I finally received the cover art for my book!
Very special thank you to my sister and brother-in-law for agreeing to model for this.
Link
I got No whump today... What whump subgenre/ trope should you create content for next?
No whump today. I don’t make the rules.
Anyway, chapter 16 is up on AO3.
Text
CHP II: MEET THE BAND
summary - when sylvia finds out he’s in a band it doesn’t surprise her. no need to fawn or flee because that’s not why she was entertaining the idea of him in the first place, but can ryan tell why she is or does this make him fall for a little more?
notes - 1,083 words. welcome to part two, thank you for reading. let’s pick up where we left off shall we?
Sylvia blinks, face blank.
“Heh, yeah… we play rock music, a bit screamo-” Ryan starts to rub his neck, avoiding her wide eyes, but gets cut off.
“You’re in a band?”
“Yeah. I play guitar… kinda lame right.”
“No.”
He’s looking at her like she just pierced his soul.
“Oh! Sorry, that came off bitchy. I mean it’s not lame, I’m just…” Her brow furrows and she goes from apologizing for her blunt, dry, ‘no.’ to analyzing him.
’No, it makes sense. Yeah he’s some emo boy, but i saw an ad for him on insta once. The music his friends make isn’t bad… fuck he’s staring-’
“Taking it in.” She finally finishes her sentence, now also avoiding his gaze by looking at the crowd and subtly at him.
——
Ryan’s cobalt eyes don’t leave her, and the smallest smirk comes to his mouth. ’…cute.’ Here she is no problem or qualms with telling it like it is, kind and aware enough to apologize if her tone was harsh but now she’s like a flustered mess.
’Taking it in… that I’m a guitarist or did she know who i was? did she even really care?’
“I don’t look the type-”
“No. You do. I listen to one of your band’s song awhile back and I listen to it sometimes but i haven’t gone out of my way to listen to all of your shit.”
Ryan smiles more at this, “shit?”
“It’s not bad, I mean-”
“I know, calm down rabbit, you’re good.”
Seeing her relax her shoulders and look up at him, black void eyes that were once siren like becoming doe and delicate before neutralizing again. Something he said got to her, he’s not sure what, but he does know that she can be awfully cute when given the opportunity.
“So,” He takes a sip from his red solo cup, “you like my band’s shit?” a shit-eating grin on his face the becomes a little soft at her response
She snickers, “Fuck off, fishing for compliments doesn’t suit a big brooding guy like you.”
Yeah, this was gonna be a good last party before his band’s month long hiatus to recoup.
——
’He’s chill… and hot… OH GOD, WHAT THE FUCK-’ Sylvia keeps her eyes on the ground for a second as she tries to train her face into a chill expression. ’No.. not like this… I have a type but i’ll be damned.’
“Your band…”
“Yeah,” He says, and something in her stomach stirs restlessly due to his stormy eyes never leaving her. “What about us?”
“So that guy there,” She points with her water bottle, “Eli? The brunette who’s being a natural ass and girls are just fawning over him?”
“Yes.” Ryan smirks down at her, and she can’t help but skeptically smile back.
’What’s his deal? What’s so funny… shit he can’t possibly-’
“Does he play the drums?” She says quickly looking back at the brunette across the room, trying to make sure Ryan doesn’t see the gears turning in her head about his opinions on her.
“Spot on, lemme guess you figured us four out when we first walked in?”
She nods, still avoiding his gaze as she tries to find the other two. One is sharing a blunt with a few others, and the taller one is chatting up a starry-eyed fan. As suspected, charmer and hedonist, though her second presumption might be a bit off.
“The charmer,” She points again at the tall guy with dirty blonde hair then looks to Ryan as he responds.
“Mitch,” He takes another sip of the beer, “He’s our lead vocal but he can also play guitar.”
——
’So I am affecting her…’ The way she had to take a moment to look away, that had to be her pulling herself together right?
“I do back up vocals too,” He starts and with a smirk he points out the black haired one that’s a bit smaller, “and he’s Oliver, our bassist and tour manager.”
When she follows his gaze he can’t drop his smirk at the lightbulb that seems to appear when she registers what he just said.
“Wait… you guys aren’t managed by an actual manager? How long have you four been doing this?” She looks interested and skeptical.
“Since high school, and it’s been a ride but we’re doing pretty good right now.” Ryan looks out at the sea of people, cobalt eyes flicking to his bandmates - his friends - and a relaxed smile comes to him.
Those guys are important to him, so is this band, it’s actually their dream that they get to live out together and even with the lows, the highs make it worth it.
——
Sylvia watches him now and smiles a little bit too. 'awe, emo boy does have a heart. those gotta be his day ones then.’
“Aight.” She simply says and feels him look to her as her gaze is pulled in the same direction his once was. “As long as you four are happy with what you’re doing and can fend for yourselves then, no need to be judgmental… especially if it ain’t hurtin’ no body, am i right?”
His look is one of slight awe - soft, subtle, - as if what she said was touching but he just nods, “…Yeah.”
——
In that bout of silence they people watch quietly together. Taking in a silence that’s washed over them despite just how loud it is in the warehouse.
Ryan’s eyes drift to Sylvia again and in processing whatever it is he needed to he couldn’t help but smile. A beautiful woman with a beautiful soul, yet she was still a mystery to him. A fascinating and endearing contradiction that he wanted in his life for as long as he could have her.
She looks at him with wry smile, “What?”
He just smiles back like he knows something and shrugs looking away, “Nothing, so Sylvia. What do you think of them, or did you have any other questions?”
As she looks back out, finding his friends, his smile doesn’t fade but grows a bit when she finally asks, “Oliver. Is he a hedonist or is he indulging in alcohol and weed as a reward for surviving the tour?”
“It’s a reward. Can I have your number?”
——
Sylvia looks to him suddenly, and her mouth opens slightly looking at him confused before gathering herself and relaxing.
“You can have my insta. Let’s start there.”
“Cool.”
They exchange phones and socials before falling back into their banter.
Text
Hey y'all. I’m making an original work on AO3 about three of my characters becoming a team. This is my first multi-chapter fic, so I might be a little sloppy. Hope you enjoy 😊
The Lethal Force - Chapter 1 - Cutiepa - Original Work [Archive of Our Own]
Text
Eleven Days to Launch
In the morning, the air between them was still delicate and tender, like a pulled muscle that needed rest and gentle stretching; by mutual, silent agreement, Gwenh’s touch was limited to a hand on Mal’s elbow as they drifted through the work of harvesting, and Mal only asked the questions that could be answered in one syllable or less. It felt like the hardest part was over with: things were still raw, still not quite where they ought to be, but it was easier to believe that they’d get there, somehow.
After two hours, the group moved on from the orchard and entered a packing plant. The temperature inside was several degrees colder as the group lined up along the rows of conveyors, and it became impossible to ignore that they were being carefully watched by the rest of the workers, half of them craning their necks to keep them in sight. Mal ducked her head and tried to focus on the work in front of her, sorting out bruised or spoiled fruit from the belt as they churned by — it was much easier to spot the bad specimens with her new glasses, but she kept misjudging depth and accidentally punching the conveyor belt. Even as she got into the rhythm of it, her attention was split between the work and Gwenh’s shaking hands. She had been in good-if-quiet spirits throughout the morning, more herself with her hair pulled away from her face and off of her neck, but it seemed her mood was turning more irritable by the second. She seemed sluggish too, despite her double-portioned breakfast-plus-cigarette.
Mal leaned over to press her shoulder against hers. “How are you doing?”
Gwenh glanced at her with disdainfully squinted eyes, and replied in equally disdainful Welsh. It was hard not to ascribe meaning to the sharply-worded syllables, an educated guess based on tone and the rhythm of the question: what do you think, genius?
She shook her head. “You never did teach me Welsh, you know.”
Gwenh grimaced and waved her off dismissively as she went back to work. In all likelihood, she was just griping about how she always had to speak English, or that her cigarettes were weaker than normal, or that her stomach hurt, but Mal’s cheeks still burned, first with prickling irritation and then with embarrassment at how slighted she felt for being left out of the loop. Most days, the childish need to know everything was a sore spot that she could tamp down, even as something in her mind would always petulantly screech that it wasn’t fair, that business should be discussed in a language she could understand — it was a deep-seated flaw that could not be excised, only planned around with strategic language acquisition. Today, her stomach was a yawning pit of incendiary frustration, in no small part because it was Gwenh holding something over her head, and it was Welsh she still had no grasp of.
”Fine, be that way, then,” she snapped, crossing her arms and turning away, the words coming out in Kanien’kéha. “Not like I actually want to talk to you, or anything.”
***
Find the rest of Point A To Proxima Centauri B on my Substack! If you want to help an independent author get some traction and grow their audience, please consider reblogging this post and subscribing on Substack.
Answer
Absolutely nobody will know what i’m talking about (I really need to make that story properly) BUT I think this the moment my MC gave up on pushing everyone away from her and accepted kindness
Text
Point A To Proxima Centauri B
Chapter Twenty-Three
Eleven Days to Launch
In the morning, the air between them was still delicate and tender, like a pulled muscle that needed rest and gentle stretching; by mutual, silent agreement, Gwenh’s touch was limited to a hand on Mal’s elbow as they drifted through the work of harvesting, and Mal only asked the questions that could be answered in one syllable or less. It felt like the hardest part was over with: things were still raw, still not quite where they ought to be, but it was easier to believe that they’d get there, somehow.
After two hours, the group moved on from the orchard and entered a packing plant. The temperature inside was several degrees colder as the group lined up along the rows of conveyors, and it became impossible to ignore that they were being carefully watched by the rest of the workers, half of them craning their necks to keep them in sight. Mal ducked her head and tried to focus on the work in front of her, sorting out bruised or spoiled fruit from the belt as they churned by — it was much easier to spot the bad specimens with her new glasses, but she kept misjudging depth and accidentally punching the conveyor belt. Even as she got into the rhythm of it, her attention was split between the work and Gwenh’s shaking hands. She had been in good-if-quiet spirits throughout the morning, more herself with her hair pulled away from her face and off of her neck, but it seemed her mood was turning more irritable by the second. She seemed sluggish too, despite her double-portioned breakfast-plus-cigarette.
Mal leaned over to press her shoulder against hers. “How are you doing?”
Gwenh glanced at her with disdainfully squinted eyes, and replied in equally disdainful Welsh. It was hard not to ascribe meaning to the sharply-worded syllables, an educated guess based on tone and the rhythm of the question: what do you think, genius?
She shook her head. “You never did teach me Welsh, you know.”
Gwenh grimaced and waved her off dismissively as she went back to work. In all likelihood, she was just griping about how she always had to speak English, or that her cigarettes were weaker than normal, or that her stomach hurt, but Mal’s cheeks still burned, first with prickling irritation and then with embarrassment at how slighted she felt for being left out of the loop. Most days, the childish need to know everything was a sore spot that she could tamp down, even as something in her mind would always petulantly screech that it wasn’t fair, that business should be discussed in a language she could understand — it was a deep-seated flaw that could not be excised, only planned around with strategic language acquisition. Today, her stomach was a yawning pit of incendiary frustration, in no small part because it was Gwenh holding something over her head, and it was Welsh she still had no grasp of.
”Fine, be that way, then,” she snapped, crossing her arms and turning away, the words coming out in Kanien’kéha. “Not like I actually want to talk to you, or anything.”
[[MORE]]Gwenh’s stunned silence needed no translation, but she soon recovered; she stifled a shocked laugh and stepping closer to poke Mal on the cheek, her tone turning on its head to become cajoling and mock-plaintive.
”No,” Mal replied, still in Kanien’kéha, fending her off as she tried to wrap herself around her like an octopus. “I’m trying to get us out of here, and you’re fucking around with me just like always—”
Gwenh burst out laughing, reaching past her batting hands to tap her nose. “I forgot how you scrunch up when you’re mad,” she told her breathlessly. Mal glared at her, and her grin fell into something a little kinder as she gave her some space. “Come on, Mal — can you forgive me?” She plucked the older glasses off of her head and tried them on, her wide eyes comically magnified behind the scratched lenses. Mal’s heart nearly punched out of her chest at the sight, thrown back in time to watch a pretty girl put on her glasses to read a scribbled-down set-list, arguing with her middle brother over the opening number. “You already have old-lady eyes, you don’t need to hold old-lady grudges.”
”I’ll hold a grudge if I damn well please,” she replied absently, hand automatically extended for the return, but Gwenh only grinned and held the glasses just out of reach. Normally, Mal wouldn’t entertain the game at all and would end it with a swift kick to the shins, but letting her play keep-away would delay further badgering about when she would finally approach the drone, and they were Gwenh’s glasses, anyway; she could decide what she wanted to do with them. “I’m owed that, since my eyes are even worse now — those ones stopped working for me last year.”
“Sucks to be you.” She grew bored of the game and tried to hand them back; Mal’s hands twitched toward them out of habit, before she remembered herself.
“They’re yours, remember?”
Gwenh froze, confusion flashing across her face before she gave herself a shake and slid the glasses back onto Mal’s head. “Not anymore. My eyes are perfect.” She turned away quickly to light her next cigarette, before Mal could bring herself to ask for an explanation. The cherry sizzled as she look a long, continuous drag — when she paused for breath, she was halfway-down to the filter. “God, I love ration day.”
“Let me have one,” Mal said, holding out her hand. A territorial look passed over Gwenh’s face before she handed over the carton, and she watched like a hawk as Mal tapped a cigarette into her hand. “I found something weird in your last batch—“
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Gwenh said, her voice on the edge of too-sharp as she snatched back the carton and stuffed it into her right-side pocket. “They’re always like that.”
The cigarette in her hand was dry and papery, no powder collecting in the fine lines of her palm. She lifted it to her nose as Gwenh chain-lit her next cigarette, detecting none of the unidentifiably foul herb she had noticed the day before. She couldn’t say whether that was good or bad, just that it made her wary. “Maybe you should slow down, anyway.”
Gwenh grinned at her, snatching up an apple from the conveyor belt and taking a bite in between puffs. “Maybe you should check your pocket.”
She became aware of the weight on her hip as Gwenh’s eyes darted down to it, and found a small apple tucked inside her pocket. She glanced up at the camera on the ceiling, trying to figure out how and when as she placed it back on the belt. “Aren’t you afraid of getting in trouble?”
“Why should I be?” She took another bite and frowned, turning her head to spit out her substandard mouthful into the garbage chute. The sound of the waste cut Mal deeply. “My best friend was born with a camera glued to her face — a terrible deformity, I know, but one learns how to step out of frame.”
Mal looked down, not-quite-chastened but not-quite-forgiven, either. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel uncomfortable, or exploited.”
“What are you apologizing to me for? I liked having my picture taken.”
“Some of my old photos ended up on the Database.” The conveyor belt rasped against her raw fingertips, scraping the top layer off of her knuckles when her hand turned. “Some people caught files, because I was too selfish to risk missing out on a good photo.”
“Your photography never struck me as selfish,” she replied, bemused, and stuffed another apple into Mal’s pocket. “Where did your photos of me go, after I got lost?”
“I kept one.” She had it in a special case, tucked into a secret pocket of her duffel bag where she could be sure to never lose track of it, or accidentally look at it. Of the rest, she had given half to Goose and half to Rowan — Rowan’s hands had shaken violently as he flipped through the negatives, before reaching for the bottle of whisky they had been sharing between them. Upon finding it empty, he had thrown it against the floor with a snarl, and had burst into tears when Mal flinched and drew up her feet from the mess of shards. She had left him to his miasmic grief not long after, promising him that she would return the next day, unsure if she would be brave enough to follow through; the following morning, his body had been pulled from the bay, and not even Mal could say whether it had been an accident.
She tucked the truth behind her teeth with a grimace — Gwenh was confused enough without the bombshell that her last brother was almost nine years dead, it made better sense not to bring it up. It would only be until she saw the grave for herself, though Mal would spare her the pain forever if she could. “I gave the rest away — so everyone had something to remember you by.”
“See, that’s just kindness. Maybe it’s selfish, sometimes — but everything becomes a selfish indulgence, eventually. If it helps people feel close to each other along the way, doesn’t that make up for it?”
”Doesn’t make up for the fact that my photos put people in danger.” The film had been hidden somewhere safer than her shoe these past few days, but she could still feel the phantom rub of it against her ankle.
”Sure, if you want to look at it that way — but I know you wouldn’t have uploaded them, and the people who let you take their photos understood the risks, right?”
”We barely cared, the chances were so small.”
”But the chances were still there, and you were careful. People are allowed to take risks with their safety, your responsibility for that ended when you trusted them with their own negatives.” Gwenh reached over and lightly pinched her bicep. Her hands were still shaking, but her grip-strength had improved since last night. “Don’t borrow trouble, it’s bad for your heart.”
Mal hummed absently, sweeping her attention over the room as she came up with a counter-argument. Most people’s gazes darted away, some more subtly than others, but in the corner Claudia was staring directly back at her with narrowed eyes. As soon as their eyes met, Claudia straightened up from her post and start walking toward them.
Mal sighed, and nudged Gwenh’s arm to warn her — she had been hoping to make it through the whole day without trouble. “Who’s she going to take, you think?”
“Probably you, for stealing all that fruit.” Despite her easy tone, Gwenh was frozen in place like a statue, her nostrils flared and her brow pinched with worry.
“Jackass.” Mal lifted her chin to address Claudia as she approached, not missing how her hand seemed glued to her baton. “She hasn’t done anything — I can vouch for her.”
“It’s you he wants to see, 2112.”
“Uh, no.” Mal heroically resisted the urge to throw an apple at Gwenh’s head when she snorted at the firm refusal. “I’m— I’m burnt out, I need a break. I won’t do good work.”
Claudia’s lip curled. “His guests are waiting. I’m sure you can handle a couple of hours.”
“Piss off, Claudia.” Gwenh’s voice was as sharp as ever, though the effect of it was neutered by her hunched, defensive posture — she looked like a bristling cat. “Tell him this—“
Claudia cut her off with a single button-push on her drawn baton, letting out a threatening crackle of electricity. “I think you’re forgetting who has the power here, Twenty-One. Back off, or I’ll find you another floor to work on.”
Gwenh’s mouth snapped shut as she shrank away from the threat, eyes losing their defiance behind a cloud of fear and panic. The lunch bell rang shrilly over their heads; she took the opportunity to turn and run, leaving Mal to fend for herself. Claudia snorted at the sight, and Mal gritted her teeth, willing herself not to invite unequivocal punishment by punching a guard. Her hands shook as she dipped into her pocket, plucking out the scrips she had been saving for Gwenh’s new diet plan: two in all, not much to trade with and almost certainly not enough for this particular favour, but she held them out to Claudia anyway, hoping her anger wasn’t as obvious as it felt. “Let me stay with her. Tell him I’ve been throwing up all morning.”
Claudia silently considered Mal’s offer, head tilting thoughtfully as her musing stretching to the point of absurdity; she finally shrugged and took the entirety of her meagre wealth, movements agonizingly slow as she smoothed the paper between her fingers to check for counterfeiting, before folding them in half and slipping them into her vest. Finally, with her hand back on her baton, she jerked her head to the door. Everyone else had already filed out for lunch. “You’d better go after her.”
Mal scowled and took off, cursing her slowness as she raced over to the crowd gathered by the picnic tables: the longer Gwenh was alone, the easier it would be for someone to take her away. She raised onto her toes to try and see past the throng of people, and spotted Gwenh on the other side of the gardens, a pair of pruning shears still sticking out of her back pocket, head bowed and shoulders drawn in as Anthony berated her. Small, indistinct alarm bells began to ring in her mind, set off by the odd set of Gwenh’s shoulders and the way her fists rhythmically curled and released, but before she could rush over and intervene, a hand latched onto her shoulder and tethered her in place.
Isaiah wore a smile that dripped with forced friendliness. “I was just looking for you. I was hoping you could carry a message to the second, eighth, and fifteenth floors.” He held out a handful of fruits she didn’t recognize — berries, maybe. Was that the message, or the payment?
“Ask me later,” she said distractedly, shrugging away from him and continuing to push through the crowd, only half-succeeding. She gritted her teeth as she bounced off yet another unmoving body; Gwenh’s posture was only growing tenser as Anthony loomed over her, and it would be inconvenient to have to wait another three days if she tried to claw out his eyes again.
Isaiah was following close at her shoulder, close enough to make her feel claustrophobic. “I’m afraid it can’t wait—“
“I’m really busy right now.” Anthony had unlocked a side of Gwenh seldom-seen: instead of bristling with anger and bracing for a hit, Gwenh’s arms had crossed tightly around her ribs as she folded in on herself, face stricken and anxious, eyes threatening to well over as she stared at her feet. He dismissed her with a stern nod, and her shoulders were almost around her ears as she turned away and retreated from the altercation like a frightened animal. Still, she wasn’t fast enough — Anthony had no trouble stepping in behind her to steal the cigarettes out of her pocket, glancing around for onlookers before he stuffed the carton into his vest.
The crowd seemed to be mobilizing to block Mal’s path in as many directions as possible, preventing her from moving forward no matter how hard she pushed. She watched helplessly as Gwenh reached for her pocket, watched her face turn from upset to confused to incandescent when she found her ration missing, watched as her eyes lifted to scan over the room, clouded with something frightening. Her focus slid past Mal to snag hatefully on Isaiah, and the confusion was replaced with sneering rage as she stormed toward them, carving through the crowd like a knife through butter.
A gap opened in the crowd between them, and Mal took her chance. She threw her entire body behind the task of tackling her to the ground, and found that when taken by surprise, in an altered state, and outweighed by at least thirty pounds, Gwenh was prone to fighting dirty. After a wild struggle, only just managing to stay on top while dodging her snapping teeth and grappling legs, Mal managed to pin her wrists to her chest and hold her down. Her voice was raw from shouting her name, trying to reach her beyond the thick haze clouding her vision: she had nothing left when Gwenh suddenly broke free and surged upward, taking Mal by the shoulders and slamming her down into the soft dirt. While she was gasping for breath and trying to clear the ringing from her ears, Gwenh had launched herself at Isaiah, pruning shears raised high.
By the time the guards intervened, the wounds in Isaiah’s torso were too many to count, each jagged hole weeping a startling mix of deep red and black. Gwenh screamed and snarled as Lou wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back in a flurry of kicking feet and clenched fists. She craned her neck to take a bloody bite out of his arm, but even when he dropped her she didn’t get far: with one strike of Claudia’s cattle-prod she was on the floor, body wracked with electricity, jaw clenched painfully tight as the whites of her eyes bloomed with broken blood vessels, a convulsing scream trapped behind her bloodstained teeth. Mal watched until she couldn’t, and in the chaos no one noticed as she crawled to Isaiah’s side, pulling his head into her lap and taking his hand. “Stay still.”
“What’s happened?” Blood was pooling in his mouth, spilling from the corners of his lips as he spoke. His eyes were darting back and forth over her face, too fast to be taking in the details, and he seemed unable to gather oxygen no matter how deeply or quickly he heaved for air. She looked over his wounds once more, for as long as she could stomach: left side of the gut, both sides of the chest, several directly over his heart, one in his right shoulder. It was only a matter of minutes before the blood loss or the organ failure killed him — no one would be summoning a Midtown doctor to save an Untouchable’s life. “Has something happened?”
“You’re dying,” she whispered, bending down so he could hear her voice as she committed his face to memory, inscribing his name against the inside of her ribs. There was too much overwhelming detail; she pulled off her glasses and hooked them onto the collar of her shirt, reaching again for his wrist. She squeezed his hand as she tracked his pulse, trying to offer some comfort like Baba had done for thousands of others; she couldn’t be sure that she was delivering. “You don’t have much time left — is there anything you want me to pass along?”
“You’re— you’re a healer,” he said hopefully, eyes still darting over her face, more sluggishly now. Blood trickled down his neck, and he kept smacking his lips as though his mouth was dry. “You can help me.”
She shook her head, suddenly incandescently angry with her past self for planting this seed. “I’m not, I’m— I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
Tears gathered in his eyes. “But I don’t want to die.”
“I know,” she said. The smell of blood clogged her nose, and she willed herself to breathe through it as she warbled over the scripted words: “Your memory will bring us strength, and your friends will speak of you fondly. It’s almost over — the pain and fear, all of it will be gone soon.”
“I want to see Nicky,” he whispered, voice tight with pain, tears falling down his cheeks. “I want to tell her I’m sorry. Will you tell her I’m sorry?”
His eyes glazed over before she could answer, final breath cascading out of him as his pulse vanished. She stared at his slack face and wondered if this was how Baba felt when se felt someone pass on, if it would always feel like it took everything she had and still wasn’t enough. Her eyes slid off of his face and onto the shears, lying on the floor in a growing pool of viscera; her vision narrowed to just the worn rubber handles, faded orange slowly turning to a stark black-shifting-red.
Hands clasped around her shoulders and tried to pull her back from Isaiah’s body, but she had no will to stand. Anthony’s boots stepped fastidiously around the pooling blood, instructing the crowd to return to the bunks, but her body refused to move — Isaiah’s body wasn’t even cold, her hands were still wet with his blood, it wasn’t right to leave. Anthony’s boots stepped closer to her, voice growing louder and more aggressive, but it was just noise for her brain to filter out, until he hauled her upright by her elbow and snarled, three inches from her face:
“There’s no battle-axe to protect you now, 2112.” He tilted his head to the figure kneeling on the other side of Isaiah’s body, and shoved her toward him. “Get the kid out of here.”
The war drone was already there, kneeling at Navy’s side, hands hovering uncertainly as she tried to coax him upright — even when he didn’t respond, she seemed hesitant to touch. The drone froze under Mal’s wide-eyed stare, the both of them pinned down by each other’s fear and apprehension; Mal shook herself free of it first, darting to Navy’s side and hauling him to the door, fighting back her panic as the drone followed at the perfect distance to shoot her in the back. Navy kept trying to turn back for Isaiah, voice weakly protesting that they had left him behind. It only got worse when they caught up with the group, walking stricken and silent back the bunks — the distance seemed to stretch on and on as Navy leaned heavily on her and keened in grief, calling out for someone who could never answer back.
Isaiah’s bunk had already been stripped bare, and so had Gwenh’s. Mal dumped Navy onto his bed where others could flock and comfort him, retreating quickly to try and gather her thoughts. The blood itched as it dried on her skin, smeared over her hands and her clothes, somehow on her cheek and brow. She turned to look at the drone, hoping to communicate some urgency or at least touch base, but the drone shied away from her gaze and retreated to her own bed, far away from everyone else.
The door swung open for Render and a flanking of guards, not the usual roster but a quartet of heavily armed strangers. The group turned to him with pained, open expressions, earnestly waiting for whatever he had to give them: all he had was a weak smile, spread thin over so many hurting people. Covered in blood and having failed in every way to prevent this from happening, Mal felt nothing but hatred as Render’s eyes landed on her; maybe he could tell, by the way his gaze quickly skittered back to the room at large.
“My friends, let me just say that I am truly sorry that this has happened. Isaiah was a pillar of this community and a great man; he will be dearly missed.” Every word seemed scripted, even the pause he took to steady himself. “We’ve notified his family of his death, and we will hold his remains in stasis until they can collect him.”
“How much?”
The room froze, and then turned to face Mal as a unit. She fought back the urge to duck her head, lifting her chin as she half-met Render’s gaze: her attention was split between him and Navy, now sitting on Isaiah’s bed and looking as though he might be dissociating, staring through the woman kneeling before him with a blank expression on his face. The only sign of life was how, whenever the woman would try to clean the blood from his hands, he would snatch them back and shake his head.
She turned her full attention on Render, willing him to feel even a shred of the guilt for the mess he had made. “How much will it cost them to collect his body?”
“I can’t say for sure,” he finally allowed. The apologetic answer would have seemed genuine, had the sorry expression reached his eyes. “But going forward, we will be implementing some new restrictions to prevent this from happening again. We’ll be cutting the cigarette ration to one pack every two weeks, and doing regular sweeps to prevent stockpiling and trading.” He waved a hand for the guards. “Everyone out of bed, now: we’ll be doing a quick sweep of the bunks for contraband.”
Everyone obeyed without so much as a word in protest. Mal shuffled out of the way as her own bed was searched, biting her lip as unfamiliar hands touched her blanket before deeming it allowed and moving on. Sharp movement caught her attention from across the room: Navy, now on his feet with a burst of adrenaline, was shoving through the crowd to get to Render. She clumsily pawed for her glasses and hurriedly slid them back over her nose as she moved to intervene, staring hard past the dried blood smeared on the lens.
One of the guards had already stepped in to stop him from getting too close, but it didn’t stop him from demanding answers. “What are you going to do about Twenty-One, Mister Render?”
Render regarded him sternly, losing patience by the second. “We have her under control, Navy — we’ll be conducting an investigation into her mental state, and we’ll decide on a punishment from there. Don’t concern yourself with these things.”
“She killed Isaiah in cold blood — what more do you need?” The guard was trying to herd him back, and only Mal’s hand on his shoulder and a lingering strand of self-preservation kept him from shoving the guard in retaliation. “I want a front-row seat when you give her the chair.”
“That’s not for you to decide. The first step will be diagnosing her condition—“
“We all know what happened to the ninth floor! If you don’t put her down now, this is only going to happen again—” Navy cut himself off and whirled on Mal with desperate, bloodshot eyes. “You know, don’t you? You knew she was dangerous, you saw how she was when anyone came near you!”
“She—” Mal didn’t know what to say, when every answer was the wrong one. She was trying to keep me safe, I never thought it would go this far, I thought I could keep her from doing something like this—
Render watched the two of them coolly, and meeting his dispassionate gaze Mal finally realized that she had no power here: Gwenh’s purpose had been fulfilled, and in all likelihood Render would have her forget everything and move to a new floor, beginning the cycle anew for whoever tried to agitate next. All of Mal’s efforts to keep him happy were for naught, if he could just take Gwenh away like this, if he could machinate on such a grand scale.
It took real effort to tear her eyes away from Render, and in her distraction the grim desperation on Navy’s young face had drained away to make room for a cold, cynical anger. His eyes flicked to Render, and then back to her. “I guess it doesn’t matter, so long as you’re safe, right?”
“Navy—”
“Watch your back, traitor,” he growled as he shoved past her, his head snapping left and right as he called the others to congregate around him — no doubt letting them know that she had graduated from untrustworthy to outright enemy. She couldn’t even be sure that he was wrong.
”I’m sorry you had to witness that, Mal — grief makes people say terrible things.” Render had stepped into her periphery, lightly touching her shoulder. She slapped his hand away, harder than she meant to, and flinched in anticipation of a strike in kind; he only sighed, sounding disappointed as he took out a handkerchief and dabbed away the blood she had left on the back of his knuckles. “Go and clean yourself up, Miss Y. I have some work waiting for you.”
***
Thank you very much for reading this latest chapter! You find the rest on storiesbythomas.neocities.org, AO3, or Substack, and if you want to do me solid, reblog this post and help me grow my audience!
Text
Creations Renew: DAILY CONNECTION (DAY 214: 03.16.2026)
…It’s probably because of the fever, bringing me to finally be able to say this, but it worries me. These kids, their world. Despite what I’ve promised myself back then, I’m already in too deep here. Too late to stop calling them kids at this point in time. My kids.
I’m worried. Worried that one day, I don’t find a way to recover from an event in my life to draw my way back to their world.
( <- PREVIOUS DAY: 03.15.2026 )
( NEXT DAY: 03.17.2026 -> )
Text
The main character switches body
A Midnight Summer’s Switch
Piano Sonata Number 1.
Lord Earl Grey, handsome, clever, and rich, lived all his life comfortably at his leisure.
He was the eldest son of the Baron; therefore, in consequence of his father’s noble lineage, he had all the privileges of being born into the wealthy and aristocratic household. He had five mistresses, and he spent all his days partying, drinking, and playing cards. He truly did not have a care in the world.
I must say, however, that there was some grievance waiting upon him, and when it came, Lord Earl Grey did not know how to process it, for it was just an ordinary morning for him.
He woke up from his daily slumber, quite malnourished. He touched his hair to calm himself when, all of a sudden, he noticed that his hair was longer and silkier, like cotton candy.
Every morning, his butler would bring him an English breakfast, consisting of fried eggs, bacon, pork sausages, baked beans, fried mushrooms, and toast. But for some reason, today, instead of his butler, a maid opened the door to his room. She entered the room, and she seemed to be unbothered about the fact that he was in his underwear.
Text
In hating my job, it has inspired me to write more of my original story with the lofty hope of getting this story published someday and somehow making a living off of it. So!
Here is my current first chapter! I actually wrote this once before a couple years ago and have since rewritten it to establish a better setting. Please check it out and enjoy!
Fated Encounters Ch. 1: The Heist (An Original Story)
Once upon a time, there lived a magnificent kingdom filled with all sorts of life that grew far and wide across the great land, stretching across the sheer mountainous ranges, rolling farmlands, and magnificently dense forests filled with magic and mystery. Within this enormous kingdom, there sat a city hidden in stone and shrouded by sand that was home to nobility and vagabonds alike. This city was known as Alabaster, named after the stone that surrounded the valley, and it was a bustling town filled with wandering adventurers and merchants who lived to serve the city’s singular nobility: the Verikovs.
The Verikovs were Alabaster’s most noble, regal family, living high in the center of Alabaster in a mansion made of the city’s namesake that could rival the king’s castle. The city’s long, prosperous history was thanks to its founding ruler, Viktor Verikov. It was Viktor who came to a barren desert, scorched by sun and dry as dust, and bent the desert to his will in order to create the oasis that would become the center of his family’s home. It wasn’t long until builders, carpenters, and merchants flocked to this new land to build the magnificent white stone mansion that would house Viktor Verikov’s legacy and family, then continued to grow the town around Alabaster’s crown jewel. The citizens were permitted to continue living in the Verikov’s blessed city thanks to the family’s benevolence and the citizen’s consistent submission.
This ironwilled family stood proud, their reputation unmarred by scandal or treason. No one across the Kingdom of Dragonia dared to defy them.
That is, until one day.
[[MORE]]Within the Verikov’s magnificent mansion in the center of the city, carved out of the finest, lightest alabaster stone and decorated with the finest of lavender silks that gently fluttered out the balconies that lined nearly every room, a quiet rogue had managed to scuttle their way through the extravagant, bustling gardens filled with flowers and trees never meant to bloom in such scorching suns, up to the top floor, and into the Verikov mansion. The tall, scrawny rogue had slithered their way silently through the balcony and eyed the room around them.
The stealthy blue tiefling stood silently as their eyes scanned the room, unblinking. A massive canopied bed sat in the center of the room. To their right was a fine, dark wooden dresser ornamented with the Verikov’s signature silver sat under a large, fine tapestry that was woven with fine purple thread. White flowers dotted with crimson red colors decorated the fine fabric that waved gently with the desert breeze that blew in through the large balcony. To the left of the room was a large dressing screen, a long silver mirror, and a vanity lined with an assortment of fine silver jewels. The rogue’s teal eyes widened at the glinting metal and quickly strided over the soft stone floor, their long, devilish tail flicking in excitement.
One by one, the unblinking rogue grabbed the pieces of jewelry off the vanity and threw them into a small pouch at their side. There was a necklace with a large purple stone nestled in between finely crafted, delicate silver chains, bracelets that were solid in their shape and etched with fine lines reminiscent to the ivy that hung off the outer walls of the mansion, an arm band that was shaped to mimic the elegant vines of a vineyard, and a pair of silver earrings that swirled and shifted into a sharp, hanging design. The meek tiefling admired each jewel as they tossed it into the pouch.
The subtle sound of the breeze that blew gently into the room mixed romantically with the gentle flutter of the sheer silk curtains that lined the pillars at each corner of the magnificent bedchamber. There was the subtle sound of chatter from the balconies below, but besides that, the evening was calm. Quiet. Sublime. The subtle glow of late sunset filled the room with a red hue, shifting the white walls and the lavender fabrics of the room into soft pink shades that were rosy in hue. As the rogue grabbed the last of the jewels, they turned to make their quiet escape just down the pillar they originally scaled, but suddenly froze. Something caught their eye.
On the chair of the vanity table was a fine silk dress with soft silver embellishments on the straps and around the waist. The fabric was reminiscent of the curtains that fluttered effortlessly behind the rogue, and those wide teal eyes became transfixed and unwavering.
The rogue’s tail twitched nervously as they reached a long, delicate hand out and ran it across the long, flowing skirt. The rogue smiled giddily, though kept their voice contained. Their hand began to squeeze at the sheer silk, ready to claim the garment for themselves.
“Excuse me,” a woman interrupted.
The rogue’s hand flew away from the dress and turned towards the sound. Next to the dressing screen now was a short, beautiful elven woman wrapped in a plush purple towel. Her long, blonde hair was pulled away from her face and hung down her back. Droplets of water dripped from her hair and soaked the soft, luxurious amethyst rug at her small, elegant feet. Her purple eyes pierced into the rogue, who stood frozen, almost like an opossum playing dead.
“What in the hells do you think you’re doing with my things?” she asked with a stern, steady voice. One hand rested on her hip while the other kept her towel secure around her petite torso.
The rogue was as still as a statue. Their tail didn’t flick or waver, and their hands were frozen above the dress they had been admiring only a moment ago. They stared back at the Verikov woman with wide, alert eyes. The elven woman stared back at the intruder with an intimidating stare, her eyes narrowing in dominance. Those lovely lilac eyes were terrifying in their fierceness. The rogue had to swallow.
After an agonizing moment of stillness, the rogue finally managed to do something. They jumped out the window.
“Wha- hey!” the Verikov woman cried. She dashed for the edge of the balcony that lined her room, only to see that the rogue had slid down the pillar and was now off on a mad dash towards the greenery that lined the edges of the manor’s estate. In a panic, the Verikov woman wailed a howling song and threw a bolt of ice at the rogue’s feet in an attempt to stop them. The rogue felt themself grow dizzy out of nowhere and nearly tripped over the icy patch that bloomed just in front of their feet. The rogue was quick though despite the sudden spinning of their vision and stepped to the side, continuing to dash through the gardens like a drunk shadow.
“Someone catch that thief!” The woman called. Immediately, the guards on duty hurried towards the Verikov woman’s voice.
“Go, find her! Bring her to me by any means necessary!” she cried to the guards that gathered below her window. The three guards bowed swiftly and answered, “yes, my lady!” before turning and giving chase. They followed the trail that began at her ice bolt and continued out of the mansion’s grounds and into the streets of Alabaster.
Text
Does it count as editing if I printed it out to cross out with a red pen but actually ended up re-writing it and now it’s doubled in length
Text
When my computer woke from sleep mode this morning, it greeted me with an image of a walrus at the login screen.
I’d thought on it, and they’re kind of adorable. OwO So I drew a walrus.
Text
Creations Renew: DAILY CONNECTION (DAY 213: 03.15.2026)
For some reason, my vision’s gone all green-ish. Then again, I still have a bit of my fever left.
Hopefully by tomorrow, I don’t have a fever anymore. I really do miss drawing and connecting here.
( <- NEXT DAY: 03.14.2026 )
( NEXT DAY: 03.16.2026 -> )
Text
CHP I: THE PARTY
summary - meet sylvia. every decision she makes must have a semblance of control and order. party? sure, but people are annoying even more so when drunk and dangerous things can happen so bring water, hug the wall and watch. pick up a guy? maybe, but in this life time? too risky. hang back, look pretty, watch, slowly test vibe. always analyzing… protecting herself. meet ryan. sure being a rockstar is fun, but it’s lonely as hell. and after so many sycophants, demanding fans, and the work load? it’s draining. play a show? yeah, gotta slip into character first. going on tour? he’s good… at least until halfway through it. so what happens when apprehensive meets morose?
notes - 1,094 words. i am my target audience and this will firstly be for me for ages to read. an ongoing story about a guy and girl under the trope of ‘loving even when it’s hard’ or 'convinced they’re hard to love meets someone who loves them like it’s natural’ and it’s from both sides!! but this… this is just starters. no title yet, but it will be on ao3 once i can choose between common chord or parallel keys…. or maybe i’ll mix the titles.
Sylvia never really liked these parties, but she loved people watching. So when there was a flyer on a telephone pole on her way home after work for a kickback at some warehouse she shrugged, took the tear off address and went home to get dressed.
Looking through her closet, she knew she didn’t wanna get too dressed up for this. At most throw on accessories, make it indie weird girl but muted to blend in, and fashion enough to remove some pieces and fall into bed. So she picked out hair clips, simple silver stud and daith piercings, then few silver necklaces to layer. Stockings and uneven socks, jean skirt with pockets, tank top and a plain faded mauve off the shoulder shirt to go over it. Black rhinestone satchel, and last but not least the uniform necessities… Platform black boots and her comfort jacket.
Sylvia looks at herself in the mirror, styling her box braids so that the front pieces swoop to the side like a bang and help with the half up messy bun up-do. Then she does light, small winged liner, puts vaseline - that’ll surely come off - on her brownish pink lips, glasses on and took off.
And now she’s here. Surrounded by other young adults and adults. Drinking, smoking, dancing, flirting. And she’s just watching it all, placing mental bets with herself and finding at least ten cute guys here but entertaining the idea of five of them was a risk emotionally and the other five was a risk to her overall well being. Not like she’s a misandrist, no she’s too caring for that, it’s just better to be safe than sorry.
However there’s this one guy who came in with three others and something in their energy was a touch different. Nothing she hadn’t seen before so she kind of ignored them as a whole. Tall charmer, Chill hedonist, Class clown, and Emo boy. All gathered by looks and demeanors during this party.
She sticks to her wall, her personal water bottle filled with water and just takes it in while unwinding from her day. Sonder settling into her mind as she looks at a few of the people. A girl who’s probably gonna call her mom in the bathroom with her friends after drinking so much. A guy who’s gone from hitting on any girl who gave him attention to brooding in a corner, possibly healing from a breakup. All of these little lives, these adults reverting to toddlers or their teens. People watching.
———
Ryan had spotted her when he first walked in. After so many parties on this tour the same groupie builds or girls throwing themselves at him meant nothing when they made it to the homestretch. Finally back, last show done and now the last party. Amidst 6’s, 8’s and 9’s there she stood in the back. If he went by his bullshit scale she was already a 9.5. Long legs, top heavy, no or maybe little makeup, outfit that seemed to give off her true self. So with the bit of strength he had, he got himself a red solo cup of courage and slowly made he way over casually inching closer against his own bit of wall to her.
“You come to these often?”
“Not really.”
“Any reason why you showed up to this one?”
“People watching.”
She seemed completely over it all as if she’s just as tired as he was and he’s been halfway across country playing shows, going to parties, signing merch, meeting and posing for fans. Looking out at the sea of people with disinterest but a hint of fascination, and she was so pretty up close. No not just pretty… she’s naturally stunning.
He clears his throat and finds himself locked by her gaze. Her eyes, he’s certain they’re brown but they look like black holes behind those rectangle glasses.
“Im Sylvia… Your name?”
“…Ryan.”
And when she nods at him, the faintest of smirks at those glossy lips, he feels his heart clench. Did she approve of him? Was that her way of saying she liked what she saw? She hadn’t been a bitch but she also didn’t throw herself at him. This was new and Ryan loved it.
“So, people watching, yeah?” He looks to her and sees her nodding as she looks back out at the crowd. “Anything you’ve gathered?”
As her black hole eyes search the crowd for answers she says, “That girl, surrounded by others? She’s with her friends and they’re making sure she’s okay from upchucking beer and keeping her from showing her ass.”
He nearly spit-takes his beer with how blunt she got at the end. Sylvia wasn’t wrong though, that girl looked like she was having a rough night and the girls around her? One was rubbing the girls back and the other was getting her to drink water.
“And your thoughts on that guy over there,” He points out one of band members, Elliot. Then he watches her scan his scene.
———
’Oh… class clown.’ Sylvia thinks looking at the brunette guy. He had to be around 5'7 or 5'9, slightly built more so in his arms and upper but not in the thin legs way. Surrounded by women who seem enamored.
She deflates. Shoulders sagging a little with the weight of women before her as she looks away and takes a sip from her bottle, “Try hard.”
Then jumps a little when she hears a deep rumble of laughter come from the 6'0 man beside her. That had to be his friend, and therefore the other two had to be as well. But his smile, it was one of those smiles that was contagious and lit up a room. As if he’s not really a smiler unless it was really funny or he couldn’t help it.
“You… aren’t offended?”
“No…” The raven haired guy said after catching his breath. “Because you aren’t wrong. Eli doesn’t have to flex or do his stupid show of being the coolest man alive.”
“Oh?”
Then he looks at her after nodding, and his eyes are… stunning, interesting. It’s like they held a storm, but at this moment there’s a flicker of light and the faintest hint of nervousness as those greyish cobalt eyes look away from her.
“It’s cause we’re in a band.”
Text
does anyone want to hear me infodump about my novel i’m writing? it’s about a group of people who were child heroes who come back together a decade later to figure out who is destabilizing peoples powers
Text
Hello!!
I’m Daniela, and I’m the author of my original work called “Dead Silent Night” by Danirusty_200 on AO3.
In this blog I will answer questions about my characters!
Feel free to interact, read the work and ask questions!
