts. He slows his pace to hear you over the percussion his hips make against your ass. "I'll be good for—aghh—good for you Din."

Two beats pass before he answers, "I know you will."

There it is again, that cool fucking attitude. You'd turn around and maul him for it if you weren't so wrecked. You're trying so hard to be good for him and just take it, but your tits are freezing against the metal floor, and your hips are stretched past reason with your back arched so deeply. Your mind fumbles for a sentence that will make him let up on you, and fails. "S-so much—” you manage, slurring through your arousal "—so full." You release a shoulder from the ground and tuck a hand to feel at your stomach. The rumble of his cock jostles through your body, resonating against your palm as he ruts in and out and in and out of your pussy.

Din watches the scene closely. His cock jumps at the thought of ruining you for anyone else. He lowers his chest to your back as he pumps and fuck, the sound of your slick mingles with the curses that fumble out of your mouth and he could come buried inside of you like this.

"Y-you need this," he says, thoughts breaking free into speech. Electricity bundles up in his limbs and a groan, higher than you've ever heard him speak, escapes his helmet. "Need me to fill you up. Fuck my come into your l-little..." his voice trails off and he clenches his eyes shut with pleasure, head tilted back and jaw tight. His voice strains and it all sounds like a prayer to you, hearing how perfect you are at taking his cock.

His hands are desperate now, clawing at the flesh of your tits. You yelp as he rolls your nipple in between his fingers harshly. With a moan, he starts again. "You know," a pause, "you're made for this." The cool of his helmet presses into your ear as his voice deepens. "Made for spilling my seed inside. M-made to be taken care of. That's the way things are supposed to be." Your eyes widen beneath him as your arousal wears away at his suggestion. Your last monthly had been a week ago and Din had promised he would get you a refill on Kashyyyk.

A promise that had not yet been kept. "

Wait Din," you say, neck contorting over your shoulder to look at him. "I'm not on my birth control."

He doesn't slow. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," he groans, eyes searching into yours as his balls tighten. He's sorry, sorry, sorry, somewhere deep down, and yet, he can't stop. "J-just gonna have to fuck a baby into you." Newfound adrenaline fills you, helps as you try to scramble out from under him but it's not enough to stop him as he bottoms out, cock stuffing into you. Your fighting sends him over, groans quieting into whimpers as he holds you pinned beneath him. His orgasm coats your insides, cock flexing against your tightness.  

You stay there for some time, flooded with exhaustion and something that feels like worry until he rustles above you, turning your whole body to face him. His spend leaks out of you at the sudden movement. His touch is gentler now as he caresses your waist. His face is obscured by beskar, and yet, you hear his grin as his fingers run over your belly. "Can't wait to get you back to the Tribe."

#tommywrites

[technicallymilkshakes]

Something Better than Tomorrows

A quarantine au oneshot Genre(s): Fluff Pairing: Xiumin x Reader  Word Count: 2k

“Hello?”

“Hey,” he answers back softly. “I'm here.”

You kiss the door. Four inches from the tips of your toes to his. The two of you are on your cellphones so you don't bother the neighbors, but you can still catch the cadence to his speech through the door. The lilt and timbre of his voice. No digitally processed sound waves can compete.

“I hate this,” he whispers.

“I brought some tteokbokki.” The plastic bag rustles as you pull out the container and pop the lid off. You're trying to distract him. Have been from the beginning. “Have you tried it yet?”

“Yeah. I think I like regular tteokbooki more.”

You make a disbelieving noise amid your chewing. Swallow. “Hm...” You pause. “I think I like regular more, too.” You smile as you hear his soft laughter.

“Dummy,” he says fondly. It's become a kind of pet name for you, one you haven't exactly discouraged. You've made a fool of yourself on more than one occasion just to make him smile. (Your favorite ones are his gummiest smiles, eye crinkled into commas, quick pauses in the language of delight.)

“What're you eating?” you ask in between bites. Your food has gone cold and it's not the most comfortable place to eat, sitting on the ground outside a hotel room door, but this is the closest you've been to Minseok in over a year. You wouldn't trade that, even for the relative comfort of your own room a couple doors down.

“'Isha,” he responds as he tears through a piece. You bet it's potato pizza—it's his favorite. “And sikhye,” he continues with a laugh. “For digestion. I sound like my grandpa. Must be getting old.”

You snort. He looks practically unchanged from when you first met him in high school and you tell him so.

“Wow,” he reflects. “Twelve years already...”

“We really are getting old.”

The line goes quiet for so long that you pull the phone away from your ear to check that it's still connected.

“Hello?”

“I'm here,” he says, but it's as if he's dragged the words out morpheme by morpheme. Like he almost doesn't want to be here. You wait him out, confident in your fluency of Minseokisms. He's too good at hiding his feelings. If you've managed to pick up on this, then it's something he wants to be known.

“I'm sorry for making you wait.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You should go. I'll be out tomorrow. I feel bad making you wait after all this time...”

Ah. So that's what this is about. You've had this argument before. Does the sea listen when you ask? Does the world lie down when you beckon? So tell me, how is it your fault? You square your shoulders, your head tilting back to lean against the door.

“Then open up.”

“What? I'm not opening the door.” He sounds shocked you'd even suggest such a thing. You can picture it—he's probably sitting up straight now, eyes wide. Sending concerned glances to the door like you'll pull a Kool-Aid man and break it down or just pick the lock.

He's talking as if you're on the opposite side of a war, not a door. As if it hasn't been over a year since you've seen him in person. As if you haven't been on two different continents, in two different time zones, with too much to worry about.

But now that you've spoken the words into existence, you can't reel them back in. They've been a bottle under pressure and you've just cracked the lid. You've been so patient. You've waited over a whole year, it's true, but having to wait another day when he's right here suddenly strikes you as an unimaginable cruelty.

“Minseok, your quarantine is up tomorrow. I'm one room down from you. Nobody's gonna even notice.”

“Still.”

You sigh. He's such a stickler for rules at the most inopportune times.

“Fine,” you say, gathering your trash and stuffing it back into the plastic bag. You stand up.

“I don't like it when you say that.”

“Why?” you ask as you walk the short distance down the hallway to your room.

“Because it means that you're gonna take things into your own hands. And that's never good.”

You laugh a full-throated laugh, the one he calls your genie laugh. He's ranked all of them. (His favorite is when he tickles you into squealing, breathless laughter. He plants adoring little kisses on the apples of your cheeks that make it worth it.)

“Aw, Minseokie, you know me so well.” You hold up the phone and make little kissy noises into the microphone.

You've made it into your room by this time and you peek outside. It's afternoon going on evening, with just enough sunlight hanging on the horizon to see. Perfect.

You throw the phone, still connected, onto the bed. You can hear tinny little reprimands, the words too muffled to discern, but his tone clear as day. You wonder how long it'll take him to notice you're not answering this time with a grin and step outside.

The balconies aren't connected, but the space is small enough that if you're straddling the balustrade, you can get a nice hold on the railing of the opposite balcony. You jerk it a few times to see if the posts hold fast. They do. You slide your other leg over and do a little jump over to the next balcony. You're not certain if this middle room is occupied, so you scurry quickly to the other side to repeat the process, only your foot gets caught between the posts and you hit the next railing full on in the stomach, knocking the wind out of yourself before you do an awkward flip and land squarely on your back on Minseok's balcony.

You catch the swish of the curtain opening, Minseok's disbelieving face gaping at you through the glass. He's still holding the phone up to his ear. He hurriedly drops it before sliding the door open. You'd be laughing at his face if you had any air left in your diaphragm. The whole railing rings like a gong has been struck and it feels like your ribs are trying to match pitch.

“Hey you,” you say with a roguish grin as soon as you're able to. Very suave-like. Zero hints of gasping fish. Definitely not.

“You big, big, huge, massive dummy,” he cries as he drops to his knees, his hands flitting over your neck and shoulders.

“I've fine.” You get up with a little help from Minseok and he guides you into his room.

You grab his hands from where they're wandering over your body, checking for injuries, and hold them. Your ego is more bruised than anything else.  

“Should've just opened the door.” You let go of one of his hands to poke his cheek.

He pulls back a bit and you let your arms fall to hang on his waist. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You're insufferable.”

“Thanks, babe,” you respond, kissing his finger.

Minseok looks at you wondrously. Even though you went through all that effort, neither of you can quite believe that you're here right now. Less than six feet apart. Your fingers find the places you have worn into each other's bodies—his sternum, the dip of your back, between his shoulder blades, the nape of your neck. Your skin still knows his touch, anticipates the slide of his hands up your sides. He is no stranger, it tells you. Reassures you that you still know him. And you can't quite express your relief to find him your lover still. It pricks at you, you see it in his eyes, too, welling up, he knows--

You find yourself in a crushing hug. He's crying.

Between the two of you, he's been the rock. You've always been the impatient one, the one in a rush. And he's the one you've always come back to, who's soothed you when you've broken yourself against the jagged edges of your own expectations.

“Just a little longer,” he'd say with such certainty, even as the world closed itself around you. He would tell you what you'd do the next time you saw each other, fairy tales that always started with 'tomorrow.'

“Tomorrow, we'll go out to the wharf.” Even though he was thousands of miles away, he'd still paint a picture of meeting you again. “The wind will be rising, tugging white caps from the waves. On the marina, the boats will clatter against the docks.” He would pull the phone away and thump against the table, or the floor, or whatever he thumped against. “We'll buy a cone of fries, and you'll run at the seagulls that get too close.”

Well, it looks like it's time for you to chase those winged fears away.

“I really, really missed you,” he whispers brokenly.

You gather him closer, anchor him against you. You'll be the breaker to all his storms. “I'm just glad you're safe,” you whisper, turning to bury a kiss in his hair. He smells of ocean spray, fresh and full of memories to remember and to make.

**

“It's too stuffy,” you say a while later, after he—after both of you have had time to calm down. You start unbuttoning your shirt to get more comfortable.

“You're not even supposed to be here, you know...”

You stare him right in the eyes as you drop your shirt on the ground and begin unzipping your jeans.

He gives you an annoyed look as he bends to pick up your shirt and starts folding it. You drop your pants with a smirk.

“You're such a brat,” he says with a roll of his eyes. He picks up your jeans, too, like you knew he would.

You chuck him under the chin with the knuckle of your thumb. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

**

Later, the two of you are in bed. He's lying between your legs, his head against your chest. He stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, his clothes folded on top of yours on a chair. All the better to maximize skin contact. It's late at night and you're drifting into that falling space between wakefulness and sleep. Occasionally, the tickle of Minseok's fingers on your thigh or his kisses on the soft inside of your arm rouse you, prompting you to drop a kiss to the top of his head or to slide a hand down his back.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he says all of a sudden.

You open your eyes.

“I haven't heard it in over a year.” He closes his eyes. He looks restful and at peace. “I didn't realize how much I missed it.”

You place a hand on his cheek. Surely this man must know how his words have crushed you.

He opens his eyes. You guide him closer to you. He sits up, and you're cradling his face in both of your hands now, stroking his cheeks with your thumbs. Not a word is spoken, but he begins to smile. You can feel the swell of his cheeks as they gather up into a beatific smile.

“You don't have to miss anything anymore.

“Tomorrow, quarantine will end. We'll go out to Quick Fox to get your favorite bagels for breakfast. We'll eat at the park and people watch. And then we'll go home. You'll gasp when you see what I've done to the place and you'll spend the next five hours cleaning my mess up and complaining that you should've just stayed at the hotel. And then we'll go to sleep and wake up to another tomorrow together.”

“You're such a big dummy,” he says. He turns to kiss first one palm, then the other. “Why are you talking about tomorrow when I can do this today?”

He kisses you, a real one, no fairy tales required. Just the warm press of lips and laughter against you, the nip of teeth and teasing. He pulls back and there it is. That's the one. Your favorite smile.

Wow. Tomorrows can go kick rocks. Todays are much better.

#exowritersnet #xiumin x reader #exo x reader #minseok x reader #exo fanfiction #exo scenarios #xiumin fanfiction #minseok fanfiction #exo fanfic #minseok fanfic #xiumin fanfic #xiumin scenario #minseok scenario #exo fic #minseok fic #xiumin fic #exo #xiumin #minseok #exo imagines #exo fluff #xiumin fluff #minseok fluff

[where-our-stories-start]

How to Write Dialogue, Part 2: Formatting and Dialogue Tags, or Being Clear About Who’s Talking

So, we’ve all struggled with dialogue tags. In short, they’re a headache. We need them to tell our readers who the hell is talking, but it’s easy to get bogged down in exactly what verb you want, where to put the tag, etc. Do you use ‘said’ over and over? Do you vary it up with ‘exclaimed’ and ‘shouted’ and ‘inquired’? Do you just say fuck it and leave them out altogether?

I’m going to write a second post about how to effectively make decisions about your dialogue tags, but for this post, let’s just tackle formatting.

1. Placement and punctuation of tags

Dialogue tags can go before or after the spoken text; it’s largely a matter of preference and style. They can also go in the middle of a longer quote.

If the tag comes at the beginning, it should be separated from the quote by a comma.

If the tag comes at the end, it should be separated from the quote by a comma unless the quote ends with something other than a period, like a question mark or an exclamation point.

If the tag is in the middle of a single spoken sentence, there should be commas before and after it. The first letter of the resumed quote should be lowercase.

If the tag is between two spoken sentences, there should be a comma before it and a period after it. The first letter of the resumed quote should be capitalized.

So, some examples of correctly formatted tags:

Shanti said, “I can’t wait for school tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait for school tomorrow,” Shanti said.

“I can’t wait for school tomorrow!” Shanti said.

“I can’t wait for school tomorrow,” Shanti said, “but I know you’re nervous.”

“I can’t wait for school tomorrow!” Shanti said. “My presentation will be awesome.”

Remember that you should only put a tag in the middle of a quote if the character is taking a beat there, because it will break up the speech for your reader. Take a look at these two examples:

“Do you want to join the staff baseball team?” Fred asked. “I think you’d like it.”

“Do you want,” Fred asked, “to join the staff baseball team? I think you’d like it.”

In the first example, the dialogue tag is placed correctly. It falls in the gap between the two sentences, where Fred would naturally take a breath. In the second example, we’ve got an unnatural pause in the middle of Fred’s first sentence, and it makes the line feel clunky. That doesn’t mean there’s a hard and fast rule about breaking in an unusual place, but you should do it deliberately, when your character is actually pausing for emphasis.

At that moment, Sonya came running into the room. In her arms, she held the biggest, hairiest, ugliest cat her friends had ever seen.

“What,” Simon said, “do you call that?”

In this case, Simon is actually pausing after just one word. Putting the dialogue tag where it is helps convey his tone.

2. You can use actions as dialogue tags

One of the ways to avoid the dreaded “I feel like I’ve used ‘said’ a million times” problems is to use actions as dialogue tags. Basically, this means that instead of specifically saying the character said/asked/exclaimed/etc. the text, you simply place their action next to the dialogue. This can also happen before, after, or in the middle of their spoken text, but unlike an actual dialogue tag, it should always be treated as its own sentence. Where you put it depends on both your style and on whether your character acts before speaking, after speaking, or while speaking.

Pedro grinned and slung his backpack over his shoulder. “Oh, this is gonna be awesome. I cannot wait.”

“Oh, this is gonna be awesome. I cannot wait.” Pedro grinned and slung his backpack over his shoulder.

“Oh, this is gonna be awesome.” Pedro grinned and slung his backpack over this shoulder. “I cannot wait.”

3. Each new speaker/actor gets a new paragraph

This is one you probably vaguely remember learning in elementary school, but it’s a lot simpler when your characters all speak one at a time in basic [subject-verb-object] sentences.When you’re writing complex conversations, it’s easy to get muddied up.

Basically, every time we switch focus to a new character, they get a new paragraph. Mostly this means when they speak, but it also includes nonverbal forms of communication. For example:

“Are you coming to the movie?” David asked.

“I think so,” Shaun said, “but I have to double check with my dad.”

David frowned and said, “He can’t still be mad about your math grade, can he?”

Shaun shrugged.

“Whatever, man,” David continued. “We’ll help you figure it out somehow.”

Notice that Shaun gets his own paragraph even when he’s just shrugging. If we put that action in the middle of David’s speech, our reader has a hard time keeping track of who they’re “watching” at any given moment. With more complicated actions, they might even get confused about who’s acting and/or talking.

So what happens if a more complex action comes from a character who’s also talking? Well, it kind of depends. If the speech and action are pretty interspersed, you can put them all together:

“I don’t know why you listen to her,” Naomi said. She put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter as she began to unpack her groceries. “It’s not like it’s any of her business.”

“I know, but she just won’t quit calling,” Tina answered.

This works, because Naomi is talking while moving around, so we want to experience both together. If she pauses, however, or if the action gets too unwieldy in our paragraph, we can give it its own paragraph.

“I don’t know why you listen to her,” Naomi said. “It’s not like it’s any of her business.”

She put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter as she began to unpack her groceries.

“I know, but she just won’t quit calling,” Tina answered.

When written this way, Naomi speaks to Tina and then moves on to unpacking the groceries, rather than doing both at the same time.

One thing to be wary of: your reader will expect focus to shift back and forth with each paragraph. That’s not a hard-and-fast rule--you can see above that Naomi gets two paragraphs in a row--but it does mean you have to be careful about splitting up a single character’s actions. A character can have two or more consecutive paragraphs if they’re carrying most of the conversation, but one character should never speak in two consecutive paragraphs. Dialogue in separate paragraphs must always be split by action. Consider this example, and note the confusion we run into:

Kiara bounced the basketball a few times and then tossed it to her sister. “I just don’t know if I want to be the editor, you know? I mean, I’ve liked writing for the newspaper, but editor’s a big responsibility.”

“You’d get to work with Alexa, though,” Alicia argued. She shot at the hoop, missed, and passed the ball back to Kiara.

“Yeah, I mean, I guess,” Kiara said. She raised her eyebrows at her sister in a challenge. Dodging Alicia easily, Kiara dribbled up to the hoop and sunk the ball through it.

“I guess I could say yes,” Kiara decided.

Alicia shrugged. “Just think about it is all I’m saying.”

See how after Kiara sinks the basketball, we expect the next statement to come from Alicia? It’s jarring when Kiara speaks again, because we’ve used the format to indicate we’re shifting perspective, but then we don’t actually shift away from her. Instead, we should either put it all in one paragraph, or give the action between her two statements its own paragraph.

Next time, I’ll get into how to choose your dialogue tags and what your different options do for you. Full series of these can be found here. I hope people find them helpful!

#writing #creative writing #dialogue tags #how to write #how to write dialogue #grammar #punctuation #long post

[noosphe-re]

Essentials of Spontanous Prose, by Jack Kerouac

SET-UP The object is set before the mind, either in reality. as in sketching (before a landscape or teacup or old face) or is set in the memory wherein it becomes the sketching from memory of a definite image-object.

PROCEDURE Time being of the essence in the purity of speech, sketching language is undisturbed flow from the mind of personal secret idea-words, blowing (as per jazz musician) on subject of image. METHOD No periods separating sentence-structures already arbitrarily riddled by false colons and timid usually needless commas-but the vigorous space dash separating rhetorical breathing (as jazz musician drawing breath between outblown phrases)--"measured pauses which are the essentials of our speech"--"divisions of the sounds we hear"-"time and how to note it down." (William Carlos Williams)

SCOPING Not "selectivity' of expression but following free deviation (association) of mind into limitless blow-on-subject seas of thought, swimming in sea of English with no discipline other than rhythms of rhetorical exhalation and expostulated statement, like a fist coming down on a table with each complete utterance, bang! (the space dash)-Blow as deep as you want-write as deeply, fish as far down as you want, satisfy yourself first, then reader cannot fail to receive telepathic shock and meaning-excitement by same laws operating in his own human mind.

LAG IN PROCEDURE No pause to think of proper word but the infantile pileup of scatological buildup words till satisfaction is gained, which will turn out to be a great appending rhythm to a thought and be in accordance with Great Law of timing.

TIMING Nothing is muddy that runs in time and to laws of time-Shakespearian stress of dramatic need to speak now in own unalterable way or forever hold tongue-no revisions (except obvious rational mistakes, such as names or calculated insertions in act of not writing but inserting).

CENTER OF INTEREST Begin not from preconceived idea of what to say about image but from jewel center of interest in subject of image at moment of writing, and write outwards swimming in sea of language to peripheral release and exhaustion-Do not afterthink except for poetic or P. S. reasons. Never afterthink to "improve" or defray impressions, as, the best writing is always the most painful personal wrung-out tossed from cradle warm protective mind-tap from yourself the song of yourself, blow!-now!-your way is your only way-"good"-or "bad"-always honest ("ludi- crous"), spontaneous, "confessionals' interesting, because not "crafted." Craft is craft.

STRUCTURE OF WORK Modern bizarre structures (science fiction, etc.) arise from language being dead, "different" themes give illusion of "new" life. Follow roughly outlines in outfanning movement over subject, as river rock, so mindflow over jewel-center need (run your mind over it, once) arriving at pivot, where what was dim-formed "beginning" becomes sharp-necessitating "ending" and language shortens in race to wire of time-race of work, following laws of Deep Form, to conclusion, last words, last trickle--Night is The End.

MENTAL STATE If possible write "without consciousness" in semi-trance (as Yeats' later "trance writing") allowing subconscious to admit in own uninhibited interesting necessary and so "modern" language what conscious art would censor, and write excitedly, swiftly, with writing-or-typing-cramps, in accordance (as from center to periphery) with laws of orgasm, Reich's "beclouding of consciousness." Come from within, out--to relaxed and said.

#quote #essay #Jack Kerouac #Kerouac #prose #writing #Essentials of Spontaneous Prose #spontaneity #free writing #writer #trance writing

[raccoon-wizard]

It’s Okay Now

CHAPTER NO: 1/1

PROMPT: Bucky finds out that in the 21st century, it’s okay for men to wear makeup, nail polish,  and glitter. I saw it somewhere on Tumblr and couldn’t resist.

RATING: Everyone, with some language

NOTES/WARNINGS: You know what I always say. Love to all human beings. I will tolerate zero bullying and hatred in my comments.

Also, Grammarly keeps bullying me for ignoring commas and some prepositions, but I swear to god, I’m not stupid. It’s a part of the characters’ speech patterns. Screw you.

It was a quiet weekend. Nearly everyone was gone - some went on a holiday with families, some were gone for missions. There were two people inside the Avengers Compound - Bucky Barnes, who passed on a road trip with Sam and Steve, and Eleri Prichard, who simply didn’t feel like leaving. She sat (if that’s what her position could be called - she was sprawled in the chair perpendicularly to the way one was supposed to sit, her legs resting on the armrest of the other chair) in the cinema room, lazily browsing through Netflix, stuffing her mouth with salted caramel popcorn. 

“Mind if I join you?” asked Bucky from the door. She turned, her spine twisting unnaturally.

“Not at all, come on in,” she grinned widely. “Unless you mind me sitting like a big ol’ lesbian.”

“I sure as hell don’t,” he said and sat next to her. “What are we watching?”

“Queer Eye.”

Bucky flinched visibly. “You said queer?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Isn’t it… a bad… word?”

“Not anymore,” she told him. “We took it back from ‘em.”

He stayed silent for a while. “When?”

Eleri thought back to the extensive research she did in her teen years. “The eighties.”

They watched the show in silence, Bucky remembering all those times the word was spat into his face when he was young, along with other ones with similar weight.

“And it’s… normal for men to look like that?” he gestured towards Jonathan, who was dressed like his usual fabulous self.

“I mean, it’s not the norm, but tons of guys dress up now,” she said, pausing the show. “Why?”

“I never… when I was younger, I… I always wished…”

“Oooh,” she realised. 

“Yeah,” he mumbled, swallowing the painful lump in his throat.

With a groan, she changed her position so she was now sitting like a normal person, turning to face him. “James Buchanan Barnes, it would be an honour to give you the glamorous makeover you deserve.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“Eleri… something…”

“Carol-Anne,” she finished for him.

“Eleri Carol-Anne Prichard,” he chuckled. “It would be an honour to have you give me a glamorous makeover.”

“That you deserve.”

“That I… deserve.”

“That’s my man, now come on,” she patted him on the shoulder and jumped up from her seat, offering him her hand. She dragged him upstairs to her room and sat him on the bed.

“You can’t ever tell anyone that you got all this from me,” Eleri told him as she pulled out a makeup bag from one of her drawers. “I have a reputation to uphold here, and if someone found out how much of this shit I have, it would shatter.”

“Roger that,” Bucky nodded with a smirk. Eleri threw the bag on the bed and sat down opposite of Bucky, crossing her legs.

“So,” she said. “Want just something small or full-on glam?”

“Uh… how about somewhere halfway?” he suggested.

“Smart move,” she agreed. “Just the basic stuff and a teeny tiny bit of glitter?”

“Sounds wonderful.”

For about twenty minutes, they were both silent as Eleri worked on glamming up Bucky’s face. With his eyes closed, he enjoyed the soft brushes sweeping around his cheeks, nose, forehead and eyes.

“Pucker up,” was the first thing Eleri said. “I’m gonna put on some lipgloss.”

Bucky complied, making Eleri burst out laughing immediately. “Not this much, genius.”

“Shut up,” he rolled his eyes.

There was another brief silence until Eleri said: “There. Done.”

Bucky tried to turn around to see himself in the big mirror on Eleri’s wardrobe, but she stopped him. “Nu-uh. Not done. We need to do your nails and pick you an outfit. Show me your nails.”

Bucky reluctantly gave her his hands. She took them into hers, bringing them close to her face. “You really need to stop biting ‘em.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Yes you do.”

“No.”

“Then what’s this?” she asked, shoving his own hand right in front of his eyes. “If that’s not you biting ‘em, then who? A perverted ghost?”

“I do it in my sleep,” he mumbled. “I… have bad dreams. And then wake up with bloody fingertips.”

Eleri bit her lip. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude.”

“‘S okay.”

“Maybe you could… sleep with gloves on,” she suggested. “You know, like mittens.”

“Or boxing gloves,” he smirked.

“I mean, sure,” she shrugged. “I’m pretty sure not even super soldier teeth could bite through those. Come on, let’s fix these bad boys.”

It took some time and squirming and writhing, but after that, Bucky’s nails looked almost like he had always been grooming them. However, he couldn’t help but voice his disdain for the nail file.

“It just feels weird!”

“Better get used to it if you want decent looking nails.”

“I hate it.”

“Everyone does in the beginning. At least you don’t have long ones, you do not want to hear the sound that makes.”

“Gross.”

“Shut up. And stop moving or your whole hand will be pink.”

“Why does it smell so awful?”

“‘Cause it’s nail polish. And you need to stop whining or I’ll put it somewhere you would not like it.”

“I don’t like it now anyway.”

“Shut your piehole, Barnes.”

As he waited for the colour to dry properly, Eleri went to her wardrobe to find him some clothes.

“Are you sure your stuff will fit me?” he asked doubtfully.

“Haven’t you noticed how I dress?” she scoffed. “My clothes will fit you just fine, trust me. And if not, I might have some that my exes left behind.”

“How’s your dating life anyway?”

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes. “Everyone ends up ditching for someone normal,” she said. “What about you?”

“Like you don’t know,” he sighed. “The general public hates me and I don’t think dating on the team would be a good idea.”

“Loki has a thing for you,” she told him as she rummaged through her clothes. Bucky’s breath hitched.

“What thing?” he asked, feeling heat creep up into his cheeks.

Eleri turned around with a completely blank face. “You cannot be serious.”

“Well, I, uh-”

“He flirts with you like mad literally every time you two are in the same room!” she exclaimed. “And you flirt back, don’t argue with me.”

“I don’t f-”

“Oh my god,” she sighed dramatically. “You really are a disaster, aren’t you.”

“I thought he liked Wanda?”

“He did for a bit, but then he found out about her and Vis and decided to back off,” Eleri explained.

“Those two really love each other, don’t they?”

“Do not change the subject, James!” she scolded him. “You really haven’t noticed that Loki has a huge crush on you?”

“No, I have not.”

“You’re literally the only person that makes him blush!”

“Am I?”

Eleri groaned in frustration. “You’re the worst. What do you think about this jumper?”

Bucky, shocked by her sudden change of tone, stared at her with his eyes wide. “What?”

“Jumper. Do you like it?” she asked again.

“Why are you calling it a jumper?” he frowned.

“Because that’s what it is.”

“That’s a sweater.”

They didn’t settle on what it should be called, but they did agree that it would look nice on Bucky. Realising that his nails were still a little sticky, Eleri decided to help him put it on.

“Look at me, undressing a guy,” she laughed as she unbuttoned his shirt. “My parents would be so proud.”

Bucky chuckled. “Are they… not okay with you dating women?”

“They’re tolerating it at best,” she shrugged. “Raise your arms and press your lips together, you don’t want the lipgloss go everywhere.”

He did as he was told, allowing her to put the jumper on without major issues.

“And now for the final touch,” Eleri grinned, pulling a flower crown out of her closet.

“Are you sure?” Bucky frowned.

“Just try it on, I’m certain you’ll look cute as shit,” she insisted as she put it on his head. A few final adjustments and- “Oh my god you look gorgeous.”

“Can I look now?” he asked.

“Please do.”

She stepped out of his way so he could finally see himself in the huge mirror on her wardrobe. He took a few steps forward so he could get a better look and his jaw dropped ever so slightly.

When he wasn’t speaking for quite a long time, Eleri started to worry. “Do you… not like it? I can redo it if you’d like.”

“I love it,” he finally said.

“Really?” she asked. “Are you absolutely sure? I have plenty other colours in the-”

“Pink’s my favourite,” he smiled at her. “Always has been.”

For a few more moments, none of them said a word. “Thank you,” Bucky finally spoke up once more. “I’ve always wanted to feel like this.”

“You can borrow my stuff any time,” Eleri said. “As long as you don’t tell anyone I’m your provider.”

“May I hug you?”

“Hell yes.”

They embraced each other tightly and out of sheer joy, Eleri lifted Bucky up and spun him around, letting out a tiny gleeful squeal.

“I forgot how strong you are,” he chuckled once she put him down.

“Stupid strong, I know,” she smirked.

For the rest of the day, the two of them stayed in Eleri’s room, looking for inspiration and references for future experiments. They listened to some “aggressively gay” music, as Eleri called it, and talked about dating. They ended up in the cinema room again, watching dumb rom coms.

“Mind if I join you?” said a voice from the doors. They turned to see Loki, lazily leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets.

“Come on in,” Eleri grinned, winking at Bucky cheekily. “I’ll go get more snacks, you can take my seat.”

Bucky glared at her, but before he could protest, she was gone, shoving Loki next to him.

“Sargeant Barnes,” Loki greeted him with a polite nod, pointing at the seat.

“Loki,” he replied and gestured for him to freely take the seat. Instead of sitting, however, Loki continued inspecting his face. Bucky wanted to ask him what he was looking at, but before he could, Loki spoke: “You look… happier, Sargeant.”

“Oh, I, uh…” Bucky stuttered. “Thank you?”

“The flowers suit you,” Loki smiled ever so slightly.

Oh God, oh shit, oh fuck, Bucky thought, feeling as if he was about to spontaneously combust. Oh for the love of Jesus, he really is flirting. Oh merciful Lord, what do I do?

Loki finally sat down, glueing his eyes to the screen. Bucky really hoped he couldn't hear his heart pounding in his chest and his stupid fast breathing. He couldn't help but glance at the man next to him every once in a while, suddenly feeling stupid about the flashy colours. He reached up and tried to take the flower crown off.

"What are you doing?" Loki frowned.

"It's, um, it's falling into my eyes," Bucky said.

"That's no reason to take it off, here," Loki shook his head and turned his whole body to face him, raising his hands up to Bucky's face. "May I?"

"Uh, sure," Bucky replied barely audibly and allowed the god to fix his hair. Damn you, Eleri, why did you have to put that on me, he thought.

"Better?" Loki asked.

"Uh-huh, yeah," Bucky nodded absent-mindedly.

"Would be a shame if you took it off, it makes you look like a faery," Loki said.

"Thanks, I... it was Eleri's idea," Bucky mumbled.

"I shall thank her for it then," Loki winked and returned to watching the film as if nothing had happened. Oh for heaven's sake.

Bucky sat silently, trying to think of a response, but his brain seemed to have stopped functioning completely. "You, um, you look great too. Green is really... your colour." Jesus fucking Christ, Barnes.

"Thank you, Sargeant," Loki said. "It is, after all, my favourite."

"That's a... great choice," Bucky said, immediately feeling the urge to kick his own butt. Just shut up already.

Loki chuckled. Bucky noticed him licking his lips and his throat tightened.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" Eleri shouted as she re-entered the room with a bowl of popcorn. "JUST FUCKING SNOG ALREADY!"

#fanfiction #fanfic #writing #writeblr #my writing #one shot #bucky barnes #loki #loki odinson #loki friggason #original female character #oc #loki/bucky #winterfrost

[soberqueerinthewild]

Bunker Confessionals

Five times Liz & Michael talk about love (and one time they don’t have to)

{AO3 Link}

A Liz & Michael friendship fic with heavy emphasis on Echo and Malex, and mentions of Michael/Maria. This is my first attempt at a 5+1 fic and I kind of got carried away, so three of the parts are much longer than the rest, oops! Thanks as always to @seeaddywrite for encouragement and editing. Without her there would apparently have been a lot of comma splices in here, whatever that means. 

***

1.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Liz searches Michael’s face for some hint of his usual sarcastic smirk, but even with his head bent in concentration over his work, she can see that his expression is deadly serious. 

“How could I not? Love is the reason we’re here right now, trying to resurrect the idiot you love, because he loved you so much he killed himself bringing your sister back. Your sister, who was killed because a psycho decided he was in love with her. And my sister is destroyed because she just found out that the love she thought she had was a total lie. So yeah, I’d say love is the worst thing that happened to all of us. Are you telling me there aren’t days when you think your life would just be a lot easier if you didn’t love Max? Or if you’d never even met him in the first place?”

His speech brings Liz up short. It is, in its own way, a logical argument. One that a few months ago, she might’ve agreed with. Facts and evidence have been her armor, her guiding force to stabilize her through Rosa’s death and the aftermath, through her ten years away, through her tumultuous homecoming. But love had knocked her off balance. It was the one thing she realized she couldn’t logic her way into or out of. She’d tried, god she’d tried. But once she stopped resisting so hard, once she loosened her grip on all the reasons why not, she found that she loved Max Evans the way he loved her---easily. And yes, that love turned to chaos as grief raged through her. It hurt, but it also sustained her, pushed her to get out of bed, move forward, try harder. Max believed in her without evidence, loved her the ten years she was gone, and every day since she got back. No, even in her darkest moments since his death, she couldn’t bring herself to regret loving Max. 

Tears prick at her eyes. She finds it annoying how easily she cries these days. Michael looks guilty as he shuffles over to her, and puts an arm around her shoulders tentatively, less awkward than she would’ve imagined he’d be around crying women. When she doesn’t move away, he pulls her to him and lets her sob into his chest. Several times she tries to find the words to counteract Michael’s argument, to make sure Michael knows that she doesn’t, couldn’t ever feel that about Max, but she can’t speak through the tears, and Michael is mumbling apologies at her, clearly regretting bringing up the subject in the first place. 

When the tears slow and she regains her composure, waving off Michael’s apologies, he switches his focus back to their work. She briefly considers trying to bring the conversation back around, but a compound Michael scribbles out on the whiteboard in the bunker triggers an idea, and she’s scrambling to record it before it floats out of her mind. Michael’s right there with her, mind spinning as fast as hers, as they build on each other’s work, and she decides the conversation can wait for another day. She’s unwilling to lose that momentum, hoping beyond hope that this idea brings them one step closer to bringing Max back to her. 

2.

“You know I’ve been thinking about what you said.” Liz remarks one afternoon a week later when they are back in the bunker testing the 342nd version of the serum they hope will boost Michael and Isobel’s powers. 

“That sounds like a bad idea. What did I say?” 

“About love being the worst thing to happen to all of us.” 

“Aw Liz,” Michael starts, sounding remorseful, likely remembering that these comments triggered a crying fit, “forget it, please. You know sometimes I put my foot in my mouth. I didn’t mean to like, make you cry or whatever.”  

“No, I mean, the thing is, what you said, it made sense to me. The logical part of my brain still kind of agrees with you. You know the whole time I was away I tried to keep all emotions at arms length. For so long after Rosa’s death, I couldn’t imagine feeling anything but grief and loss, so I tried not to feel anything at all. When I finally thought I was ready to let people into my life again, I think still unconsciously I was afraid to let anyone close that I could actually love. I tried to apply logic to relationships, pick someone I had things in common with, who had the attributes I thought I was looking for, someone that made sense for me. If it stopped making sense, I could always walk away, because I hadn’t actually invested myself emotionally. It was safe, and easy, and it didn’t hurt. When I found someone who checked every box, who seemed perfect for me, and seemed to love me so much, but I still didn’t feel anything, I knew something was missing. I did what I’m good at and ran away, back to Roswell, not knowing what I was even looking for. I didn’t know what was missing until I saw your brother again. Ten years apart, without a word spoken between us, and still when his eyes met mine, I felt more than I’d felt when Diego proposed. And even though he hurt me, even though he was a part of the worst thing that ever happened to me, and even now when I miss him so much it feels like my heart is ripped in two, I could never regret it.” 

She’s a little embarrassed to feel tears pool behind her eyes again, but she wills them not to fall, composing herself before looking back to Michael, half-expecting him to be engrossed in his work ignoring her monologue. Michael never struck her as particularly sentimental, so she’s surprised to find him staring at her, expression inscrutable. She’s even more surprised when after a long moment he quietly asks, “Didn’t it ever just feel like too much to overcome? I mean especially before we knew about Noah, didn’t you ever just feel like it would be easier to try to start over with someone where you didn’t have all that baggage?” 

She instinctively recoils at the idea that she could ever cast Max aside, but a memory flashes through her mind of pushing Max, shouting that she never wanted to see him again. 

“Yeah,” she admits, “I did feel that way right after I learned about Rosa. I pushed Max away, and threw myself into working on that first serum. I thought I needed to protect myself from him… and you and Isobel too, I guess. But once the initial anger faded, I realized that Rosa’s death wasn’t the only reason I was pushing him away. The serum could never protect me against the thing I was really afraid of. Max’s love for me was so intense, and the idea of letting myself love him back, that was terrifying for me, especially after shutting down my feelings for so long. I didn’t know what to do with the way Max felt about me. Part of me wanted it, and part of me was so scared to let him all the way in. My mom leaving, Rosa dying, those things scarred me. I was afraid they broke me. I wasn’t sure I could love Max the way he loved me, I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to risk getting hurt. But when I finally surrendered to it, it was the best feeling. Loving him felt, it feels, like teetering on the edge of a cliff. It’s scary, terrifying even, but nothing else could compare.” She’s lost again in her memories, and forgets for a minute that Michael is even there. When she looks back at him, he seems similarly lost in thought.

Michael’s silent for so long that Liz assumes he’s reached his capacity for feelings talk for the day, and focuses back on her work. A few minutes later, Michael surprises her yet again by picking the conversation back up. “Feeling like you’re teetering on the edge of a cliff is a good feeling to you, Ortecho? I don’t know. Easy and safe seems preferable to courting death. Risking a crash landing.”

Liz lets out a laugh before she can stop herself. A flash of hurt crosses Michael’s face and she hurriedly reassures him, “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you, it’s just everything you’re saying sounds just like me from a year ago. That’s exactly what I thought I wanted. And if it were enough for me, I’d have stayed with Diego, or hell, I would’ve made a go of it with Kyle.” She ignores Michael’s mumbled “that fucking guy.” Someday she’ll find out what exactly it is that’s kept that grudge burning for ten years, but now’s not the time. “But like I told you, with Diego, something was missing. Even though he seemed perfect, I couldn’t connect to him. And with Kyle... well, I adore Kyle. I feel safe with him. He’s a good, kind, person, and,” she adds, mostly to annoy Michael, “we have good sex.” She’s rewarded with the disgusted grimace she’s expecting. “But reconnecting with Max, even when I knew he was hiding something from me and I couldn’t trust him, there was something, a pull so strong between us, it almost felt fated. It was exhilarating and scary and wonderful and so powerful, I just...I don’t know...after feeling that, I don’t think I’d be able to feel fulfilled with safe and comfortable.” 

“Well, then,” Michael responds, a softness in his tone she’s rarely heard from him. “In that case I guess we better get back to work. Bring him back to you.” Liz shoots him a grateful smile, and returns to examining the sample under her microscope, hope renewed with the reminder of exactly what it is she’s fighting for.

3.

“Ortecho, what the hell are you doing?!” Liz hears Michael clamber down the ladder into the bunker, but she doesn’t pause to even look up at him as she adds her new serum to a sample of Max’s blood. She can’t afford to be distracted right now, so if Michael’s not here to help, which he doesn’t sound like he is, she has no reservations about kicking him out of his own bunker. He continues his tirade as soon as he reaches the ground. “This is a secret lair because I keep the damn door closed and hidden. How the hell did you even move the Airstream to get down here?” 

“You were at Maria’s but you left your keys in your truck. I’m an expert now, ever since I moved it to save you and Max that time.” She answers, still not looking up from her work, measuring out a new solution with a different concentration until she can get the ratio just right. 

“Speaking of my brother, why are you here at the ass crack of dawn instead of curled up with him, listening to him recite poetry about your eyes or whatever the fuck it is you guys do together. He’s barely been back two days, you can’t be sick of him already.” She finally looks up as he plucks the beaker out of her hand. She grabs for it, but he lifts it out of reach. “You do remember that we already perfected the serum, right? You and me, geniuses that we are, figured it out. Iz and I brought Max back? Any of this ringing any bells?” He’s kept his tone light, but she can see the lines of concern on his face as he studies her. There’s obviously a part of him that thinks she may have lost her mind a bit after weeks and months of stress. 

“I know that,” she retorts sharply, snatching the beaker back as soon as he lets his guard down slightly. “This is a new thing I’m working on.” She turns pointedly away from him, drawing up 2 ml of the solution she just mixed into a pipette and adding it to a new sample of Max’s blood on the next slide she has lined up on the table. She labels it carefully with the proportions of the new mixture and the number 8. She hears a resigned sigh from Michael and the telltale scraping as he telekinetically moves the Airstream over the manhole cover. 

“Alright,” Michael says placatingly, like one might talk to a small child. “What are you working on then that’s so important it dragged you here before dawn. Maybe I can help?” 

Liz pauses for a moment. Rationally, she knows she needs his help. Over the last frenzied hours of work she’s not entirely sure anything she’s done makes sense. Pure panic isn’t the best motivator in scientific endeavors, so having Michael check her work might be worth how pissed he’s likely to get when she explains what she’s working on. 

“I’m trying to make a serum that will, I don’t know, regulate alien abilities.” She looks pointedly at the floor rather than at Michael, anticipating the explosion that comes a moment later. 

“Regulate? You mean mute right? Didn’t you learn your lesson after almost killing Isobel? Jesus Liz, I thought you were off this, why are you trying to take our powers away, again? What the fu--”

“You were right.” The interruption pulls Michael up short. He pauses his tirade and just looks at her expectantly. “Max got himself killed because of loving me so much. But not just that, it was the guilt too. He told me last night that he did it for us, and that he’d do it again, because without Rosa back he didn’t think I could ever truly forgive him for his part in what happened to her. He didn’t want to tear us apart.”  

Her explanation seems to have doused his anger. His face has softened, and he looks at her quizzically. “Well...was he right? It’s not like you don’t have reasons to resent him...us.” 

“No!” Her shout reverberates through the bunker. “I really did forgive him, even before I knew it wasn’t really Isobel. I forgave him. I thought he knew that. I thought I told him that? I did, didn’t I? I don’t know, I’m not as good at putting my feelings into words as he is, you know?”

“Heh,” Michael scoffs. “I feel like that’s all you do with me. Every time we’re in this bunker you’re going on and on about your feelings.” 

Liz is too wound up to even be insulted. “I know! It’s weird. Why can I say all this stuff to you, when half of it I never said to him? I never even told him I loved him before he died, did you know that?” She doesn’t pause to hear his answer. “He told me of course. Dozens of times. Told me he loved me his entire life right after I accused him of killing my sister. It’s like these things just spill out of him, you know? It seems to come so easily to him, but for me it can be a lot.” At Michael’s furrowed brow she adds, “It’s wonderful, it is, but sometimes it’s overwhelming. He’s a goddamn poet, and he just spews these pretty speeches that are so honest, and beautiful, and raw. Like a punch to the gut sometimes, and I… I don’t always know what to do with them. I can’t always respond in the moment. I need time to fight that instinct to run that’s always there right under the surface. I need a minute to regroup and actually evaluate how I feel before I can tell him. Because I do love him, I think I loved him the whole damn time, and I tried to show him, even before I could tell him, but I obviously didn’t do a good enough job.” 

Her words are coming fast now, and she’s sure she’s barely coherent, but she can’t stop. “He didn’t feel how much I loved him and he didn’t believe I forgave him, and because of that I lost him. I’m so goddamn grateful to have Rosa back, but how could he not know that anything that would heal in me would be torn apart if I’d lost him for good? How could he possibly think I’d want him to sacrifice himself? And then for him to look me in the eye, mere hours after I got him back, and say he’d do it again! How am I supposed to live with that? I can’t lose him again, I won’t survive it. But I can’t seem to make him understand how much he’d be hurting me if he sacrificed himself. So I need to make something… a serum, anything, that won’t allow him to drain his life force like that again. So that I have time. To find the right words. To make him understand.” 

A tentative hand on her shoulder finally pulls her out of the spiral and cuts off her torrent of words. Michael lets out a surprised grunt when she turns into his touch and buries her face in his shoulder and sobs. After a moment she feels Michael’s hand in her hair, moving in comforting, even strokes. In a moment the adrenaline that’s been propelling her since she snuck out of Max’s bed at 1 am dissipates, leaving in its place only exhaustion, causing her to sink further into Michael’s grip. He senses her fatigue and leads her over to a low table in the corner. Liz sits and leans heavily on Michael, exhausted now, both from lack of sleep last night and stress. 

“Careful. It was one thing for us to cuddle like this when Max was in the pod, but we’ve established that Max isn’t always rational when it comes to you. Wouldn’t want him to bust in here and punch me out in a jealous rage.” Liz chokes out a laugh at the idea of anyone mistaking their bromance for something romantic. Michael continues, adopting a more earnest tone. “But seriously. I know being in love with a stubborn, self-sacrificing, idiot who thinks he knows how best to protect you is a tough road, but from everything you’ve told me, it sounds like it’s one your stuck with.” Incapable of being serious for too long, Michael adds, “If you’re not planning to ditch him for me that is.” 

“Hmm, yeah that seems like a level of drama I’m not remotely interested in. Even if I was capable as seeing you as anything other than an annoying little brother.” Liz retorts, reaching up to ruffle his hair. 

“As I am constantly telling Isobel, WE ARE THE SAME AGE!” Michael exclaims, as he knocks her hand away. “And since I seem to be always in the position of comforting you and am about to offer you some sage advice, I should at least be considered an annoying older brother.” There’s a note of sarcasm in his tone, but behind it she senses a softness, like he’s touched that she’d refer to him as family even in jest.

“You are going to offer me sage advice?”

“Yup. It’s going to be groundbreaking and ingenious.” Liz gestures for him to continue, trying to keep the look of doubt off her face. 

“Ok, here it goes…. You should talk to him.” 

“That’s it? That’s your brilliant advice? I should talk to him? I’ve tried! Clearly I haven’t done a good enough job if he still doesn’t understand that him dying for me wouldn’t be doing me any favors!” 

“Make him understand. Try talking to him in his language, read some poetry about how your soul fits with his or some shit. Or just ramble at him like you did at me just now.” Michael sighs heavily, before speaking again. “Though I am loathe to admit it, Max and I do have some similarities, and our tendency to act rashly to protect the people we love is one of them.” A flash of indecision crosses Michael’s face, but after another deep breath he forges on. “Just before Max died, I nearly got myself killed. The only thing that saved me was being forced to confront that me dying would hurt and even endanger someone that I lo-...cared about. I’ve been on the other side too, of having someone put themselves in danger for me, and I know that helplessness and fear can eat away at you.” 

Liz can tell from the set of his jaw that Michael has provided exactly as many details as he intends to share, so even though curiosity burns through her, she doesn’t bother asking for further explanation, but rather waits patiently for him to continue. 

“I didn’t have the opportunity to make them see that protecting me wasn’t worth it if they put themselves at risk. But you do. You can make Max understand how much it would hurt you, for him to risk himself. Hurting you is the last thing he wants. So yeah, my profound piece of wisdom is to talk to him. Better that than fucking around with an alien muting serum that might kill us all.” He tosses a smile her way at the last part, but she knows he’s covering some real fear. He consented to help with experiments first to save Isobel and then Max, but the ingrained fear of experimentation and dissection has never left him. She imagines it’s only gotten worse since Caufield. Michael hasn’t shared any details, but Kyle gave her a basic outline, with a haunted look she hoped to never see on his face again. After a moment of hesitation, Liz sweeps her slides off the table into the trash. The look of total relief that crosses Michael’s face removes any remaining doubt that she made the right call.

“I was doubtful at first, but that actually was pretty good advice. I think I’ll take it.” She leans up and presses a kiss on his cheek, before making her way over to the ladder to exit the bunker. Michael acquiesces to her silent request, and shifts the airstream and opens the manhole cover to allow her to exit. As she climbs up towards the light, she can’t resist tossing over her shoulder,  “Sorry, though, despite your infinite wisdom, you still seem like a little brother to me!” 

4. 

It’s unseasonably warm for early March, the temperature reaching the mid-sixties for the first time and she’s determined to enjoy it. Liz reclines on the blanket she and Rosa dragged up to the roof of the Crashdown, as Rosa starts on painting the big toe or her second foot with a new color of nail polish. Luckily close toed shoes are required in the lab of her new job, otherwise she’d look like a lunatic with toenails painted three different colors. Alanis Morisette’s “You’ll Learn” that’s been crooning through the small Bluetooth speakers Liz bought Rosa for her first birthday since coming back is interrupted by Liz’s blaring ringtone. She quickly ignores the call without looking. Today is for her and Rosa to reconnect. 

She’s barely seen Rosa since Max was resurrected a week ago, and though her sister assures her she doesn't need constant babysitting, Liz still feels guilty ignoring her sister in favor of a boy. But today Max and Isobel are spending the day with their parents. In part because Max missed them, but mostly so Isobel can influence them in believing that Max spent the last three months searching for Noah to make him sign divorce papers from Isobel. It’s the cover story they finally settled on, though Liz privately found Michael’s suggestion that they tell everyone that Max had been Eat, Pray, Loving his way around Europe trying to write a novel to be pretty funny. In the end, this fell in line with the story Isobel told her parents and everyone else that Noah had been under investigation by the SEC for embezzling money and gone on the run, leaving her behind. Isobel was the one who pointed out that their parents would never believe that Max would abandon her while she was heartbroken over her husband’s betrayal. 

Though she tried to cover it, Liz caught the bitterness in her tone, suggesting that, regardless of what she might tell Max, she still feels that’s exactly what he did. Sometimes Liz feels like during the time Max was gone and in the week since his resurrection she’s been letting everyone down. She knows she can get single-minded when working on something, and it not only prevented her from being as present for Rosa as she should’ve, but also kept her from being there for Isobel, and god, she’s barely seen Maria in weeks. She sends up a silent thanks for Kyle and Alex, who have stepped in where she failed. Kyle taking his new brotherly role seriously and helping Rosa with anything she needs, and Alex, the only person she knows who could unflinchingly face Isobel’s prickly snark. He’s helped her channel her rage into self defense classes, which Liz privately believes is the only reason Isobel didn’t blow out all the glass within a 10 mile radius of Roswell in the weeks after their first failed attempt to bring Max back. 

Liz tries to shake off the guilt. Her berating herself for the past won’t help anyone, and instead she knows she should focus on the future. Now that Max is back, and some semblance of normal has returned to their lives, she can refocus on her sister and her other friends. She’s just about to ask Rosa what she wants to do for dinner tonight, when the music is again interrupted by the harsh sound of her ringtone. She sighs and checks the Caller ID to see Maria’s smiling face flash across the screen. Liz frowns. She’d invited Maria to come hang out with her and Rosa today, but she’d begged off, explaining that the bar was short-handed right now, and she had to work open to close. 

Liz pauses the music and answers the phone on speaker. “Thank God, Liz.” The worry in Maria’s voice is evident even over the loud din of the Saturday afternoon crowd at the Pony. “I’m sorry to bother you, I know you’re spending the day with Rosa, but I can’t get anyone else. Max and Isobel both have their phones off. I even called Kyle first but he’s at the hospital until 4.” Liz’s heart starts pounding, wondering what could be wrong now. She’d been so hopeful that they could go just a few days without an emergency. “I need you to come get Michael. He’s drunk.” 

Liz lets out a relieved sigh. It’s not great, but on the new scale she’s developed for levels of crises, this barely registers. “Ok… That’s not exactly unusual. I mean he’s been a lot better recently, but maybe he’s just blowing off some steam. Can’t he just sleep it off in your apartment upstairs?” 

“No, this is different Liz. He’s a mess. I tried to get him to go sleep it off, but I think he just kept drinking upstairs before wandering back down here. He’s sloppy and I can tell he’s spoiling for a fight.” Maria’s voice is tight with irritation. “I haven’t seen him like this since right after Max… you know.” 

Yeah, Liz does know. The first week after Max died, Michael, Isobel, and Liz all grieved in their own ways. Liz with endless tears and a laser-like focus on finding a way to bring Max back. Isobel with rage and exploding everything within range of her new telekinesis. And Michael grieved by  falling back into old habits, drinking and getting into fights at the Wild Pony. They were all enough of a mess that it necessitated finally letting Maria in on the secret, if only for reinforcement from someone who wasn’t completely traumatized. But eventually Michael had pulled himself together. He’d helped Liz with the serum, cut back on his alcohol consumption, and even managed not to completely sabotage his burgeoning relationship with Maria, though Liz realizes she really doesn’t have much of a clue about how that’s been going. Despite all her time spent with Michael, it’s not something they’ve talked about at all. She might not know much, but one thing seems evident now: if she doesn’t do something, Michael’s likely to wake up in a jail cell and single. 

She looks regretfully at Rosa for a minute before sighing resignedly. “Do you need me to come get him out of there?” 

The answer comes immediately. “Yes. I really am sorry, Liz. I know you were gonna spend the day with Rosa, but with us understaffed here and being up half the night because my mom somehow managed to walk out of the nursing home for a little nighttime stroll again, I just really don’t have the capacity to deal with another person in my life who rambles incoherently and has a penchant for attracting trouble.” 

Liz’s heart twists painfully. Maria is always such a calming and supportive presence it’s easy for her to forget how much Maria has on her own plate. “Of course, babe. I’ll be there in 10 to take him off your hands.” 

She turns to Rosa with an apology in her eyes, but Rosa waves her off. “Go, go, manita. I heard. Drunken alien in crisis. I’ll be fine.” 

“I’m guessing you don’t want to come?” Rosa’s still a little wary around any of the aliens, though for the past week she’s put up with Max for Liz’s sake. 

“Hmm, pass. I’ve experienced enough drunken spirals myself. No need to bear witness to someone else’s. I’ve got my art supplies up here. Maybe I’ll update some of my graffiti for old times sake. I’m feeling all nostalgic today. Now get out of here.” Rosa gives Liz a playful shove, and Liz reluctantly makes her way inside. 

When she enters the Pony eight minutes later, she catches sight of of Michael immediately. He’s slumped over the bar staring at Maria beseechingly, while Maria shakes her head and yanks the bottle he’d likely stolen from behind the bar out of his hand. Her exasperation transitions to relief when Maria’s gaze falls on Liz as she makes her way over to the bar. “Tag, you’re it,” Maria greets her with a tired half-smile. Liz slides into the chair next to Michael, drawing his attention for the first time. 

“Liz,” Michael slurs, “here to have a drink with me?” 

“Nope, here to drag your ass out of here before Maria runs out of patience.” Michael’s gaze flickers from Liz’s face to Maria’s and back again. Whatever he sees there seems to convince him that leaving without a fight is his best option. Maybe he can tell that Maria truly is at the end of her rope. 

“Fine,” he acquiesces, “I’ve got booze at home too.” Liz has no intention of letting him get drunker, but her mission now is to get him out of the Pony, so she says nothing as she drags him out the door. She snags his keys from his pocket and leads him to his truck, figuring she can get Rosa to pick her up later and bring her back to her car if need be. Michael is strangely compliant about getting in the truck, barely even reacting when Liz insists he buckle his seatbelt before she’ll start driving. He’s quiet on the drive over, leaning his head on the window and staring off into space. Liz hopes he’ll pass out quickly when she gets him back to the Airstream. They can talk tomorrow about whatever motivated this round of day drinking. 

Unfortunately, when they pull into the junkyard he seems to reanimate and he’s out of the truck and pushing the Airstream out of the way with his mind before she’s even parked. He’s halfway down the ladder into the bunker by the time she climbs out of the truck herself, and she has no choice but to follow him down, wondering if he’s making a beeline for an acetone stash down there. But when she follows him down the ladder she doesn’t find him guzzling acetone or even booze, rather she sees for the first time what he so carefully protected under the cover on the far table. It’s clearly alien in nature, as it has an otherworldly glow. Best she can figure it’s some kind of alien electronic or vehicle. She can’t quite tell, but it’s obviously important enough for Michael to have kept hidden. 

Liz watches him pull a large shard of purple glass, and float it towards the rest. She gasps in awe as it knits itself together with the other pieces. The object looks like it may be complete now. She expects to see triumph on Michael’s face. He’s obviously been building this for years, and putting in the last piece should bring him satisfaction, but if anything, he looks bereft. He stares for a long moment before tugging the cover back over the object and sinking onto one of the cots they’d eventually set up in the bunker after falling asleep with their heads bent over a table one too many times when working to bring Max back. She sits down next to him, waiting for him to say something. 

After a moment, he obliges. “Well, now you know my big secret, I guess.” 

“I mean...not really. What is it?” 

“I think it’s the console from the ship. If I attach it to a vehicle, I might be able to find our home planet.” 

Liz gapes at him silently for a moment, taking in the meaning of his words. “You’re trying to leave the planet?” Her voice cracks as she imagines Roswell without Michael here. In the past six months he’s become such an important person to her. The only one who understands how focused she can gets into a project in the lab. The only one who craves answers with the same intensity she does. And weirdly, the easiest person to talk to about whatever chaotic feelings are swirling through her at any given moment. She doesn’t know how to verbalize that to him, and he doesn’t seem open to hearing it, as his face is closed off when she looks back at him. 

“Yeah, so? People leave. You left.” His tone is sharply accusatory, which puts her on the defensive. 

“Right, and who influenced me into doing that?” 

“Bullshit. You told Max you were glad Isobel made you leave. And Isobel can’t influence someone into doing something they don’t want to do in the first place. You told me once that you loved Max the whole time. Since we were 17. If that were really true, how could you want to leave him?”

The stark pain in his face softens her initial pique at being called out. She considers how to answer him honestly. It’s not something she’s ever tried to put into words before. “I do believe I loved Max, even at 17. And if Rosa hadn’t died, maybe I would’ve been with him then. Maybe we’d have gone on that road trip, and figured out how to be in the same place the next year. But maybe not. I’ll never know who I would’ve been if Rosa hadn’t died. But losing her, it forced me to acknowledge that I didn’t know who I was without her. Since I was young, what I did, who I was, was shaped by either trying to be like her, or trying to be the opposite of her, depending on the trait. Without her, there was emptiness. I didn’t have a foil. She was the sun, to my moon, without her, I was only darkness. When she died, I wasn’t sure which of two instincts to follow. The instinct I’ve always had to run, a not so favorable trait I might’ve gotten from my mom, and the instinct to hide. Maybe if Isobel hadn’t influenced me, I would’ve chosen to hide in Max. Maybe I would’ve clung to him to try to replace what I’ve lost. But if I did that, I don’t think it would’ve worked out in the long run.” 

She pauses to think about how to make him understand how she can be both glad to have had the experiences she had the ten years away, and sad or regretful that she’d left Max behind to do so. “When I say I wanted to leave, and that in some ways I’m glad I did, it’s because it forced me to figure out how to be strong. How to be independent, and make my own way through the world, without being so scared of being imperfect. I may have swayed too far in the other direction, cutting myself off and not letting myself be close to anyone, but it did turn me into a person that could come back here, and after some trial and error, eventually accept Max’s love on my own terms, easily, not as an escape, but as a choice. And maybe there could’ve been a better way. A way to do both, find my strength without leaving. But I was a scared 17 year old, who had just been through a major trauma, and I did the best I could. Max told me once that since my mom left and I lost Rosa, it's easy to understand why I always try to leave before I can be left. And I think that’s true. But we’ve made our way back to each other, and though sometimes I still have the instinct to run, he supports me in fighting it. I told him if I ever lose the battle and run away, I want him to follow me. I know I hurt him in the past, but we love each other. And we are making the decision to be together, despite all the mistakes we’ve both made in the past. And that has to be enough.” 

Michael just nods at her, which she takes to mean he’s found her answer acceptable. After all this time, she’s come to accept that their conversations will always be relatively lopsided. Her rambling on about whatever comes into his head, him asking vague, inscrutable questions that hint at a deeper meaning, and never offering an explanation. He surprises her by stretching out on the cot and dropping his head in her lap. They do have a tactile friendship, she supposes, though he has only initiated contact in the past as a means of comfort during the embarrassing number of times she broke down about Max in this very bunker. Perhaps it’s his lowered inhibitions due to the alcohol, or the trust she likes to think they’ve built that lets him feel comfortable enough in this moment to seek comfort for himself. 

Unsure if it will be welcome, but wanting to reciprocate the gesture, she cards her fingers through his hair. He leans into her touch like a cat, so she guesses he’s ok with it. She continues stroking his hair, wondering if he will ever respond, or just drift off. After a few minutes, he speaks up so quietly she’s not sure at first if he means to be talking out loud, “I guess I understand why you’d be tempted to leave before getting left. If I could’ve, I might have done the same. Getting left sucks.” Liz knows abandonment was an all too common theme in Michael’s life. She understands why having a project where he could imagine a way home might sustain him. But now that they know that home is a war torn planet, the idea of him risking everything to go where there might be nothing waiting for him is unbearably sad. 

“Yeah it does. But sometimes people come back. Please don’t go anywhere where you might not be able to. What would Max, Isobel, and I do without you?” She thinks about including Maria in this list, but with the exasperation she just witnessed, and the fact that Michael has never mentioned their relationship to her, but hasn’t exactly been the voice of optimism when he talks about love, she doesn’t know if including her would hurt or help the situation. 

“You’d have each other. After a while, you wouldn’t even notice I was gone.” 

Liz shook her head vigorously. She first thinks about cracking a joke, but Michael has a vulnerability on his face she’s never seen before, so she opts for the truth. “Yes, we would. Max and Isobel are your family, Michael, They love you. I know you and Max have trouble actually talking to each other, but he talks to me. He tells me how grateful he is to you for helping bring him back, how much he cares about you, how he wishes he could fix things between you. And you are family to me, too. I would not have made it through the months when Max was gone without you. I would have just wallowed in my grief. You listened to me, you held me when I cried, and your brilliant mind made it possible to bring Max back. Michael, there are people that need you here, including me, ok?” 

Liz thinks her words have sunk into at least a little, as Michael’s eyes look a little wet. He rolls over so he’s facing away from her, but doesn’t move his head from her lap. He sighs, “It was a childish pipe dream anyways. Don’t worry, Ortecho, I won’t leave you here. Besides, what happens the next time a serum cure is needed? You can’t be trusted alone not to accidentally poison someone, so I guess I’ve got to stick around.” It’s practically a declaration of friendship coming from Michael, so she ignores the dig, and continues stroking Michael’s hair as he burrows closer to her. 

She decides to take a risk and ask, “So, do you want to tell me what made you decide to go on a bender today?” 

“What, I need a reason to go on a bender? Isn’t this just par for the course for me: a drunken criminal?” 

“No, Michael, it is not. Not usually. Except when something really upsets you. You always listen to me ramble, so why don’t you let me return the favor for once?”

“Nothing new. Just got reminded of what it feels like to get left behind, and it fucked with me for a minute. I’ll be fine tomorrow. Just a bad day, ok? Don’t wanna talk about it.” His eyes flicker closed and his breath slows. Liz decides to leave it alone for the day and let him sleep for a bit. She closes her eyes too and drifts off, leaning her head back against the wall. 

Pain in her legs wakes her, and she realizes she must’ve fallen asleep. Michael appears to still be resting peacefully, though she realizes belatedly that she forgot to make him drink water so he’s sure to have a hell of a hangover the next day. She checks her phone and sees it’s nearly 7 pm. She hates to leave Michael here, knowing the cot is not comfortable, and he’ll likely feel like crap when he wakes up. She shakes him, but he doesn’t so much as stir. She can’t get him up the ladder without help, and Max and Isobel have planned to stay at their parent’s house tonight to make sure the influencing was successful. Maria’s still working, and she doesn’t think calling her would exactly help their potentially floundering relationship. She realizes Kyle is off work now, so he’s probably her best option. Guerin may hate him, but he’s not conscious enough to object, so he can deal. She slides Michael’s head off her lap and onto a pillow and climbs out of the bunker, thankful Michael was too drunk to remember to move the Airstream back over the entrance. She walks towards the entrance until she has a good signal. 

Kyle answers after three rings, “What’s up, Liz?” She hears the sound of Kyle’s footsteps followed by a door closing. She wonders if she interrupted a date. Kyle obviously wouldn’t want a girl he’s seeing to overhear him talking to an ex-girlfriend, but he’s too conscientious and primed for a crisis to ignore her call even when he should. She thinks about telling him to forget it, but she really doesn’t want to leave Michael in the bunker for the night. If Kyle says no, she’ll figure something else out. 

“I was hoping for your help with a little situation I’ve got going on.”

“Is Rosa ok?” Kyle asks immediately. Once she reassures him, his tone lightens, and he quips, “In that case, I’m gonna need a few details, Ortecho. With you it could be literally anything.” 

“So, Michael was a bit over-served, and is passed out in his bunker. I’m not quite buff enough to move him to his bed. Any chance you’re free to help?” She’s not above a bribe, so she adds, “There are free fries in it for you if you do.”

“To help Guerin? Yeah, not today, Liz.” Liz is surprised to hear a bite to his tone. She’d always been under the impression that the animosity was one-sided. Kyle is usually tolerant of Michael’s antics and seemed to brush off his constant snarking in the past, so this attitude is new. She hears a heavy sigh, and when Kyle speaks again, he sounds more like himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. But I really can’t help. I’m a little tied up out here at the cabin with Alex. He’s also been a little...over-served as well. Today’s a tough day for him, two years since the explosion that took his leg, and then he and Guerin got into it this morning.I don’t know all the details, but suffice to say, it wasn’t good, as it seems to have led them both to the bottom of a bottle. So I’m not exactly feeling charitable towards Michael right now. But if you really can’t find anyone else, I can swing by once I get Alex settled, but I’m not sure when that’ll be. Sorry.” 

Liz isn’t sure she even says goodbye before she hangs up the phone. She’s rooted to the spot as she replays every conversation she and Michael have had over the past months and starts to see them in a new light. Fuck. It’s always about Alex with Michael. She doesn’t know how she hadn’t seen it before. She’d known from Maria that they’d had something in high school, but from Maria’s description it had seemed like it might’ve mostly one-sided, or maybe that’s what Maria wanted to believe. 

After Michael and Maria started doing whatever it is they are doing, she’d checked in with Alex once, but he’d refused to give any details and waved off her concern. And she’d let him. There had been so many other things to focus on that she honestly hadn’t wanted to get wrapped up in any love triangle nonsense between three of her closest friends. Maybe that’s how she let every seemingly obvious clue pass her by. It’s now abundantly clear that every time Michael talks about love it’s Alex he’s thinking of. And if Maria’s reading of him a few months ago was accurate, and her readings usually are, then Alex is in love with Michael too. Fuck. She doesn’t entirely blame Michael for trying to move forward with Maria. It’s obvious he and Alex have had their share of pain. Something that made him feel like love was the worst thing that happened to him. And with so much other trauma piled on, she gets why he might try for something else, something, what did he say months ago? something easy and safe. But it seems clear that won’t work for him in the long run any more than it would work for her. And it seems inevitable that in addition to complicating all of her friendships, it has the potential to break Maria’s heart. Fuck. 

Her pragmatism returns, and she acknowledges there's nothing she can do today to halt this impending trainwreck. She returns to the bunker, and shakes Michael awake roughly, feeling somewhat less charitable than she had earlier.  With her help he’s able to make it up the ladder, into his Airstream and into bed. Her better angels do eventually prevail and she entreats him to drink water before sleeping and even places some water and a small bottle of acetone next to his bed for when he awakes, before calling Rosa to pick her up. Tonight she wants to have dinner with her sister. Untangling the complex love lives of her friends can wait for another day. 

5.

“You here to yell at me?” 

“For leaving the door to your secret lair exposed? No. You’re the one who has a stick up their ass about that.” She lowers herself down the last rung of the ladder and flashes Michael a sad smile. “Or for breaking up with Maria last night? Also no.” A look of relief flashes across his face. Despite her telling him on many occasions that she considers him family, she can tell Michael thought ending his relationship with Maria might cost him her friendship. 

“I thought you’d be with her now. Drinking tequila and bitching about what an asshole I am. Isn’t that what girls do?” 

“Well I was there,” Liz admits. “And full disclosure, I may have had more than a little tequila.” At his worried look, she adds, “Don’t worry, your brother dropped me here and will pick me up. He’s on patrol tonight, but it’s been slow. Anyways, I was there and so was Isobel for some reason, and after a bit Isobel declared that me and my ‘stupidly coupled-up face’ were no longer welcome there.” Michael arches an eyebrow in disbelief and Liz raises her hand, indicating her own bewilderment. “I know. It was a little surprising coming from her, but she’d had even more tequila than I had, so she was a little less poised than usual. Anyway, she said the rest of the party was only for the recently dumped or widowed, and Maria seemed to be finding Isobel’s antics amusing, so I left. I figured with Max on duty and Isobel with Maria, that maybe you could use a friend.” Liz hopes there will come a time when Michael doesn’t look so astonished at someone caring about him. 

Liz leans against the table facing him and asks gently, “You want to tell me what went wrong? Everything seemed fine at dinner last night.” In truth, the double date had been painfully awkward, at least for her. In the week since she’d put Michael to bed after his Alex-inspired day drinking, she’d wrestled with what to do. It felt like she might be the only person with all the relevant information, but wasn’t sure how much interfering, if any, was appropriate. There didn’t seem to be a solution that wouldn’t end in broken friendships and broken hearts, so she’d done nothing. When Max, in an effort to normalize things and improve his relationship with his brother had arranged a double date with Michael and Maria, she’d nearly forced him to cancel, unsure of how she could sit across the table from them, knowing that Maria wasn’t who Michael thought about when he talked about love. But in the end she’d gone, and it had been largely uneventful. Still, she can’t pretend she wasn’t a little relieved when Maria called her this morning and told her Michael had broken up with her a few hours after their date. It took the decision out of her hand, and though Maria was sad, she didn’t seem destroyed. More wistful that the potential she thought was there never really came to fruition and regretful that the relationship had strained her friendship with Alex, who she admitted was unfailingly polite to her these days but couldn’t look her directly in the eye. Liz privately thought it was likely to get worse before it got better, but she still had hope that one day in the future they’d all be friends again like when they were younger. 

“It was,” Michael finally speaks. “Fine, I mean. It always was, with the exception of the few times I got obnoxiously drunk. Happy sometimes, comfortable, safe.” After a long moment he lets out a breath like he always does before venturing into topics that make him feel vulnerable. “But seeing you and Max together last night, remembering all the things you’ve said about the way you’ve worked through your shit, and how you feel when you’re with him… well I had to face a fact I’ve been avoiding for a while. As much as I adore Maria, and god, I really do...” The sincerity shines through on his face, and the small amount of anger she’d been carrying on her way over here dissipates entirely. “Despite that, safe and comfortable isn’t what I want. Just like you said to me when we were trying to bring Max back, when you’ve had something that feels fated,” he smiles ruefully, “something cosmic. Well, safe and comfortable just isn’t enough.” His smile fades and his mood turns dark. “I’m just sorry I hurt Maria in figuring that out.” 

Liz pats his arm reassuringly. “It wasn’t great. But I do think she’ll get past it eventually.” Liz considers for a moment, before deciding she has to ask. They can’t keep talking around it forever. “So are we gonna talk about Alex, now or what?” 

Off Michael’s surprised look, Liz continues, “I mean, he is who you mean when you talk about fated and cosmic, right?” 

Michael looks guilty and a little embarrassed at the same time. “You know about that, huh? From Alex?” Liz shakes her head. “Figures. Maria then? I guess girls do talk.” 

“Are you upset? Did you not want me to know?”

Michael looks conflicted, like he’s not quite sure how to answer. “I’ve never really cared if people knew, that was more Alex’s thing than mine. I just wish...I don’t know...I wish I had some control over it. That I got to tell people on my own terms. Not about Alex, even, but about me, I guess. Maybe it’s dumb, it shouldn’t matter, I’m not ashamed of it. But Max apparently knew for years and never even said anything until I made him angry enough to snap. I still don’t know for sure how Maria found out, and then with you, at first I assumed you knew: that Alex or Maria had told you, but you never said anything, so.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. it’s water under the bridge now.”

“No, Michael. It’s not dumb, you’re right. I’m sorry for how everything happened, and I’m sorry for being so wrapped up in everything else that I didn’t try to talk to you about it until now.” Maybe it’s because she’s never had to think about it, but it hadn’t even occurred to her until this moment that Maria had essentially outed Michael to her, and it sounds like it wasn’t the first time that happened to him. She knew it wasn’t malicious, neither she nor Maria had an issue with bisexuality, and had been focused only on the issues raised by the fact that it was Alex, but of course there were added layers. Alex always played things close to the chest, even as a kid, so she hadn’t thought too hard about why he didn’t share details about his high school crush or subsequent relationships. But she realizes now that it wasn’t just Alex being private, it’s that it wasn’t his decision to make. Sharing details could always mean outing someone. And given that Alex hadn’t ever really had a choice about coming out himself, since by the time high school rolled around, he was in a glass closet at best, he would be particularly sensitive about outing someone else. With the choice taken away from Michael, she thinks he at least deserves not to have some details. “Just so you don’t have to wonder, my understanding is that Maria did find out from Alex, but he didn’t actually tell her. You know how she is, she read him the day after we got back from Texas. It’s pretty hard to lie to a psychic. Maria confided in me later when she was trying to work out her feelings. I know it doesn’t make it ok, but she was really just trying to give me context.” 

Michael shrugs. “Like I said, it is what it is. I’m not angry that you know.” 

“So, do you want to talk about it? I know you had something in high school, but I thought that was all it was until recently. When I put together a few things about the conversations we’ve had. It sounds like it was or maybe is a lot more than that.” 

Another long breath escapes Michael before he says anything else. “Yeah… it’s kind of everything.” 

Like so many times before, Michael’s simple truth catch her off guard. She collects herself enough to ask, “So, what’s keeping you apart? I may not know the details, but you certainly haven’t sounded particularly optimistic about love, and Kyle mentioned you and Alex got into it last week just before your epic day drinking disaster.” 

Michael shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot and runs a hand through his hair, looking anywhere other than at her. “There are a lot of things between us. We’ve been through some pretty awful stuff. We had amazing moments too, but the trauma cast a pretty big shadow. He’s a little skittish, I’m a little defensive, he walks away, I feel abandoned. It’s a whole thing. After everything that happened this fall and winter, it seemed like time for us to stop banging our heads against the wall. I thought I needed something new. Something different.” 

“But you don’t think that anymore?” Liz prods. 

“Don’t let it go to your head or anything, but you rambling on about Max made me see a few things in a different light. Last week, well, Alex gave me that last piece of the console I showed you. I guess he’d had it for a while but hadn’t given it to me because he, I don’t know, he said he wasn’t ready for me to leave or something. And in the moment I was pissed. Because he kept leaving me, but I couldn’t leave him? That’s not fair. So I lashed out, like I do, and he told me we could talk another day, but that it was two years since he’d nearly died and he wasn’t in the mood to be a punching bag and left. I just started thinking about everything. About what it felt like when he left for the Air Force for the first time, and what it would’ve felt like if he hadn’t ever come home. It was shitty and I didn’t know what else to do so I got drunk. Fell back into old coping mechanisms ‘cause that’s what I do when it gets to be too much, even though I’ve been trying to break that habit, I slip up sometimes.” 

He pauses for a breath, but surprisingly continues talking. “The next day, and every day since, it just made me think, like, Alex does the same thing sometimes. When he gets overwhelmed, he falls back into old coping mechanisms too. He walks away. That’s why I felt like if we tried again, we’d just be repeating old patterns, but I realized Alex was, in his own way trying to break that habit. He just...well, he’s like you in some ways. He needs a minute to catch up, to process, and I don’t always give that to him. I expect him to show he cares like I do, and that’s not him. But lately he was trying to stop walking away, to use his words a little more, and yeah, he slipped up sometimes this year, but he did keep coming back. I wasn’t in the place to see it before, but I do now. And then I thought about you, and how you are doing the same thing, working not to run when you get overwhelmed, and how Max is helping you, and how you’d want him to come after you if you did regress. I thought about how you worked through past trauma and forgave each other, and how you want each other, even when it’s hard. And I realized that I want to do that too, to put in the work. When he told me he was giving me that piece of the ship so I could leave if I wanted, move on, be happy, I realized I don’t want to. I don’t want to try to go home. Because besides that brief moment with my mom, Alex is the only one that has ever made me feel like I’m home. And moving on didn’t work, even with someone I adore and care about as much as Maria, because I don’t want to move on. Because...well fuck, because I love him.” 

He finally looks up at her, a little sheepish. “And well that’s the most words I’ve ever said at one time. I think I’m turning into you, now. Rambling about my feelings. You’re a bad influence, Ortecho.” 

She laughs, warmth and love for him flooding through her. He’s been through so much, and he and Alex both deserve the chance to try to work through things. “Well, you know what you have to do now, right?” 

The look he shoots her indicates that he thinks she might’ve gone mad. “What about anything I just said indicates to you that I have any earthly idea about what I should do now? Everything’s a disaster. Alex thinks I’ve moved on. Maria, the only person that really put up with me for the last ten years before you came back to town, probably hates me now. I’m well and truly fucked…why the hell are you smiling?” 

“Well, see, one time when I was spiraling, kind of like you are right now, a literal genius, as he likes to remind me he is, gave me some sage and brilliant advice that I think might work for you now.” She can tell by Michael’s rolling eyes that he knows where she’s going with this. “Yup, that’s right...it’s coming back to bite you in the ass. You should talk to him. What did you say to me? ‘Just ramble at him like you just did to me?’ That should work. And I mean that literally: tell Alex what you just told me, in the same way. No vague, but dramatic metaphors. Tell him, and if he gets overwhelmed and leaves? Give him a day and then go after him. But I don’t think he will. And in time, who knows, the whole talking thing might go a long way with making things right with Maria, too.” 

Michael just makes a humming sound, which could mean agreement or just that he’s done talking for the day, but that’s alright. She knows now that even when it seems like he’s not listening, he thinks about the things she says. Liz has faith that eventually he’ll take the advice and untangle this mess. 

+1

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Liz can’t stop herself from laughing out loud at Max’s nervousness. 

“Yes. I want to tell him now and you know his phone doesn’t work down there. Besides, he might get pissed at you for going busting in unannounced, but he actually likes me.” At the wounded look Max tries to cover, Liz regrets the joke. Max and Michael have made strides in their relationship in the two months since Max’s resurrection, but there are still some missteps and resentments to work through. Michael clearly does have a greater level of comfort around Liz than Max, so she really shouldn’t tease. She takes a softer, more serious tone, as she continues. “Come on, he’s going to be happy for us.” Max relents and uses his still relatively new telekinetic powers to slide the Airstream over, and open the manhole cover. 

“Michael, you down there?” Max yells, rolling his eyes when he realizes Liz hasn’t waited for a reply and is already halfway down the ladder. But despite his reservations, he follows her lead.  

She immediately notices when she reaches the ground that there have been some changes since the last time she was here over a month ago. The ship console remains, but is pushed over in the corner and a few of the tables have been removed to make room for an extensive computer setup, which Michael is currently standing in front of. As Michael whirls around, an irritated look on his face that softens slightly when he catches sight of her, she immediately recognizes the reason for the change, as Michael’s sudden movement reveals Alex lounging in the chair in front of the monitor set up. He gets up to greet her with a much friendlier smile. 

“Ortecho, you’re abusing my open door privileges here. I never said you could bring guests down here.” Michael gestures to Max, who has now made his way to the ground as well. The harsh words are undercut by a teasing smile which Max returns. 

Alex bumps Michael’s shoulder with his own. “I think what Michael meant to say, was ‘hey guys, how are you?’” Michael attempts to seem annoyed at Alex’s rephrasing, but can’t seem to look at Alex with anything other than adoration these days. They finally got their shit together a few weeks after she and Michael had the last of what she’s now calling their bunker confessionals. They’d even quietly been on a few dates around town, including at the Crashdown, and Liz had only barely stopped herself from squealing out loud when she saw them holding hands shyly under the table and looking at each other like there was no one else in the room. 

“Sure, we’ll go with that. And also, what the hell are you guys doing here? Max, I’d thought since getting trapped here you wouldn’t really be eager to come back.” 

“Eh, it wasn’t all bad,” Max responds sincerely. He’s told Liz that though they’ve had setbacks since, he feels getting stuck in this bunker had been a real breakthrough in their relationship. Michael seems to catch his meaning and gives him a half-smile. “Anyways, we have news to share and Iz said you were off the map, so we figured you might be down here.” Truthfully, Liz had wanted to tell Michael immediately, but Max convinced her that dealing with Isobel’s rage if she wasn’t the first to know wouldn’t have been worth it. Maria had been at Isobel’s that morning oddly, so they were able to tell them both at the same time. Afterwards, Liz insisted they come straight here. 

“So, what was so important that you were willing to encourage Isobel’s unhealthy stalking tendencies? I know you hate that she tracks our phones almost as much as I do.” 

“Well… Liz and I talked, and we decided--” 

Liz rolls her eyes in fond exasperation. Max is long winded at the best of times, and she’s not sure he’s ever going to get to the point, so she jumps in, stretching her hand out for Michael and Alex to see the ring sparkling there. “We’re getting married!” She yelps a moment later as she feels herself being lifted off the ground in an exuberant hug. 

When Michael finally puts her down, he gives Max a more reserved bro hug/back slap combo that she sees boys do with each other, and a sincere, “Congratulations.” And as she studies him over Alex’s shoulder, as he gives her a less exuberant, but just as heartfelt hug, she could even swear Michael’s eyes look a little wet, though she knows better than to comment on it.  After Alex shakes Max’s hand, he comes to stand behind Michael, resting his chin on Michael’s shoulder as they talk wedding plans, and Michael lightly teases them both about how little say they’ll get in anything once Isobel takes over. The contentment that fills her in this moment feels almost surreal. 

Liz thinks back to all the conversations she and Michael had in this very bunker, talking about love, and wondering if the pain, sacrifice, and worry would all be worth it. If they’d ever get a chance to be happy with the people they love. As she leans back into Max’s arms, and watches Michael press a kiss into Alex’s hair, she knows neither of them have to wonder anymore.

#brotp: science bros #michael guerin #liz ortecho #5+1 fic #malex fic #echo #maribel if you squint #roswell new mexico fic #my fic #soberqueerinthewild

[thesmalltowngal]

Snowbaz 12- A Sticky Note A Day...

Otp Prompt #12: Simon proposes to Baz with a sticky note a day in his favorite book… (Post-canon) (Baz’s POV)

Starts slow at first, but the ending is the fluffiest thing I’ve probably ever written. Enjoy!

My therapist gave me a book to read. I fought with Simon long and hard about going to see a therapist, but at the end of the day, I decided he might be right. So I went to see one (a magickal one that was bloody hard to track down) and it turns out that she actually helped. Of course, sometimes she’s just fucking wrong in her analysis. One time she said I may have ‘self destructive tendencies’. Who gave her the bloody right? When she said that, I promptly hung up on her and didn’t talk to her for a month, slipping into a depression. Then I decided that she might be right, so Simon made me call and apologize.

But I’m getting off track. Today, my therapist gave me a book called Simon Vs. The Homosapiens Agenda. A book about a closeted gay kid or some shit. So now I’m back in Penny and Simon’s flat trying to get myself into the reading mood. (Simon is the only other one here. Penny barely likes to be in the room with the both of us because she says we’re too cuddly. A fucking hypocrite is what she is. Her and that Micah guy never keep their hands off of each other when he comes to visit). (Simon comes to stay at my flat when that happens, so I don’t complain much). Simon is sitting on the sofa watching me. As if it wasn’t bloody hard enough to start reading- then add Simon’s eyes and his hair to the mix and it’s nearly fucking impossible. 

“Baz, what’s wrong?” He furrows his brow and moves to stand in front of me. On instinct, I start to sneer at him, but then I realize that I don’t have to anymore. Because Simon Snow is mine. Voluntarily. I don’t have to keep that wall up anymore. That’s another thing my therapist and I talk about a lot; Simon. She once told me that I had to limit myself to no more than ten minutes talking about him, because I’d never shut up about the fact that he was finally with me. (I don’t usually follow that rule).

“Oh nothing, Love. Just having a hard time getting into this bloody book.”

“But you love reading! It’s your favorite thing, other than me,” He flashes me a toothy grin and I can’t help but grin back. His stupid beautiful smile is infectious. “So what’s holding you back?”

“I suppose I’m in a bit of a reading rut. I can’t find a book that grasps my attention for that long.” He thinks for a moment, biting at his bottom lip. His wings are starting to show, but I don’t dare tell him that. I quite like them. When we’re sleeping (because we sleep together now. Simon Snow and I. In the same bed. Willingly), he wraps them around the both of us and it’s like we’re in our own safe little cocoon. As he thinks, his tail whips all around. (Crowley, I love his tail. He figured out how to control it a year ago and now he never stops touching me with it. It’s my favorite). 

“Well then just read a chapter a day. That won’t be too hard, yeah? How many chapters is it?”

I flip through the book quickly before answering, “35. That’s about 34 days longer than it usually takes me to read a book…” 

He mumbles something incoherently to himself and I only catch the tail end of it. (He almost never realizes that he’s talking out loud). “...I can make that work…” Then after a pause, he continues, out loud for me to hear this time. “It’s alright, Baz. Just take your time. There’s no rush or anything. A chapter a day for 35 days. That way it won’t interfere with University.” I nod along without really realizing that I’m doing it. 35 days. Easy enough.

Day One

I read the first chapter of the book the next day (I might actually enjoy it), only to discover what Simon did with my book when he borrowed it from me last night. There’s a bright yellow sticky note at the very end of that chapter that reads: I’m so lucky to have found you. A grin so large it hurts my cheeks (I’m not used to smiling, but Simon makes my face hurt from it every day) starts taking over my face. Simon Snow, what have you got planned?

Day Two

Another note is at the end of the second chapter, this one even sweeter than the last. To think, we could’ve been in love all those years…

Day Five

Simon and I don’t talk about the notes. He doesn’t acknowledge writing them, and I don’t acknowledge receiving them- it seems like a secret just for me. But I try to convey the way I feel about them through little things like soft, slow kisses when he doesn’t expect them. At the end of the chapter today: You saved me. It’s funny how he thinks that I saved him when he saved me every bloody day of my life. And then literally saved me in a halo of fire in the forest. 

Day Ten

I’m starting to get really into the book, but I don’t want to read more than a chapter a day because I don’t want to skip a note. At the end of this one: Every day I fall a little more in love with you. Truth be told, I never took Simon to be such a romantic. But fuck if I’m not swept off my feet by now.

Day Twenty

I promise to love you until my very last breath… and the some. My heart swells with anticipation at the end of each page leading up to the end of the chapter. Truth be told, I’m very much liking this book. I can see why my therapist recommended it to me. 

Day Thirty

The notes that he’s leaving now are starting to sound like sentences. He’ll write a line and end it with a comma, and then the next day the sticky note will begin with ‘and’, and then finish the sentence. It’s quite poetic. Today’s note is: Whether it’s fighting side by side or just laying down together sleeping,

Day Thirty-One

… there’s no one else I’d rather be with.

Day Thirty-Two

I’ve started going back to earlier sticky notes and writing all of the lines together. It all is starting to sound like one long speech, but I can’t tell if it’s just because or if it’s leading up to something bigger. (Side note: This book is fucking awesome). You are the one.

Day Thirty-Three

The one that I want to adopt pets with, and the one I want to snog until you can’t feel anything anymore.

Day Thirty-Four

The one that I want to spend the rest of my life with. Simon has started acting strangely around me. It’s getting increasingly harder to not acknowledge the notes when it feels like they’re building up to something more. 

Day Thirty-Five

For the last thirty-four days, Simon hasn’t been around me when I’ve gotten to the end of the chapters in the book. But today as I near the end, he’s sitting across from me on the sofa, writing something out on a bright blue sticky note. When I finally reach the end of the last chapter (it’s a bloody brilliant book), I see one last pink sticky note in the back of the book. By now, you’ve strung everything together, I’m sure. So that just leaves one last thing to do. Baz Pitch… But that’s it. That’s the end of the sticky note. I shut the book and set it on the table beside me. When I look up at Simon, he’s down on one knee with a ring box open in his hand. My breath catches in my throat when I see the sticky note on his forehead. 

Will You Marry Me?

#Proposal #simon #simon snow #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #baz #baz pitch #baz grimm-pitch #baz grimm pitch #carry on #wayward son #carry on wayward son #books #fanfic #fanfiction #fic #snowbaz #im snowbaz trash #snowbaz fanfic #snowbaz fanfiction #snowbaz fic #rainbow rowell #love #magic #spells #world of mages #penelope bunce #angst #fluff #watford #watford school of magicks

[thestupidhelmet]

I’m trying and failing to write T7S fanfic :(( I feel like I don’t capture the characters voices, you know? Imo you capture them spot on, do you have any tips to do so? Especially for JH, but tips for the other main characters would also be nice...

First, thank you for the compliment! It’s one of the best a fanfic writer can receive. 😊

On your own, you can watch some significant, character-developing episodes for each character and take notes about the kind of language they use when they’re under stress (e.g., angry, sad, frustrated, etc.) or happy. But I’ll give you insight into how I approach each character’s voice.

Hyde

He rarely expresses his emotions verbally without some kind of deflection, misdirection, or concealment. In “Eric’s False Alarm” (4x25), for example, Eric calls Hyde on being the one who stopped Donna and Casey from potentially having sex. He also calls Hyde on one of his true motives. Hyde claims, however, that he “didn’t do it to be nice. I did it because I always wanted to commit a felony. Misdemeanors just ain’t the rush they used to be.”

Eric’s responds, “Well, all I hear is, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’”

Hyde is almost all subtext. That is the key to his character. If he does express his feelings directly, it’s very hard for him. It’s like being constipated but emotionally (sorry for the gross analogy, but it’s apt). He’ll have trouble looking the person in the eye or scratch the back of his neck. Or he’ll stick a curse or two while being sincere.

Hyde doesn’t tend to give long speeches. Usually, he’ll say a sentence or two before another character talks or he does some action to break up his dialogue.

He often uses humor, often sarcastic and sometimes cruel, to defuse a tense situation.

He uses the word, “man” at the beginning or end of certain sentences. Don’t do it too much, though, or it’ll feel forced.

Speaking of word choice, this is a key to capturing a character’s voice. For instance, Hyde has never – and would never – say, “Anyways,” with an S. Whenever I read a fic where Hyde says that, I hear the author’s voice, not Hyde’s.

Hyde-specific words include swell and super (when he’s being sarcastic), freakin’ and damn it when he’s pissed or frustrated. He’ll say ain’t instead of isn’t sometimes. He’s called testicles both ‘nads and stones.

Jackie

Jackie is the opposite to Hyde in terms of expressing her emotions verbally. When she feels something, she’s vocal about it. That’s not to say she can’t keep her feelings to herself. She does so when she’s significantly afraid of rejection.

I interpret Jackie’s character as being really insightful beneath her superficiality. Enough episodes depict her this way to support that interpretation, but other episodes depict her superficiality as being more than skin-deep. That’s up to the individual fanfic writer to decide which characterization to go with.

But with mine, I intersperse her insight with moments of egoism and vanity. A prime example of this on the show is from “Jackie Bags Hyde” (3x08). In the midst of offering Hyde a compassionate, accurate analysis of his childhood wounding, she compliments her own beauty.

She often makes analogies when giving advice (to Hyde, to Donna, to whomever). These analogies are created from her own experiences and interests (e.g., styling her hair, having a pet rat, etc.), but they’re apt, nevertheless.

She has a generally romantic view of life, which influences her language, but she also has a more down-to-earth side. So she’ll say both, “Make love,” and, “Doing it,” when describing sex, for example. 

Unlike Hyde, Jackie has said, “Anyways,” with an S, but she mostly says, “Anyway” without the S. She doesn’t curse all that much. When she does curse, she really means it.

Unfortunately, she uses a lot of slut-shaming language. Most of the characters on T7S do. That’s a consequence of T7S’s writers finding that humor funny. I try not to have the characters speak that way unless it’s going to be called out by another character or in a character’s thoughts.

Jackie probably thinks a mile a minute, which sometimes leads her to digress from her main topic while speaking.

Eric

Eric expresses his feelings pretty easily, but he can be hyperbolic. Examples: “This is the worst day ever.” “This is the [FILL IN THE BLANK] in the history of time.”

Like Hyde, he’s sarcastic. According to Red, he’s a smart mouth. Kitty has called him a porky mouth on more than one occasion. In “Burning Down the House” (2x15), for instance, he says about Jackie’s party, “You know what might make this party a little more fun? Sweet death.”

Depending on his mood and whom he’s with, his dialogue can either be compassionate or insensitive and sometimes a bit cruel. Sometimes his wit his biting. Others, it’s corny. E.g., he doesn’t like and resents Hyde’s girlfriend, Jill, in “The Third Wheel” (4x11) and calls her both Terri Tube Top and Yoko.

But he can also be nervous and lack confidence, which will make him hem and haw while talking. He’ll interrupt his speech using, “You know,” several times in one sentence or pauses. E.g., “We … barely knew.”

He sometimes uses antiquated language like m’lady and ‘tis I.

He makes quite a few Star Wars and comic book references.

Topher Grace’s comedic timing and line delivery adds a lot to his dialogue, and it’s possible to emulate that in prose. Again, watch some significant episodes for Eric and take note of his speech patterns and word choices.

Donna

Donna has a quick temper, but she also usually recognizes and owns her mistakes quickly. She has an easy time expressing her anger and frustration, as well as more loving and affectionate feelings. But she’s not a crier. She often expresses her sadness through frustration or anger. Not always, though.

She has a very playful and silly side. She can be as witty as Eric, but in anger she can make some odd metaphors. E.g., “He’s an ass, and you’re an ass – ‘cause the ass doesn’t fall far from the ass tree!” (From “Jackie Bags Hyde”.)

Dillhole and get bent are part of her idiolect. She also peppers her sentences with the filler word like (which should be set off by commas).

Kelso

Kelso’s language is dictated by his impulses, what he’s interested in at that very moment, and his unique POV about the world. He’s very excitable, which leads him to expressing himself as efficiently as possible – in terms of language, not ideas. . E.g., “You gotta see this!” not “You’ve got to see this!”

He comes up with bizarre scenarios and ideas, which is usually adds humor to an episode.

His egoism and narcissism color his dialogue. E.g., “You know what your problem is? I’m too good-looking.”

He’s emotionally immature for his age, and he often speaks like he’s thirteen, not eighteen. (Sorry to the mature thirteen-year-olds out there; I know there’s plenty of you.)

Fez

Fez alternates between using contractions and not using them. E.g., “I do not think you should do that,” vs. “I don’t think you should do that.”

He’ll express his emotions melodramatically. Even when he’s trying to “keep it all inside,” he’s over the top while explaining that this is what he’s doing.

He’ll say, “Ai,” when he’s upset or hurt or worried. I chose the Ai spelling instead of Ay because Fez’s native language isn’t Spanish, despite Wilmer Valderrama being the one portraying him. Just like Jackie’s eyes are brown, despite Mila Kunis’s eyes – at the time of T7S – being two different colors.

On the show, Fez’s dialogue is often used to break the tension with humor.

“You sonuvabitch!” and “Good day. I said good day!” are two of his catchphrases.

He’ll talk about his country, and what it’s like there, without every saying where he’s actually from.

His characterization varies, depending on the season. I’m not a fan of his post-Rhonda personality. In the early seasons, he isn’t a perv so much as someone who doesn’t know how far to push a joke. He’s trying to fit in with his friends, and the cultural differences cause him confusion.  

He can be poetic and romantic.

Red

Red is similar to Hyde and Donna. He doesn’t express his feelings easily, save anger and frustration. To Kitty, however, he can be very sweet. To Hyde, he’ll dispense wisdom (and he practically cried in “Hyde’s Father” [3x03] when telling Hyde he’ll always have a place in his house, etc.). To Eric – well, that is one contentious relationship. 

He was in the navy during World War II and the Korean War, and that colors his POV. He’s not politically correct, but writing that aspect of him … it’s a fine line. He’s not racist so much as xenophobic, which stems from his experiences in the navy and his somewhat extreme patriotism.

Honestly, watch pretty much any episode of his from seasons 2-4, and you’ll understand his voice quickly. The Red of season 1 is quite different, more nuanced  – and I actually prefer it, but alas. That Red makes a guest appearance in “Hyde’s Birthday” (4x23), but he’s more of a hardass post-S1. After season 4, his character begins to become even less nuanced. And during season 7, he’s sometimes very OOC.

Kitty

She’s compassionate and a little cartoony. She’s wise in certain areas and naive in others. She’s smart and savvy – until the show devolves her in the later seasons.

To get her speech pattern and idiolect, “Vanstock” (2x06), “Kitty and Eric’s Night Out” (2x18), ,“Red Sees Red” (3x01), and “Kitty’s Birthday” (3x17) are good episodes to watch.

I hope this helps! :D

#That 70s Show #That '70s Show #Jackie x Hyde #Eric Forman #Michael Kelso #Fanfic Advice #Writing Advice #My Meta #My Essay #Meta #Essay #Ask #Anon

[theguildedtypewriter]

What Did You Say? A guide to writing good dialogue

(Remember all pieces of advice are meant to help guide, that is all. They are not dogma.)

Ever read something and heard the dialogue in your head, and you just stopped. There was something off about it and for a solid minute there you couldn’t tell if the character was supposed to sound like that or if the author just didn’t have dialogue down. Chances are some mistakes were made. 

Dialogue can be tricky. There’s no doubt about it.

You need to make it sound like the characters are having a real conversation but if you write it exactly like people talk it can get confusing and sound even worse. 

“So how do I write good dialogue?!”

You can usually sense when your dialogue needs work. So here’s a set of some dialogue trick that might help you. When you think something is off with your dialogue use this to help you figure out what and make some changes.

All about that Flow-

It’s said all the time about your first draft, the important thing is to get the words on the page, you’ll refine later. This technique applies to your dialogue, and you’ll even come up with lines you never would have if you spent your time trying to be perfect.

You can even try writing the dialogue first. Get down what your characters are arguing about, planning, revealing, etc. Do it fast, pay no attention to who said what. Just get the words out.

This dialogue can give you a good idea what the scene is about and it might be different than what you thought. Then just go back to it and fill in.

This can be good for when you’re in a slump.

Talk it Out-

You can also practice dialogue or get yourself going by speaking the lines of two of your characters as they interact. An argument or conversation between your two character except you say all the lines as they come to you.

Overt the Obvious-

A very common mistake is creating a simple back-and-forth. Each line directly answers the previous line, often repeating a word or phrase from that previous line, echoing it. Ex:

“Hello, Tina.” “Hi, Jane.” “I really like your blouse.” “Oh, my blouse! You mean this old thing?” “Old thing! You’ve never worn it before.”

No surprises and very little interest. Some direct response is alright, but your dialogue will be better if you overt the obvious:

“Hello, Tina.” “Jane. I didn’t see you come in.” “Nice shirt.” “Did you finish your half of the project?”

Okay, I don’t know why they’re pissed at each other but this exchange is way more interesting and suggestive of what’s going on behind the scenes than the first.

(How could I not use the Crow?)

Zip It-

Another powerful way to overt the obvious is silence. It can be the best choice for an exchange. Hemingway is good at this. By using a combination silence and action, he gets the point across through a short but compelling exchanges. Look at “Soldier’s Home”:

“God has some work for every one to do,” his mother said. “There can’t be no idle hands in His Kingdom.” “I’m not in His Kingdom,” Krebs said. “We are all of us in His Kingdom.” Krebs felt embarrassed and resentful as always. “I’ve worried about you so much, Harold,” his mother went on. “I know the temptations you must have been exposed to. I know how weak men are. I know what your own dear grandfather, my own father, told us about the Civil War and I have prayed for you. I pray for you all day long, Harold.” Krebs looked at the bacon fat hardening on the plate.

You can express a lot by what a character doesn’t say.

Confrontation is your Friend-

We all want to avoid the info dump. Telling out readers everything that happened in the backstory in one chunk that slows down the story. You can avoid this by  using dialogue. When you create a tension-filled scene, typically between two characters, you can get them arguing and then have the information come out in the natural progression of the conversation. 

The not so great way:

Regina Black was a cop running from a terrible past. She had been fired for bungling an operation while she was drunk.

Try it out in a scene:

“I know who you are,” Nancy said. “You know nothing,” said Regina. “You’re that ex-cop.” “I need to be—” “From the 54th . You got your partner killed because you were drunk off your ass. Yeah, I know you.”

This can give you dialogue weight and increase your pace.

You Don’t Need ALL the Words-

People don’t often speak the say way we write things. We leave words out, we use contraction, we shorten. A standard exchange might go down like this:

“Your mom was killed? “Yes, she was in a car accident.” “What was her name?” “Her name was Martha.”

Try something more like this:

“Your mom was killed?” “Car accident.” “What was her name?” “Martha.”

This is leaner and sounds more like real speech without sounding too weird or chopped up for a reader to understand.

Don’t Explain Everything-

I know we always want to make sure that our readers understand exactly what we’re getting at. But consider the following:

“That’s amazing news,” he said gleefully.

Look right to you? 

Well, it’s not technically wrong so yeah. But this is a pretty commonly trap. You’re telling your reader your character’s feelings twice. The adverb ‘gleefully’ really isn’t needed here. Now, that’s not to say that adverbs have no place. For example:

“That’s amazing news,” he said mournfully.

Oh wait what? He’s not happy about that? Why? See in this context the adverb actually gives the reader important information quickly. Many people that they don’t like adverbs but I find them useful when not stuffed into your writing too much.

Here’s another example:

“I can’t believe it!” Marnie said.

Here, there’s no dialogue explanation, so it’s tightened up and the focus is on what is being said rather than how. Plus, readers can now imagine my OC’s surprise, which helps them get closer to my OC.

You really shouldn’t have to explain your dialogue.

Keep your dialogue transparent-

When your dialogue is powerful, the last thing you want to do is move the reader’s attention somewhere else. Explanations and ‘ly’ adverbs can break the flow because they jump out to the reader, making them focus, if only for a second, on the fact that they’re reading instead of being engrossed in the story.

Now, people may not like this, but said is NOT dead. When we see the word said, we tend to gloss over it like it were a comma or period. And that’s exactly what we want. We want the reader to pay no attention to the word but accept it’s purpose.

Study Conversations-

Coffee shops, bars, and restaurants. Fantastic places to do some people listening. This kind of people studying can really help to create dialogue that sounds so natural. I am personally a huge fan of Buffy for this because it genuinely sounded like teenagers/young adults and the pop culture references where amazing. People talk in cliches, gestures, and movie/TV quotes. So many quotes.

Also remember, conversation isn’t just words. It’s body language, tone, eye contact, facial expressions, etc. Consider this:

“You lied to me,” said John.

“I did it to protect you,” said Tate.

James moved toward John and reached for his hand. “We didn’t want you to get hurt—”

John pushed his hand away and backed away from them. “I trusted you.”

You can use actions to break up dialogue. This is a creative way to move the conversation along and show what the characters are feeling using their responses and gestures together.

Just keep in mind that if you intersperse action between every line of dialogue it loses it’s usefulness.

Don’t keep pointless prose-

As writers, we frequently stuff too many details into dialogue. You need balance realism and dialogue purpose. Dialogue is suppose to help move the story along, offer depth, and convey information. When dialogue doesn’t fulfill any of these purposes, it has to go. Look at this:

“I saw Todd in the park the other day,” said Steve.

“Oh yeah?” inquired Susan. “How is he?”

“He has a new job. He has a flexible schedule, so he has way more free time,” said Steve.

“Well, good for him,” said Susan. “Do know how he’ll use his free time?”

“No. I meant to ask him, but forgot,” said Steve.

This conversation is slow, boring, chunky, and serves no purpose. This didn’t really relay any new information and it didn’t move the story anywhere. Now, if the point was to show a stilted conversation between ex-lovers, friends, or a conversation about nothing because the characters can’t face the hard stuff, this would be great for that. But honestly, that’s a purpose right there. If you can find no purpose for the prose, take it out.

Read it aloud-

The last tip is to read your work aloud. I do this. Complete with facial expressions, gestures, and voices. It can be a really fast way of finding a problem. Pace, punctuation, flow. When you read out loud, issues with these things become crystal freaking clear.

Where did you stumble or pause unnaturally? Fix that. Any accidental rhymes or repeated words? Edit them.

Does the dialogue match the character? If your character is uneducated , make sure they sound that way. A professor? Make sure the OC sounds smart.

When you read a bad sentence you’re sure to flinch or stumble along the way. When you do, you know where there’s work to be done.

Applying your dialogue tips- 

The tips above aren’t quick fixes. You’ll need to work on them throughout the course of your writing. Don’t feel overwhelmed. Consider them one at a time. Do whatever works for you. This is all just meant to help. 

And remember,

NEVER STOP WRITING!

#writeblr #writing advice #writing tips #dialogue #writing dialogue #tips and tricks #writers #writing #this is meant to help #this is NOT law #said is not dead #adverbs have their place

[mentalmimosa]

come at once, part IV

part I here: [https://mentalmimosa.tumblr.com/post/183190416525/come-at-once]

part II here: [https://mentalmimosa.tumblr.com/post/183212457065/come-at-once-part-ii]

part III here: [https://mentalmimosa.tumblr.com/post/183212497805/come-at-once-part-iii]

The next morning, when he walked into Mr. Bond’s study at five minutes to nine--after knocking, of course--he was somewhat surprised to see the ruffian from the night before replaced by what look like a gentleman. His hair smoothed into shape, all of his clothing in place, Bond was the picture of order from his cravat to his boots. There was an empty teacup at his side and a dip pen in his hand. He looked like he’d been at it for hours.

“Q,” he said, not looking up from his work. “You’re early.”

“Am I?” For most of his previous employers, five minutes to the hour was considered on time.

“You are.” The pen lifted from the paper, went back to the inkwell. “Wait outside, please.”

Q flushed--was he damned to always do so in this man’s presence? “Sir, I can--”

“Outside.” Bond’s voice was deceptively placid. “I won’t ask again.”

And so, at four minutes to nine, Q found himself back in the corridor, standing awkwardly beside a closed door, his hands curled rather uncharacteristically into white-knuckled fists. He closed his eyes and breathed and flipped through the mental catalogue of the many other gentleman he’d worked for, of their various quirks and seemingly silly demands. Lord Haycomb and his insistence that Q use a quill, for example, no matter how much it slowed down his scribing; or Mr. Beecham of High Street, Esquire, who regarded a malformed letter or a wobbly comma as reason enough to toss an entire page of correspondence in the fire and insist that Q do it again. Indeed, he consoled himself, there in Mr. Bond’s silent, well-carpeted hall, even his favorite employer, a Mr. Post from Mayfair, had had his eccentricities; he’d always insisted, for instance, that his mind was clearer, their work more efficient, when Q divested himself of his coat and set about scribing in only his shirtsleeves. It was the way of rich men, was it not, to bend the world to their will? Even when the bit of the world to be bent was merely their clark.

The clock struck nine. Q opened his eyes. When the last bell tolled, Mr. Bond called: “Come in.”

Inside, all was as before, except now there was a chair beside Mr. Bond’s desk, its back to the window. A small scrivener’s table laden with paper, pen, and ink bottle pulled just so to its side.

“Sit,” Bond said as Q approached. Again, he did not look up. “And do be quiet until I finish, please.”

Q sat. The air was cold at his back; no colder, though, he thought sardonically, than that in the room itself. Outside, the sun was shining, fighting valiantly against the stark wind that rattled the panes. Inside, there were three lamps ablaze--again, he thought, too many; why was Bond so eager to burn his money?--and a fire that flickered amiably at the far end of the room. Tall shelves lined the wall opposite him, crammed just this side of too full with acres and acres of books and there was a low settee near the fire but otherwise, there were few signs of life; no knick-knacks or paintings, no novel tossed half-read on a chair, no signs of a dog, no woolen rug tucked around Mr. Bond’s legs. No, the study, for all its beauty, the fineness of its furnishings, had the air of a museum rather than a homeplace.

“Now,” Mr. Bond said abruptly, drowning his pen in the ink bottle, “shall I tell you about your work? I’m sure you’ve wondered.”

Q started. He wondered if that was the point. “I was told you required help with correspondence. And perhaps with”--here he hesitated, sensing the need for delicacy--”assistance in sorting through papers related to an estate.”

Bond’s face swung towards his, that sharp gaze already drawn. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re on trial, remember? There will be only correspondence for now.”

Q was ready for him this time. This time, he didn’t flinch at the touch of the blade. “As you like, sir.”

“Fine. I have three letters to dictate between now and elevenses. Do try and keep up.”

Bond’s dictation was a hail of bullets, rapid fire. He pushed back from the desk and moved about the room, firing words in every direction. To Q it seemed he hardly paused for breath.

It was a test, of course; that much was apparent. The nature of his letter--greetings sent to a colonel in India named Fletcher, an old commander, Q gathered--was neither urgent nor especially complex. They had not spoken in years; Bond was asking after him now, driven perhaps by guilt or the passage of time. Q couldn’t tell. Q wasn’t interested. Q’s mind was settling happily, finally, into the familiar earth of his job.

“Have you got that?” Bond was standing by the fire, an unlit pipe in his fingers. “All of it?”

“Yes.”

Bond tapped the pipe into his palm and tossed the ash in the fire. “We’ll see. Read it back.”

“Sir.” He felt vaguely insulted. He figured that was rather the point.

“You heard me, man. Read it back.”

Q blew gently at the ink of the the second page and drew up the first. “Colonel Fletcher,” he read, “Are you well?”

It took him perhaps five minutes to read the thing out. Bond didn’t interrupt him. Simply struck a match and watched him like a hawk.

“Have you ever taken a letter for a colonel before?” he said when Q was done.

“Yes.”

This seemed to please Bond. His mouth quirked around the stem of his pipe. “And have you ever heard such a letter take a tone like this one?”

“How do you mean, sir?”

“How would you describe this letter’s tone, Mr. Q? What assumptions would you make about the two men between whom it would pass?”

Q was not certain where this was headed and yet he had the uncanny sense that Bond was deliberately leading him out onto thin ice. “That you are well acquainted, for one thing. That you may have served under him for another. That there is some fondness between you, perhaps, though that would be only a guess.”

Bond regarded him for a moment. His face was clouded by smoke. “What would you say if I told you I’ve never met the man in my life?”

“I would find that almost impossible to believe, sir.”

A chuckle, the same one Q had heard at his back the night before. “Would you, now. Well. That doesn’t say much about your imagination, does it?”

“You’d write in this way to strangers?”

“And what way is that?”

Q resisted the urge to shake the letter at him. “Fondly. Familiarly. As if you had a shared past.”

That got Bond’s eyebrows up. “And what if I do? Is it any business of yours?”

“No, but it seems quite peculiar. Don’t you think?”

“Indeed it does.” Bond’s lips turned up. It was the closest Q had seen him come to a smile. “Are you always quite so impertinent with your employers, Mr. Q? No wonder you were in need of employ.”

Q felt a stir of irritation. “Most don’t pepper me with questions, sir, or intimate that I do not know how to do my job. They hire me because they know that I can."

“Tch. They just take you at face value, do they? Well, that’s their mistake. Don’t let it be yours, eh?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you learn nothing else from me during our brief acquaintance, Q, by god, let it be that.”

Q’s head hurt. He ached for a cup of tea and a respite from those blue glacier eyes. “I don’t follow.”

“Don’t take anything I say at face value. In my speech, in my correspondence: very little about me is as it seems. I've worked very hard to make that the case.” A flash of white teeth. “If you can understand that, then we’ll get along swimmingly. Until, that is, we don’t.”

“Sir,” Q said, because it was easier than arguing. “I’ll endeavor to do my best.”

“Very good. Draw a fresh sheet, please.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “We have two more letters and only just more than an hour. Let me know when you’re ready to begin.”

It felt like a challenge. This whole morning had, actually, from the moment he’d been sent back to the hall like a misbehaving dog. Screw this man who wrote letters to strangers, or people he’d made up just to test Q’s mettle. And his rapidly thinning patience. Part of Q wanted to chuck the ink bottle at Bond. Part of him wanted very much to lay his head back and to scream.

But part of him, too, gripped the pen a bit tighter. Set his jaw and sat up straight. He’d be damned if he’d let himself be chased off--as Bond seemed determined to do, for some reason-- on his very first day.

The man wanted to annoy him, to shake him? To talk in riddles and then smirk when Q’s hackles went up? Very well. Bond could amuse himself as he liked; he was paying for the privilege. But Q, after all, was the the one getting paid. He could take this rich man’s ridiculous behavior, and more.

He met Bond’s gaze, his face placid, each breath smooth and steady. “Thank you, Mr. Bond,” he said. “I’m ready.”

#00q #19th Century #boss/employee #antagonism

[allimariexf]

Do you think Felicity saying what is best for her is probably is not what's best for them is her wanting space or is there more to it than that? In my mind I thought that was basically her fear talking and afraid Oliver wont love this new version of her and she is just not sure how they move forward. I didn't see it as them separating just kind of like "where do we go from here, how do we fix this" What do u think?

Anon, I’m so glad you asked! I happen to have very strong opinions about this. Short version: I agree with you :)

For three reasons:

1. The logic of the story itself. Some people are interpreting Felicity’s words at the end of the episode to mean that she wants to break up or separate from Oliver, but I firmly believe that when Felicity says “I just don’t know if what’s best for me right now is the same thing as what’s best for us,” she is specifically referring to the fact that she has irrevocably changed and she is afraid that Oliver cannot love the “new” her.” Because:

The entire episode, she was fiercely loving and protective toward Oliver, and showed no sign of pulling away at all until after he says “the old you is the person I fell in love with.” 

Sure, they were awkward and struggling to find their footing with each other, but 

Felicity came to him in the shower

she leaned into him when he zipped her dress

she gave a small speech about him being a hero

she was overwhelmed by the fact that he remembered their anniversary and the vows he spoke at their wedding

she shielded him from the prying of the paparazzi, and Max Fuller, and the team

and she threw around that “my husband” like nobody’s business

When Oliver starts to question her and she stands up for how she’s changed, it’s only then that she withdraws from him. Up until that point, she was certain of his love for her, and with that she can get through anything. 

But he straight up tells her that he fell in love with WHAT SHE SEES AS A VERY DIFFERENT version of her.

(And of course that’s the key, right?? We know, and Oliver knows, that she’s not actually a totally different person now - she’s just exhibiting different facets of the STRONG - not weak - person that she always has been. But in her mind, she’s become someone else entirely, and she is afraid that he cannot love this new version of her.)

And her love for him is her biggest vulnerability (and I think in part this is part of what she was getting at when she said “I love you more than a human being should love another human being” - not that I don’t LOVE that line, for reasons). So in order to protect herself in this situation, she does that very Felicity thing - she withdraws. 

And of course, let’s not forget how clear it is that her love for him is NOT IN QUESTION. In addition to all the little signs throughout the episode, there’s also the fact that:

she says, very clearly, “I want to” begin pushing in the same direction as him again

she absolutely declares “I love you more than a human being should love another human being.” !!!!!!!!!!

2. The overall narrative conflict that we always see on TV, definitely including Arrow. By this I mean the fact that TV is broken into episodes the way that a nuanced sentence is broken up with punctuation. The sentence doesn’t make sense if you stop reading at the first comma. The same is true for TV: we like to speculate and worry over every pause and cliffhanger as if it’s the end, but the truth is there’s a larger story being told here, and I absolutely believe it’s heading in a good direction. For reference, please consider:

the end of 2x23

the end of 3x01

the end of 3x09

the end of 3x12 

3x15

(guess I’m seeing some narrative arc parallels between season 3 and season 7, hmm?)

and then REMEMBER THE END OF SEASON 3

3. Stephen’s (possibly spoilery?) comments in this article: “I learn that a lot of the stuff that Diaz was saying about Felicity is true, and I thought the way that we worked it out - and we do work it out pretty quickly — we come to an understanding that nothing’s ever going to be perfect…or normal about our relationship, and I think that the sooner that the two of them accept that, the sooner that they can move on with their lives.” This comment not only anticipates the angst we’re currently seeing, but it assures me that it will be resolved to my satisfaction, sooner rather than later. Nothing about that quote says break up to me. It just says different, which I interpret to mean better and stronger.

#arrow #arrow meta #olicity #olicity meta #my meta #allimariexf arrow meta #arrow 7x08 #arrow season 7 speculation #Anonymous

[copperbadge]

justalurkr replied to your post “A Series Of Revelations”

And you got paid in chicken and waffles, which is more than a great many preachers get. It sounds as if you and R know each other VERY well. The odds of you semi-officially officiating with much more warning than you got are (pick one) a. About equal to R printing out the sermon as promised; or b. Much, much lower. I'm b., by the way. Also, I'm sure you looked great & sounded better than Young Preacher!

Honestly, Young Preacher (who is like....my age) had on the badassest shirt I ever did see, it had gold embroidery of crosses on it and everything, he looked amazing. And I think he did a good job! But obvs. I don’t know all the history, and also the sense I got is just that The Matriarch is grieving the man who’s been her pastor for like 30 years, and taking it out on him. He seemed very good-natured about it all. Or maybe he was no more aware than I was of what was going on. 

paxfelis replied to your post “A Series Of Revelations”

You should check with Q. You may have been adopted, with All That Entails.

I don’t think I’ve quite been adopted -- Grandma was nice, obviously approving, but not effusive per se. I am hoping however to angle for a hot meal and maybe a spare bed if I ever get back to that town, which I’d like to do because apparently there’s some amazing hiking just outside of the town limits. 

That said, at one point R’s godfather told me, “I carried him to his baptism and drove him to his first communion, I witnessed him give his life to Jesus when he was fourteen, and I just stood for him at his marriage, so my work here is done,” followed by “Son, are you a Christian?”

I told him that I was raised Methodist, which is mostly true, and he said, “Close enough!” followed by the awkwardly long hug. 

peonyaurora replied to your post “A Series Of Revelations”

Wait, you are ordinated?

No, the Young Preacher had to supervise the vows for that reason. I’m not ordained, though now I’m thinking I maybe should be. 

redneckrhetorician replied to your post “A Series Of Revelations”

As someone who grew up in the south, this isn't surprising. Part of the reason there are so many tiny churches is that a grandmother/grandfather/someone back in the bloodline got mad at the preacher and refused to go back, and no one else in the family would argue with them.

Yeah, a lot of things sort of cleared up once I was aware that Young Preacher wasn’t well liked. I also suspect he might have *lowers voice* some ‘progressive’ views on worship. 

junker5 replied to your post “A Series Of Revelations”

❤awesome!!! You don't mess w/sweet little old southern matriarchs! Family feuds, upset sweet little ladies in the church...this scenario happens way too often down south. If Grandma ain't happy....ain't nobody happy. You did right by your brother! I'm glad you'd met Q the week before...that could have added to the stress! I'm sure your mum was super proud of you...and it sounds like neither one of you were completely shocked. Your April IS crazy !!

Yeah, I don’t know what would have happened if Q thought Grandma wouldn’t approve of me. Maybe R’s friend from college, Porkchop, would have gotten the honors instead. (I don’t know Porkchop’s real name, I think it starts with an M.)

philosophykitten replied to your post “A Series Of Revelations”

Sounds like a typical Southern wedding in every way. There is always a relative/church member/neighbor you can't offend with a cranky old royal family member that has to give approval for what ever compromise is worked out. And acceptance is fine but actual approval is when everyone can breathe again.

Yeah, there was a definite sea-change the moment she Approved. Until then I was just like, a guy R knew, after that I was Himself. 

drgaellon replied to your post “A Series Of Revelations”

SAM STARBUCK, YOUR LIFE, ISTG. It has been said before, but you are totally the star of a sitcom.

SAM SQUARED! I don’t remember why the sitcom is called that but I have the opening titles for it in meme form around here somewhere. 

darkrose-9 replied to your post “A Series Of Revelations”

That's hilarious and amazing, and also speaks to the trust R has in you that he 100% believed you would be able to handle a FUCKING WEDDING with no sweat AND settle a brewing feud with little to no warning

I don’t know that I settled the feud, but I do feel like I have earned the position of Trusted Not To Fuck Things Up. :D 

niennanir replied to your post “A Series Of Revelations”

It has become increasingly clear to me that you are inexperienced in Small Town Life because this is all Perfectly Normal™ and has happened a thousand times before and will happen a thousand times again to other naive Starbucks in small towns all around the world. It makes the whole thing no less entertaining on my part seeing as I was born in a town who's cows outnumbered the humans six to one.

I do feel like I would have figured this shit out sooner if I was aware of more small town conventions. I get along pretty well in Southern -- I’m not fluent, but thanks to Mama Tickey, The Last Of the Southern Belles, I understand a lot of southern convention. But it’s true that I’m still not 100% current on how small town life works. 

(This is also how I know to say “I was raised Methodist” rather than “I am not a Christian” when asked. :D ) 

drownedinlight replied to your post “A Series Of Revelations”

Oh Sam.... I think there are select few people that this would happen to and you are one of them. And some how it seems to fit rather well with your life and the general energy you give off. Also, if you ever write a memoir, please option it into a film. I would very much enjoy reading and watching it.

Someday I’m gonna write R’s biography for him. Or maybe he’ll write it himself and I’ll get to do the screenplay. He did do a really good job on my sermon. 

terrie01 replied to your post “A Series Of Revelations”

"Friend chicken" is the most perfect typo ever.

HAHAHAHAHAHA YES. It was a good friend to me, that fried chicken. Oh man it was so good. It was like little nuggets of fried breast skewered to tiny waffles, or you could get a big waffle wrapped around a wing or a drumstick. 

One of the women at the reception said to me, “If I’d known the food would be this good I would have brought a dress that was a size up.” 

splinteredstar replied to your post “A Series Of Revelations”

I'm glad it went.... well?

This is like the slogan of my life with R. Everything seems to have gone....well? But it’s sometimes hard to be sure. 

lysapadin replied to your post “A Series Of Revelations”

This entire story is like the essence of your relationship with R.

Which I suppose is sort of appropriate. It’s like a chapter of his life is opening, and we certainly began it the way we closed the last one. 

annemjw replied to your post “Okay I’m not giving A Reading, I’m giving The Reading. Like it’s the...”

How does this always happen to you, Sam?

It’s R. I mean imagine if HE had a blog. It would TOWER OVER mine. 

peoniequeen replied to your post “Okay I’m not giving A Reading, I’m giving The Reading. Like it’s the...”

Sam, this is amazing. Only this could happen to you. Also this is the Ultimate Prank that someone could pull on their best friend.

There are definitely times I wonder if R is having me on about stuff, but honestly he’s so earnest, I always know when he’s joking. 

rsfcommonplace replied to your post “Okay I’m not giving A Reading, I’m giving The Reading. Like it’s the...”

I see someone has beaten me to "Only you, Sam," so I shall just assume you carried off the unexpected assignment with panache.

Well, I certainly tried hard. Mum told me “Read with Emotion,” but I probably would have cried if I really did that so I read with A Lot Of Vocal Variation instead, which most people think is pretty much the same thing :D 

It was a really well-written speech for reading. Like, he knew where to put all the stops and commas and even worked in two natural pauses for laughter. 

ranuel replied to your post “Okay I’m not giving A Reading, I’m giving The Reading. Like it’s the...”

Better than being given 30 mins notice to officiate a funeral.

There’s a lot less humor to be found in that one, I will say. 

junker5 replied to your post “Okay I’m not giving A Reading, I’m giving The Reading. Like it’s the...”

As you are such an amazing writer, I'm positive you were equally as amazing and eloquent as a "speaker". It's actually kinda touching...he wanted his brother to bless his vows. :D Winter Soldier High Tops just added character! Sorry our weather has been gross for your trip south.

It really is nice that he thought of me for the task. I assumed his wedding party would be his high school football buddies, the guys he ran with in college (a lot of whom have had him in their wedding parties) or his blues musician buddies, but while Q had several bridesmaids and her cousins were ringbearers and ushers, R just had me, and his godfather for his best man. But a lot of the high school and college friends were THERE, so I suppose he had who he wanted.  

I actually thought Friday was really great, weather-wise, and while the rain on Saturday wasn’t great, at least it was in the morning and done by the time the wedding started. The only hiccup was that Mum woke me up at 4am on Saturday FREAKIN’ OUT over the tornado sirens. 

wandererriha replied to your post “Okay I’m not giving A Reading, I’m giving The Reading. Like it’s the...”

Now picturing Bucky having to do something like this for one of the team. Good thing he has a Soldier Face to match the sneakers. Doesn't bat an eye. "*ahem* Dearly beloved..."

AHAHAHAHAHA. “Bucky, you’re a ringer for the preacher, just go and do this to keep our cover.”  “Your ma always did say the way I read you the riot act I could have been a minister.”  “Let’s keep the hellfire and brimstone to a minimum, okay?” 

thornhands replied to your post “Okay I’m not giving A Reading, I’m giving The Reading. Like it’s the...”

to be fair, Sam, what we know about R I am surprised that you weren't called to officiate the weeding >_>

PRESCIENT

ladyvyola replied to your post “Okay I’m not giving A Reading, I’m giving The Reading. Like it’s the...”

Now that I have you all together. I can finally reveal the truth about the recent arson and the hidden secrets of this town.

Well, now I have the climax to Happy Scam-pers all sorted....

#justalurkr #paxfelis #peonyaurora #redneckrhetorician #junker5 #philosophykitten #drgaellon #darkrose-9 #niennanir #drownedinlight #terrie01 #splinteredstar #lysapadin #annemjw #peoniequeen #rsfcommonplace #ranuel #wandererriha #thornhands #ladyvyola

[graywyvern]

( me / @crookedcosmos )

The Tyger.

"She did not think of wickedness as wickedness, but rather as the stuff people were made of, like flesh." --Laura (Riding) Jackson (via)

Preacher and the Bear.

5-square-ordered poem in rhime (‘In Memoriam’ stanzas)

1.

able was i ere this language drew chartreuse from bright viridian Mothra from Zelig Godzilla Terra from its counter planet

2.

should we be found to end the plague let hist'ry not applaud this game a feeble & deluded mage to found his city on a stilb

3.

firebreak of olibanum tutelary anodyne i sent off for a friendsome dolphin dolphin came & bore a sonnet

4.

clowncest pleas too often terse & our stone lords brimful inertia ragged in the chilling vault madness flowing out like water

5.

eyes glued to the cryptic tire light glyph a few days after Samhain firelight veils what creeps beyond like a palindrome in Latin

6.

forecasts devolve to brute enigma ev'ry throng is penult judgment cubic city, vale of bismuth navigated by fedora

7.

all that won’t become a book the books themselves all growing dark yet sometimes for a moment’s grace my focus sharpens on some glare

8.

i cast my mind on second Sirius castle in a corner, rook whose speech is only snap & glitch & waft of day-enaged patchouli

9.

these days i seem to be a noun trapped in the four walls’ sinister logic i pass on the pilgrim trail each cairn that leads me through this foul Maremma

10.

circle in an open field raise a hum above the veldt long i pondered this old meaning Zeitgeist-blurb is all would come

11.

purlieus of the orange cone our houses glass, our follies stone new petroglyphs adorn the gneiss where eagle nests come into being

12.

zugzwang specialist out of sync threshes in the nascent cage moves the stone from out the Kaaba only for the thinnest nectar

13.

where sun encounters skein of ice & this is where soul enters grammar –stick, so many years, lost jasmine not mine held, nor mine to cede

14.

burning times with syzygy pillbug disorder of our senses beautiful tick-dusted with pale saffron sulfur children fed on Olga’s Paradox

15.

marigolds of elder coinage sizzle in the knit alembic meme unshareable sans one comma yodels like a burning peacock

16.

his name a girl’s name now, in code that proves to be a moment’s guest visiting our abject airspace few enough conceive as lack

17.

madrigals on tainted air rooms i stewed in Tarot myrrh did any poem survive the quest was no ear else to grok the call

18.

all the cancelled futures merge & we are each its broken pilgrim on a windswept plain of Pluto utterly against the wall

19.

on the bonfire planet your hero’s badge will buy you little leeway, probably a fanfare sonnet of glimmering subfusc giving up cars when the others do

20.

it’s over but there’s little closure night absorbs its share of ebbing what depiction worth the candle leaves you with perfected yearning

21.

i stay here among my dead or maybe just a threadbare dream to know what can be wrought from clay even in a gulch in Baja

22.

perhaps i was a thrackled grackle northblind, beholden to nobody but the season in the thorn & the ever-jiggly lingo

23.

yet pause to argue o'er a rune our passions in impending storm the closing of another library earthlike world around some star

24.

earning & spending, the only kind of magic in the ontic dimness crowned by walls & floors of concrete drifting on a dying ocean

25.

red-faced at the Barmecidal luncheon on your plate a lone cicala hybrid sales are in the black smoke of burning blots the sapphire

Sunrise.

"i'm going out the sound of moths follows the moon"

--@poem_exe

Ain't No Sunshine.

#rhime

[venusparker]

billet-doux↬ p.p

prompt: peter was never quite good at saying words, so he doubts he’s any better at writing them.

warnings: prepare for the fluff and cuteness overload. i’m in that kind of mood. also super long btw. (and i did not reread this that well so if there’s typos i’m sorry)

notes: hope you all like this because i’ve been thinking of writing a more peter centric, less reader type of fic. also i’ve been wanting to write a lovey dovey one. i’m thinking of writing some more ned leeds stuff as well so if you guys have any ideas, just send them in!

Billet-doux.

The words repeated in Peter Parker’s head like an echo, his focus varying between the miscellaneous thoughts in his head and the piece of crumpled notebook paper on his desk. The paper was free of lettering, but covered with ink stains and crinkles from the sweat he has mustered up the minute he got the idiotic idea in the first place. A billet-doux—what was he thinking writing you a love letter? Really, he wasn’t sure. The particles of dust in the sun floated down as he stared hopelessly and aimlessly in front of him, eyes almost pitiful. Peter had never been a good writer, nor did he think he could sum up how much he cared about you on only a single mere sheet of paper, a paper whose college-ruled lines were incapable of capturing all the love a boy his age could feel about someone as breathtaking and as quiescent as you. A fool he was, frankly, thinking that just because he had heard the words in class, or that because the one time he would decide to do something even slightly out of spontaneity, it would work out seemingly.

Then again, this is the constant cycle, the same speech he tells himself everyday–or at least nearly, practically, overwhelmingly everyday–before he once again strings together the words and expressions and phrases that could even come close to describing the levels of anxiety and longing you filled him with. In his head, it was romantic and everything you ever wanted, with no awkward pauses in between paragraphs with commas in places where commas didn't belong and crossed out adjectives that sounded more as though they were written by someone who was five, not fifteen. In reality, when he'd reread everything, he was a sappy writer. Sappier than he wanted to be; but he couldn't help it. He really wasn't all that good with saying the words he wanted, so he doubted he was any better at writing them. Eventually, the paper––another one of many––would become a filled up, scribbled upon letter, with his messy, scrawled handwriting curving his y's and making it possible to see a slur within his s's. And, just as eventually, he'd stash the letter away in the same place he stashed all the other ones, and it wasn't that shocking to know that they were in an old folder that he once used for AP US History when he had been more focused on school and less on superhero-ing.

It wouldn't be surprising to know that he doesn't keep the letter that far from his suit.

Today, the letter had been longer than the others. Most of them had started out the same way, reminiscing how adorable you looked, or how hilarious he finds your quick wit and clever comebacks towards Michelle whenever you two went at it in class. He would know, considering he was sitting next to you for all of it, everyday, ever since he started high school. But today, he truly went all out. One of his tawny eyes closed in concentration, mouth pursed, head tilting slightly while reading it all over, and wondering, wondering, wondering: why couldn't he just say this all to you out loud?

He thinks it's just because it's easier for him to script all these emotions down and never show them, or at least have the guarantee of his voice not being shaky or breaking, than to have the rejection from you. Aunt May had found them once, much to the red-faced and flustered Peter's dismay, when she was cleaning his room after the umpteenth he said he'd clean it but didn't. She had reached under his bed to grab old and dirty laundry, when instead her hand had found the letters, and after that Peter had moved them and made a reminder to lock his door. That still didn’t stop May from bringing up every chance she got.

“You should show them to [Y/N]!” She had advised once before, preparing some cauliflower in a stove pot. He only responded with a curt sigh and a shrug.

He didn’t think he’d ever show them to you. Especially not this one, the one that truthfully portrayed what he thought about you and how much he liked you, how much he wanted to spend most of his time with you.

––It’s day three hundred and seventy-eight since I’ve been best friends with you. Is it weird that I counted? It probably is, but you know me and I know you. So, I know that you know how weird I already tend to be. Besides the point—what I wanted to say was that, today had to be the most mesmerized I have ever been with you. Is that cliché? I know it is. But even though you always say you hate cliches, deep down you love them, because who doesn’t love clichés?

He wants to cringe at his own words, but instead he finds his lips curling into a grin, a grin holding back the burst of happiness that exploads within him at the mere mention of you.

[Y/N]...you’re, well, awesome everything to me such a great person, honestly. This is the sixth love letter I’ve written which is so dorky. I’m supposed to be a badass, remember? I’m Spider-Man! And incredibly cute. Why am I writing a love letter? Why have I written six of them? Because to be fair, I’m scared of you. You’re scary and intimidating, even though you don’t think you are. But what I want to say is, I’ve loved you every minute of every day or every month I’ve known you. It’s like no matter how hard I try to get you out of my head It’s no good.

Do you have any idea how much I wanna grab your face and kiss you on the goddamned mouth? With consent, of course. I’d always ask first. But you know that. I know I do. I do, I do, I do. I want to do everything with you. I want to visit bookshops with you—

He stops reading the letter and closes his eyes for a moment, only to open them a moment later when he receives a call from you. The ringtone is different because you asked him to change it, considerably because yodeling was never a good choice for a ringtone anyway, and you never understood why he was the way he was. His eyes flicker to the last line of the letter before answering your call.

I want to wish I could tell you this in person.

Peter enjoys writing about you, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s easier than drawing, which is the route most people takes, including Michelle. Sometimes, if Michelle is feeling less cynical than usual, she’ll give him a peak of a sketch of whichever boy or girl or whoever she liked that present week. The detail encapsulated with each line of lead interested Peter, but he wasn’t good at drawing pictures. He was good at taking them. But he already has quite a few of you, and they’re all hung up around his desk or strewn somewhere around his room where it seems messy but it’s just the way Peter likes things to be. He always somehow finds where everything is, including that one picture of the two of you at Coney Island that is currently shelf hopping around his room (and by currently, he means continuously).

He also likes writing about you because it makes it easier to pretend and make you the main character of the cheesy John Hughes movie he’s piecing together in his head whenever he sees you. He doesn’t expect anything from you. He just likes thinking about you. In his sentences and paragraphs, you were never a doubtless fantasy object—Peter had more respect for women and men and people than that—but it allowed him to imagine that somewhere there was a universe in which he had even a sliver of confidence buried deep within his gut that could someday push him into confessing all that he felt for you.

“And what are you thinking about, Mr. Parker,” you teased, interrupting him as he glanced up and grinned as you came into his field of view. His mouth also let out a sigh that was breathey and he licked his lips that were being nipped at by the cold New York air.

“You know...stuff.”

He said it in a way that sounded like him, which never really made sense to anyone but you two. Peter always sounded excited or nervous or innocent without intending to and he often hated it. The response only resulted in you lifting a brow as you sat next to him on the roof of his apartment building.

“Stuff...right. Is Tony Stark working you too hard? I’m sure there’s only so much web you can create on the daily,” You mutter, partly to yourself, but Peter still shoots you a look and nudges you gently with his elbow. “What? Am I wrong?”

”No, you’re ridiculous is what you are,” He retorts, rolling his eyes. His lips still threaten to split into a smile. ”I’m not thinking about that stuff.”

“Peter, would it kill you to be less vague? You’re really killing it with this superhero thing, aren’t you? You could use more descriptive nouns, you know.”

“Trust me, I have,” He starts, but he catches himself.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask him, but he doesn’t reply, he just stares intently at his backpack (his new and last one, according to Aunt May who was at her wits end with Peter’s ongoing backpack crisis). He had brought it up here to do some of his homework and focus, mainly because May was doing yoga and watching a workout DVD and he couldn’t handle all the noise. But he also brought along his second secret (six second secrets to be precise), in case inspiration struck, only to have you arrive unannounced ten minutes later. Big mistake.

He grabs his backpack, which was still severely unzipped and open, and tries to hoist it up on his shoulders, but you grab it.

“Pete, what’s up?” Peter doesn’t like when you worry about him, because it only reminds him of how much he really likes you. And how much he probably shouldn’t. Ned told him that the lines between your friendship were already blurred, but that just made Peter want to repaint it.

He’s awkward and he’s a gigantic dork, but around you he doesn’t find it a problem. When his feelings surface, that all changes.

“I gotta take care of––“

“Let me guess: stuff,” you finish for him, grabbing his backpack suddenly, spinning around to investigate it’s contents. “Whatever you’re worried about is in here!”

“Ever heard of privacy, [Y/N]? Come on, giveee,” he panics and whines, immediately grabbing for his bag. He’s careful and it’s only causing him to fail at taking it back. But he knows it better than disregarding his super strength and potetionally needing to ask May for another backpack. Or hurting you.

Almost certain you’ll find nothing, you start huff, until your eyes land on a stray piece of paper. It has Peter’s handwriting on it, his unmistakable and familiar handwriting, and you pull it out and hold it up triumphantly after skimming through the first lines.

“That’s what’s bothering you! You like someone!” You’re dodging his hands, and for a superhero, Peter’s never felt so slow. “Who is it? Can I read it?”

Deep down, it hurts to know that Peter likes someone. Your best friend. But you knew that the person must’ve been special for him to write about them. You knew Peter, and he never wrote unless it was occasionally for the school newspaper.

“No!” Peter snatches it from your hands, but you tumble forward, latching onto his arm as the both of you fell on your backs.

“Give it to me! Peter!”

Thus began the wrestling match. Peter had always, always known how competive you were, and determined, and he fondly remembered how you almost cried when he threw you the blue shell in Mario Cart. (You didn’t talk to him for three days.) He thought of taunting you lightly, with scattered of words of what, you want this letter? or sorry, i don’t know what you’re talking about, but figured they would only fuel your eagerness even more and he also knew how stubborn you were. And so, he resorted in hiding the letter behind his back as you leaped onto him, again and again, the both of you grabbing onto each other’s limbs and the thin piece of paper.

“Ha,” you yelled, finally sitting on his chest, holding the paper up high as you scanned a few sentences.

A few sentences was enough to see your name. Your name, written around like ink blots after words like beautiful and amazing, and around the crossed out errors and the small doodles he had taken the liberty of adding. Peter had only shouted, “[Y/N] don’t forget that we are on the roof and I will not hesitate to push you off!” as a joke, but gone increasingly quiet at the sight of the letter finally being in your hands.

“It’s...me.”

That was all you had to say, mainly because you hadn’t thought of anything else clever enough. Peter chewed his lip nervously underneath you and ran a hand through his hair, mumbling an apology.

"I know, it’s dumb. But could you give it back? I’d rather not face rejection with you also reading it. That’s too embarrassing.”

“Peter, I-I don’t know what to say.”

“Maybe you should try writing a letter.”

You smacked him lightly on the chest and got off him, helping him up. He may have tried to be sarcastic with you, but he was an open book. The nervousness and anxiousness was plastered all over his face like freckles, and his lips parted as he tried to steady his breathing. He fiddled with the hem of his dark blue physics-pun t-shirt and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“So...so do you like it?” He has said it so softly, you could have mistaken it for a gust of wind. Peter had thought about every scenario, every worst case scenario in his head and it was as if a nightmare was currently happening. Well, minus the gigantic spider (he knows, ironic isn’t it?).

“Yea,” you croaked, voice and throat suddenly dry. You cleared it and continued. “Yes. I mean, Peter, why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to. I like you, a lot. But I can’t just go up to you and spill it all out of mouth like slobber. That’s why I wrote some of those.”

“Woah, woah, some? There’s more?”

Peter groaned and wished that he had the superpower of teleporting to anywhere but here. “I’m going to stop talking now.”

“Pete, you do realize I need to read them all right? Now that I know they exist,” you told him, following him as he tried to turn away from you to hide how ashamed he was.

“Stop,” he whined, visibly pouting. “Just forget it, okay? This was so stupid.”

You stopped him from walking off, pressing your hand to his chest. Giving him a small smile, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, and you swore you felt him melt into your hand as it stayed there, caressing his face. It felt strange to some extent, holding your best friend the way you were, but nothing felt different. Well, not too different, not really. Sure, there was a little awkward tension now that the proclamations of love this boy had for you in paper had been read by your own eyes, now raveling around the nerves in your head—but this was the kid you knew inside and out.

If anything had changed in your friendship, relationship, whatever you and Peter had—it felt good, right.

“You don’t have to show me them if you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and if I did, I’m sorry. But if it makes you feel better, I like you too. You big nerd. And that love letter? Really sweet.”

“You really liked it?” He mutters, eyes finally meeting yours, the glint in them almost sheepish. “You’re not just saying that?”

Eyes locked, you had no hesitation in your answer as you stare in wonder at the boy in front of you, hopeful, passionate—your idiot.

“No,” you whispered. “I’m not just saying that.”

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