Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Supergirl (TV 2015) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor Characters: Kara Danvers, Lena Luthor Additional Tags: Lena Luthor Knows Kara Danvers Is Supergirl, Halloween, minor Halloween costume shenanigans, Idiots in Love, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff Summary:

“What do you mean you've never dressed up for Halloween?” Kara stared at Lena in shock.

“I didn't say that. I have dressed up for nearly every Halloween since I got adopted. I was getting dragged to charity masquerade galas before I even knew what any of those words meant.”

“So not the same thing. Wearing one of your gorgeous gala dresses and a boring mask on a stick so it doesn't mess up your thousand-dollar salon hairstyle is not 'dressing up for Halloween'. That is not a Halloween costume!”

Or

Lena has never had a real Halloween and Kara intends to remedy that ASAP. Luckily Kara found this out the day before Halloween.

(btw my work is still user locked because fuck AI. If you need an invite I have some available.)

✨ My Carrd ✨| 🖼️ My Art 🖼️ |📓 My Fics 📓

☕ Feed my Coffee Addiction ☕

Welcome! My ask box is open, so feel free to say hello or ask a question.

Just a heads-up: I probably won't be posting fics to this account anymore, though I might do the occasional SFW drabble. After some thought, I decided to convert this space to be more SFW since you technically can't post NSFW content anyway.

I purged a good portion of this blog a few months back, knowing that it was probably the best solution. If you decide to check out my Twitter/Pillowfort/AO3, please know that these are my 18+ spaces and I ask that minors DNI/follow me on those accounts.

I know there are a few minors already following me on this account, and I've noticed a huge portion of you don't put your age in bio. Which, as someone who grew up in the 90s, I totally get! But with the fandom/societal climate right now, I'm not super comfortable interacting with minors.

From here on, I'll make sure to flag anything that seems a little suggestive or has blood/violence/gore. I'll probably go through my Tumblr again and purge anything I missed. It's more important to me to keep this space safe for everyone.

Merlin isn't afraid that arthur will kill him if he discover his magic, he isn't afraid about people putting him on a pyre. He can snuff the fire if he wished to. He can cut sword (he literally does it as a 80 yo man)

Merlin is stronger than anyone else if he really wanted to, if he wasn't blocked by something else nothing could bare him from conquering the world.

Then what scare Merlin so much? What could make someone who is literally magic make himself appear weak, make him lie so many time that he starts to believe he can be stopped?

Love. Merlin is afraid to be unlovable. To be a monster. He is afraid to never find somewhere to belong to. That's what drive him and what pull him down.

Window Reflections

“When the Separatists kidnapped you,” Echo starts, “they put you in a cryo-stasis pod. Then the ship went missing. It still feels like we found you by sheer luck, after all this time.” All this time. Kix’s mind latches onto those words, but it still does not answer his question. His throat feels tight. “Echo, how long?” Echo flexes his mechanical hand, uneasy. At least he doesn’t look away, “A little over five years.” * * * Five years after the Clone Wars, three years after the Fall of the Empire, Kix is found and taken out of cryo-stasis. He is too late to warn the Jedi and the Vode, but somehow the galaxy is managing to recover and move forward. Yet, he can't. Until he reconnects with the unlikeliest of his brothers: Dogma.

So yeah you know how I said I was writing a one-shot but now that one-shot is no longer a one-shot. This is my first posted fic in over a decade, I hope people like it.

Please enjoy!

And if I said I'd just finished writing the next chapter of Pyre?

see me bare my teeth for you

i know i'm not the only one who thought it was incredibly stupid to let the amoral vampire twink stick his teeth in your neck, so i thought i'd do a rewrite of the bite scene with a Tav who doesn't have the self-preservation instincts of a ham sandwich~

The tiefling’s eyes burn like embers in the dark, and set deeply in the ashen-grey of his skin painted blue-black by the night’s shadows, he looks very much like a vengeful spirit risen from his grave to smite those who wronged him in his life.

But Astarion is hungry.

And now his face hurts, to boot. He didn’t expect the big devil-spawn to be able to move so damned quickly.

But, well, sore jaw or no, the cat’s out of the bag, so he has no choice but to resort to his usual means of survival, however much it rankles–he grovels. He simpers and plays up the pitiful creature, weak from hunger, with all the best puppy eyes he can muster, pouty and sweet.

The tiefling–Pyre–he’s a veteran soldier, with the discipline and strategic mind to match. Astarion watches those glowing ember eyes as they take him in, flickering over him top to bottom, as if ascertaining what sort of threat he is, and how quickly he could eliminate that threat. He hasn’t even bothered to stand up, still sitting on his bedroll, not quite relaxed but as close as he ever seems to be. He doesn’t seem to be so paranoid as to sleep in his armor, but his massive broadsword is lying conspicuously close to his hand.  Astarion curses that he didn’t have the foresight to kick it away before he tried to snack on the big bastard.

He wants to snarl, but he hides his fangs the best he can, however much his stomach protests, however much he wants to sink them into the brute’s stony flesh and feed.

“You tried to bite me,” Pyre rumbles, and finally something in his expression shifts with the slight quirk of one scarred brow. Astarion follows the line of the scar down over his cheekbone, narrowly missing his eye. It is one of many. The man’s face and–as one can only assume–his body are mapped with scars, wicked blade slashes and puckered burns and jagged claw gouges. A lifetime of battles fought carved into his skin like a mountain battered by storms. Still standing, against it all. “How can I trust you?”

“Because we don’t have a choice!” the vampire retorts, with perhaps more desperation than he’d ever care to admit. “Not if we’re going to save ourselves from these worms…” He flails his hand a bit, looking at the ground between the tiefling’s splayed legs and staunchly not at his damnably expressionless face, his burning ochre eyes. From what little he knows of Pyre, he is a man of action. Of practicality. Of making necessary decisions with what little they have. Astarion is an asset to the tiefling, same as the tiefling is to him. “I need you alive. You need me strong.” He meets Pyre’s eyes again, and he almost regrets it. The heat of them settles deep in his belly, making him feel unsettlingly warm and… seen. “Please,” he ekes out, refusing to be consumed. He does the consuming, thank you very much. “Only a taste, I swear. I’ll be well, you’ll be fine, and everything can go back to normal.” It’s all he’s got. He’s already weak. For all his bravado, if Pyre decided to attack him now, he’s not entirely sure of what sort of fight he’d be able to put up.

Pyre is implacable, his expression as blank and unmoving as a grey cliff face from which he seems to have been hewn. He looks to be completely immune to Astarion’s game.

The vampire tenses, preparing for a fight.

There’s a long moment of silence, and in it Astarion swears can hear every pulse of the stolen blood he does have coursing sluggishly through his corpse-cold body.

The mountain of a tiefling shifts. His gaze does not falter. But he nods, once. “Fine,” he rasps, and Astarion will never quite be over how strangely soft his voice is. “But not a drop more than you need.”

“Really?” He reels back, surprised, almost sure the man would either send him on his merry way to fumble through the underbrush until he stumbled across a sickly deer, or put him out of his misery then and there. “I-” He’s certainly not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, however. He smooths his expression, reigns in his untoward eagerness.“Of course. Not one drop more.”

And then they stare at each other, for a beat, then two. Astarion standing, Pyre sitting up, watching him, eyebrows slightly raised and the dim firelight flickering across the contours of his damnably blank face.

“I… Wouldn’t be easier if you…” Astarion purses his lips, eyes flicking up briefly and then back down again. He gestures awkwardly to the rumpled bedroll. “Had a bit of a lie-down?”

“You’re not touching my neck,” Pyre says simply. His gambeson’s high collar is very firmly buttoned. To be quite honest, Astarion’s not sure how he thought to get past it without either waking the tiefling trying to get it out of the way, or gnawing through a mouthful of wool. Before Astarion can ask what he’s meant to do, then, Pyre extends a hand. Without his gauntlets, it is as callused and scarred as one would imagine of a veteran swordsman. His nails are thick and black and look as if they have been filed down to utilitarian dullness from naturally sharp points. He turns his hand palm-up, unbuttoning the cuff of his sleeve and pushing it over the swell of his muscular forearm. There, a prominent vein snakes through the tough grey flesh, pulsing temptingly at the thin, vulnerable skin of his wrist. There are scars there, too, but older. Faded to a dull white. Neat lines in a row almost up to the elbow.

Astarion drops to his knees with a pout. “Alright, alright. Ruining my fun…”

“The blood is all the same,” Pyre says flatly, “Don’t complain about where it comes from.”

“Fine,” the vampire huffs, taking the proffered arm gently. As he draws the wrist in, saliva pooling in his mouth the closer that tantalizing vein comes to his teeth, he feels Pyre’s other hand at his shoulder. He freezes when it shifts, and strong, scarred fingers curl firmly around his throat.

His eyes flicker up to meet Pyre’s, staring at him with a coolness that belies their fiery hue. The fingers flex, but don’t squeeze.

“An assurance for me,” the tiefling rumbles, the grim line of his lips firm and implacable, jaw squared. “And a reminder for you.”

He’s not sure what he expected of his first time feeding from a thinking creature, but the reality is… more than he could have imagined.

It’s nothing short of rapturous.

There’s a squirmy weight of anticipation in his belly that sinks deep, and before he can make even more of a fool of himself, Astarion sinks his teeth into the tender skin, and a gush of dazzling heat floods his mouth. He almost moans at the taste. Almost. It feels almost too hot, like it’s going to leave his mouth feeling numb and tender, the skin peeling. And so rich. He drinks, and drinks, and drinks, wanting to lose himself in the taste, the heat of it, and never stop drinking until there’s nothing left, but he can feel the weight of Pyre’s hand around his throat every time he swallows, his thumb against his pulse, can feel yet more heat radiating from the man’s stout body, not touching his beyond the necessary points of contact, but still so close.

He takes another long, languorous pull, eyes rolling back, and when he swallows the hand on his throat squeezes hard, and he jerks away, blood rolling down his chin.

For a moment, he sits there gasping and dazed, staring wide-eyed up at Pyre, who has him by the neck. His own hand rises almost of its own accord, trembling, to his lips, fingers hungrily pushing the stray droplets of blood into his mouth, eyelids fluttering with bliss. He does moan then, and Pyre jerks his hand away, as if he’s the one who’s been burned. As if he’s the one with a burgeoning, blistering heat working its way from his belly to his extremities until his fingertips are tingling with it. 

Astarion licks his fingers shamelessly, and the scalding weight of those eyes doesn’t feel quite so stifling now that he’s full of warmth. “Apologies,” he pants around the finger in his mouth, “I was just… swept up in the moment. He stumbles to his feet, head light and floaty and bright with the fresh blood slowly working its way through his body, waking it up. “But it worked!. I feel good. Strong. Happy!” He offers a mocking little bow.

Once again, Pyre looks at him as if nothing untoward has occurred between them, even as he pulls a ragged scrap of fabric that might have once been a piece of an old shirt from his pocket and wads it up to press over the wound in his wrist. He doesn’t offer any response.

“I didn’t kill you, did I? That’s what matters.” Astarion happily chatters in his stead, rushing with newfound energy, feeling as if he could take on the world. A part of him (perhaps several parts of him) are struck by the urge that he could pounce on the tiefling now, and have a fairly good shot of taking him down. Astarion would be out a powerful ally, but oh, what a meal he’d be…

He shakes himself and beams, hands on his hips. “And look what you’ve gained! Together, we can take on the world!”

Finally, finally, Pyre cracks something that could almost be called a smile. Just a slight twist of the mouth, a touch wry, and he lowers his heavy lids a bit more. “I hope so,” he almost chuckles. “I look forward to seeing you fight.”

“Shouldn’t take long,” Astarion chirps, delighted. “So many people need killing.” He offers another stilted little half-bow. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more… filling.”

And he turns on heel and struts out of the circle of the fire, off towards the woods. There’s a swagger in his step. He feels ready for anything. But he stops, and turns back slightly, the weight of those eyes fair burning a hole through his doublet. “This is a gift, you know,” he offers. “I won’t forget it.” And then off he goes, disappearing into the trees, and only when he is certain Pyre can no longer see him does he lean heavily against the trunk of a nearby tree until he can convince his damned knees to stop trembling. He raises a hand slowly, and brushes his fingers against his own throat, eyes closing and exhaling a shaky sigh.

So, it's been a while again, but just writing with an update on where I'm at fandom-wise. I've been working on a massive edit of the existing installments of The Bound Series. This has included changing everything in the first two parts to first-person present tense, and fixing old inconsistencies in the plot, as well as some grammatical and prose issues that I've wanted to solve for quite some time. I'll notify here when I've completed that particular part of the project, but I'm also getting reintroduced to my version of the Tracys and Co, and I'm really happy with where I'm headed. I've also been slowly reworking elements of the plot to fit more completely with my TAG stories, so once I've done that I'd encourage everyone to do a re-read if you'd like to see these changes in effect. It's an absolute pleasure to be back in fandom, even as behind-the-scenes as this is. Planning for future stories and chapters feels so natural and I've missed it desperately. I'm really excited to see how it all turns out and to share it all with everyone.

Yay.

Weird day of reading today:

Stared at Locked Tomb for a few minutes as I thought about rereads, but at this point I'm just gonna wait for Alecto to go through the series again. I don't think I'm emotionally strong enough atm to endure the memes again anyways.

Reread an old manuscript for a novel that I never finished. 48k and it's just immensely harrowing with a really brutal ending per the outline that I don't think would ever make it past editing lmao. Looking at when I wrote it, that makes a lot of sense. One of the only first-person POV things I've ever written, and it was surprisingly all right. I'd probably rewrite this as third-person close if I were to revisit it. Cool world that I didn't really utilize as well.

Picked through some highlights of Gormenghast and buried myself in indulgent, decadent prose for a while. There's singular clauses with more creativity than entire stories I've written. Just means there's more to aspire to, I suppose!

Wanted to reread some passages from a few Robin Hobb books, but I cannot remember which book is which within a series because all of her novels have just the worst titles. Just meant that I waded through beautiful moment after beautiful moment in search of what I was after. Then wound up reading the ending of Elderlings all over again, much to my heart's deep sorrow.

so i wrote an essay last semester examining themes of monstrous femininity and mankind’s path toward divinity last semester for my brit lit class if anyone would be interested in reading it <3

Was thinking about how cats bump their heads into you to show affection silently. So, what if-

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Pitch Perfect (Movies) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell Characters: Beca Mitchell, Chloe Beale Additional Tags: Beca being a tease Summary:

Chloe's phone chimed just as she was finishing checking her suitcase for the last time. She smiled when she saw the message was from Beca. When she opened it and saw the picture Beca sent her jaw dropped. When she finally read the caption Beca had included Chloe's mind completely ceased functioning. All that was working in that moment was a few feet south of Chloe's brain, and that particular region of her body was suddenly working overtime.

Finally Home

last line challenge

tagged by @dickpuncher420 mwah ty love

Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like). 

He flinches, startled to find himself kneeling before the lit pyre in the crematory hall, and feels guilty about flinching until a glance around reassures him that neither the residing monk nor his sister saw it.

tagging @marriedzukka @hydrochaeriswrites + anyone else who would like to participate!

I'm giving Roach a lil smooch rn btw

Very curious about this one from the game ask game:

22. A game ending that’s really stuck with you

A mutual after my own heart, are you?)

I'll do a small confession here - I love gaming, I love playing all kinds of things, but I don't do it nearly as much as I know of them. So I might start to sound a bit like a broken record by mentioning some familiar titles

If I had to choose one, I would, predictably, say Outer Wilds. This won't be a surprise for anyone who played the game, and if you, for some reason haven't yet - good, don't look anything up, and please try it out for yourself. If you, for some reason, can't or don't want to play it yourself, I recommend looking up an essay, either one of the dozens on this game (there will honestly never be enough). Personal favourite would be The Song at The End of All Times. I don't want to go into anything further than this in fear of spoiling someone, but I think from the title of the essay you can guess where this is going.

Let's just say space westerns are my jam) Finishing this game was incredible, and I was in a kind of limbo for some time afterwards. I don't think I would be the same person I am today without it, not really. I also watch every single essay on this game that I come across, because you only really get to experience this game once, and then desperately wish to do so again somehow. Watching essays is the closest you can come close to that feeling ever again. The game is a perfect space exploration game - it will make you experience the dread and joy of cosmos like no other, it can be depressing and feel oppressive at times, but the story of the game, while bittersweet, is fundamentally built upon hope. So, while the ending shakes you to the core, it does so with the goal of sharing something intimately beautiful with you.

Another game I can think of that has story which affected me a lot, but which I haven't played myself (not sure I could ever play it really) would be SOMA. This game introduced me fulltime to existential horror, and apparently I am a sucker for it.

The game has a lot of philosophy tied to it, and it had me thinking about it all for literal weeks. The 'horror' name-part might be misleading, as this game and its' story is not about scaring you with monsters or jumpscares (although those exist in the game and that's why I'm never playing it, I would NOT be able to handle that), it's, uh... about literal horror of existence? Anyway, you'll get what it's about if you look up anything about the game, I saw a cutscene ('gamemovie') cut of it and oh boy, the voice acting sells everything perfectly. The writing is insanely good, there's a reason people still keep talking about the game.

Cyberpunk 2077 also kind of steps a little into that territory. While I couldn't play that game because CDPR are bastards, I had a lot of fun looking into the endings of that game as well as the lore of the cyberpunk universe.

Not-really spoilers paragraph ahead

basically by the time the protagonist, V, figures out what to do with the chip with AI-personality of Johnny Silverhand in their head, that has been taking over their body for the entirety of the game, it is too late to really do anything about it, and V is doomed to be overwritten out of his own body. There is an interpretation of different endings for the game as different stages of grief (selling yourself as a guinea pig to try to get experimental treatment - denial, single-handedly storming the corporation that owns the chip - anger, etc.) and I loved that insight, especially because for the player, these are not really as transparent as may seem. The game does a good job of installing into you the idea of dying and the fear of death, and the endings are basically the forked roads which player can take in their limited time to try to deal with it. It's very personal, and I think the writing team at CDPR did an amazing job for this game. The most striking of them all, and one that surprised me the most, was the suicide ending. When V and Johnny finally end up at that 'final fork' where they have to choose a path to their grand finale, they have to consider their options. All of these endings have a price, and none of them guarantee a solution - it's either selling yourself out to a corporation for experimentation, storming a corporation single-handedly or with help, and chances to die in getting to any of these is very high. You can rope in some friends for help you get to the solution, but again, there likely is no way out of this for you, and this puts your friend on a firing line right up with you. So, V can die a slow and torturous death because of the chip, die trying to do the impossible and/or force his friends into it, or. Or the game allows you to end it all, right now, without additional pain for you or any casualties. Hence, the suicide ending. All game credits, regardless of the chosen ending, have companions and friends calling V and leaving him a message. In messages for the Suicide ending it's...all of them crying in anger and hurt and feeling betrayed. One of them calls only to realize 'Shit, I can't do this', starts howling and ends the call. Those voice messages are genuinely heartbreaking to listen to.

That. That is one powerful ending to experience.

...would it be cheating to add DMC5 here? I don't think it will be news to anyone xD This didn't leave me a wreck like the others, but I love how surprisingly wholesome and sweet the story ends in this game about blood, gore and demon hunting. I love the fandom, I arguably love the fandom more than I do the game, but the game is also great, and it deserves a lot of praise for that, sparda loser twins my beloved)

Pyre ending resonated with me a lot as well. Won't go into any detail here, basically the game is a perfect blend of a roleplaying and a visual novel. This means you have a lot of free space to bond with your companions, this game is very much about the path, and not the destination. However, the destination sells the impact of your time spent with each companion.

Unlike most standard rpgs, there is no really 'good' or 'bad' ending for the characters. The path you took will dictate the circumstances of their life in the future, and they will have to just deal with it. There is no weight placed on the player character of 'making their lives better', quite honestly because you really can't. So every ending for them is just, a character being in one place, or the other, and them continuing their life from there. I love this, and the credits song Bound Together, which is Gorgeous as all Darren Korb&Ashley Barrett tracks are, reflects the path you took and time you spent with your companions by changing the lyrics of the song to fit your version of events. One of the videos about the game is called 'How Pyre Sings Your Story' and the game really does exactly that - sings your own personal story. It's beautiful.

Transistor stuck with me too, not just because of the soundtrack, but because it is a very wholesome romance story. Tragic as hell at the beginning (We All Become - as the opening song of the game), but I guess Supergiant's love their bittersweet endings, and credits songs that emotionally devastate me (We All Become morphs into -> Paper Boats).

Terra Nil is another weird game I wanted to add here. I didn't change my life or anything, but it did provide me a unique perspective. The game was marketed as 'reverse city-builder', I would characterize it as a 'climate-change solar-power fantasy'.

Horizon games setting of a post-post-apocalypse (meaning= the future after immediate post-apocalypse= meaning far future after an apocalypse) speaks volumes to me on a level of hope for life in general - that life will always persist, in any way shape or form, it will always continue to surprise and amaze you, it's just the matter of if humanity will live to see it in the future. Terra Nil would be a reverse of that mentality - what it would feel like to have the power to help mother nature recover and let it thrive again. The game has you use green-science-based technology to refertilize soil, clean pollution from water, manipulate the landscape into distinct biomes and introduce different animals into the according environment, the newfound ecosystem stabilize on its own, then your job is to recycle everything you've built to leave this land clear of external devices and leave it to thrive on it's own. This makes the gameplay feel extremely wholesome and hopeful, usually the solarpunk genre is a static image of an unattainable future - a pretty motivating picture, but without any depth to it. Terra Nil shows how our technology and power could be used for good. I think the moment that kind of broke me a little, was when in a later level, I had to dredge up land from the bottom of the ocean to create a continental ecosystem, and this unearthed nuclear pollution which quickly undid a lot of my work on like, half the map. The game then gave me access to sunflower seeds, because they have the actual power to safely suck up nuclear pollution, and save the ecosystem I was trying to build. I had to genuinely pause the game and go get a tea or something in that moment, that was so beautiful I teared up.

This game can actually be quite educational - it makes you really think about the necessity of each part of an ecosystem, that every animal, every plant, every water source - all of them are important for the whole ecosystem. The gameplay teaches you to look at a dumpsite and think up about how can you make a complete and thriving ecosystem out of it. The gameplay requires you thinking up ahead some steps, and that can be a bit challenging at first, but the game is very lenient with the difficulty. Although, if you are trying to introduce all the rarer and more niche animals into the system - prepare for some tries and errors, this will prove a nice tactical challenge.

I also just learned Terra Nil was nominated by several committees for 'Social Impact' award and Yes this game absolutely deserves it. Also the developers have donated quite a sum to the Endangered Wildlife Trust, and it's extremely nice of them.

Hello!!

It’s been a LONG time but if you’re inclined to read please have a bonus chapter to an older fic: first time in just over four years that I’ve posted anything for any fandom!

I found it in my files today and being as it’s been so long, I figured why the heck not, as I reckon it’s about time I came back with something. It’s not technically new writing, but I’m pretty gosh darn happy with myself either way. I’m finally at a place in my life where maybe things are going to be ok? I mean, I’m 31.

I’ll see what else the fates bring (my bestie is pretty unwell — not sure what’s with this people closest to me getting horribly sick thing), but I think I’m in a place where if I go back to using my writing to cope I’ll be fine. I can at least hope.

(For those who have by this point probably given up anticipating an update for Fulcrum (or anything related to it) never fear, for that one is next on my agenda! I’m ‘Bound’ and ‘Determined’ to get John through his decade-long predicament. Haha.)

Either way, have a chapter. :)

(For those who are unaware, Kent is my OC, Virgil’s identical twin who died of complications from a heart condition, three days after their birth. Technically part of my AIE “AU”, I originally wasn’t intending to ever post this part, as it’s a practice piece I used to look at who Kent Tracy may have been had he survived past infancy.)

Midnight

The soft sounds of Virgil’s snores rumble through the room from the top bunk, but Kent lays in the bottom bed, wide awake with his pen in one hand, the flashlight in another; scrawling furiously across the pages of his notebook.

It’s past eleven again, and the fourteen-year-old boy can’t sleep; the insomnia from sleeping all day has kicked in again, and all he can do is while away the hours until his father and older brothers roll out of bed. He doesn’t fear waking up his twin brother; Virgil doesn’t wake up unless someone holds the alarm clock right next to his ear; volume up on full, so it’s highly unlikely that he’s going to be disturbed from the light.

He doesn’t mind overly much though, these quiet hours before the dawn. Being one of six children often means that aside from the two hours of study that their father enforces every day, it’s very rare for any of the Tracy children to have any time to themselves without another sibling interrupting it somehow.

It’s nice to have this time to write, and consider and dream without his two youngest brothers asking ‘What are you doing, KT? Can I see? Lemme look!’ he finds it bliss to not have his father wanting him to help with chores or his grandmother wanting him to watch Alan while she takes Virgil and Gordon out, because their father is busy in the office again.

It’s peaceful, and as much as he likes a bit of chaos and excitement, Kent also likes to have some quiet now and again. He loves the way the moon streams through the curtains in the bedroom, how he can listen to Virgil dreaming and feel his brother’s happiness and quiet soul soar through their twin bond.

He feels the pressures of being the sickly child; the one who everyone has to be careful of and look out for too much, and for Kent, these moments when he doesn’t have them looking over him in concern and hovering when he’s ‘too pale’ or ‘overtired’, it just makes him feel more whole somehow. At fourteen, he just wants them to stop seeing him as the ill one and allow him to grow without them worrying that he’s going to overtax his weakened heart.

In these moments, he can remember his mother, and how like him; she was a writer, although with six children before she died, she never got to achieve her dream of getting a novel published. Sure, she wrote for the local newspaper, along with the kindergarten teaching and the music lessons she taught in order to help their father with the monthly bills, but it’s something that Kent knew she always wanted to do. Now she’s gone, he’s more determined than ever to achieve that dream, and make his mom as proud of him as she was as his other brothers.

That’s not to say that he didn’t think she was, but he just wants to do something that his three older brothers haven’t yet.

Kent loves his family, but he just wants to get out of this little box, pre-packaged, made just for him, the one that labels him as the sickly child, the one who is to be worried over and assisted.

It’s not that his father, Grandpa and Grandma don’t expect him to amount to anything, just that somehow, Kent has this invisible label on him that instantly informs people that he’s ill and that he is given just that little bit more leeway to get to places a little easier. There’s nothing more Kent hates more than to be told that he needs to take it easy, or that he can’t do something, just because he’s sick.

That’s why he uses this time, past the hour he should’ve been in dreamland to work harder on anything he ever has in his life, because he wants to make them proud, to break out of the accidental constraints that his condition has placed upon him. He’ll rise above and beyond those automatic assumptions, and prove to everyone that he can do just as much as his brothers. Even if it takes him a little bit longer, even if he has to work a little bit harder, he will achieve his goals.

As he packs up his book and caps the pen an hour later, still not sleepy but content that he’s worked with what he can for tonight, Kent is determined that he’s going to become a published author before he hits his eighteenth birthday, because he’s a Tracy, and for a Tracy, failure isn’t an option.

He’ll lie awake for the rest of the night, and yes, he’ll be completely exhausted and will spend the day in bed tomorrow, but he’ll keep with him through his grandmother’s fussing and John and Scott’s smothering, the peace and tranquillity that this time has given him.

He’s happy, and he knows that if his mother is watching, she’ll be proud.