Davina/Monique roleswap where Davina dies in the Harvest.
There is a moment—she will think of it after, will think of nothing but it—where the blade is already moving and her throat is not yet open.
A moment where it is only the cold line of it drawing quick and bright across her skin, fast, so fast, faster than fear can rise to meet it, and Monique's whole mind narrows down to that one thin travelling edge, that one last instant where she is still whole, still herself, still a girl with an unbroken neck standing in the dark—
And she thinks of Davina.
She thinks of Davina caught exactly here. Davina's throat caught in this same suspended half-second, this same cold traveling line, before it opened, before she fell, before the light went out of her. Davina's face caught mid-motion, mid-turn, mid-whatever-she-was-going-to-say and never got to.
Once I have you back, she thinks, I will kill them for what they did to us.
I would like a snippet of all the options thank you
[WIP Emoji Wednesday]
There are five snippets that didn't make it into this because I'm stalling on them bad omfg. And those are: hybrid!Delilah, Mikael finds Miri's coffin and makes her cry, Klaus has a jealousy fueled threesome with Tyla and crashes out about it, Amara is the grim reaper, and Klelijah put Katherine in the bad time blender.
Snippets under the cut for length.
...
📜 – Dreaming of You All the While ✶ Tyler dies in Liv’s place and she is left to deal with the fallout—including a will that stipulates that almost all of Tyler’s earthly possessions are to pass to someone named “Hayley Marshall.”
"Tyler's dead," Liv says.
Hayley's face does something complicated.
It happens fast and Liv can't read all of it—something moves under there, something that isn't nothing, something that catches and folds and closes back over before Liv can name a single piece of it.
Hayley looks away. She rubs at a spot on the back of her hand, hard, with her thumb working a slow hard circle into it like it aches, like something under the skin has started to hurt. She isn't looking at Liv. She's glaring at the ground somewhere around Liv's feet, mouth tight.
"Okay," Hayley bites out and then she does look up, and her jaw's set hard and her eyes have gone flat and mean, "And why the fuck is that my problem?"
…
🔥 – Ignite Me ✶ Davina dies in Monique’s arms moments before Marcel arrives to whisk her and her aunt away. Roleswap AU.
Monique thinks, distantly, that she should call her mother.
It's the kind of thing you do. Something goes wrong and you call your mother—
But her mother helped kill Davina and would have helped kill Monique too.
Maybe she thought there was a reason, but Monique has turned it over and can’t. She cannot think of a single reason in the whole world that would have been worth it—not the coven, not the magic, not the ancestors.
A world without Davina is a world with its sun torn out of the sky, and Monique does not want to be saved into the dark.
…
I’m Some Sweet Escape ✶ Cami and Jenna were classmates before their lives went to hell.
And oh.
Oh, her hands.
Camille stops. The whole spinning babbling awful moment stops too, or she stops inside it, because she is holding Jenna's hand now, has it right there in her own, and it is so—it is so—Camille cannot find the word, she had a word a second ago and now she just has the hand, warm and soft and a little damp from all the crying, the fingers long and pretty even wrecked like this, even shaking, and Camille turns it over stupidly in the low light and thinks: these are the loveliest hands. These are the loveliest hands anyone has ever had. In the world. Ever. In all of it—God, now she's doing it too, now she's thinking in Jenna's dumb spiraling way, but it's true, it's true, look at them, how is anyone allowed to have hands like this—
…
🚗 – Such a Fool for Sacrifice ✶ Katherine has had custody of Amara for a few decades when she rolls into Mystic Falls... unfortunately (or fortunately depending on who you ask) her priorities have changed.
"Do you have a plan?" Elena asks.
A plan. Katherine keeps her eyes on the road and her hands easy on the wheel and does not, by any outward sign, come apart.
What she has is a car doing sixty down a dark road with three girls in it wearing the same face—three of them, breathing the same air, and Klaus is coming. Klaus is always coming. Klaus has spent half a millennium wanting the blood of exactly this face, and now there are three throats carrying it in one small metal box on one dark road, and Katherine, who has never once in five hundred years failed to run at the right moment, has instead gone and gathered every version of the thing he wants into a single easy place for him to find.
Stupid. God, she's been so stupid. She got soft. She got soft in a way she swore to herself she would never, ever get again, and now here she is with a whole backseat of the softness, driving it straight toward—
"Of course I do," she lies.
…
🏺 – The Idea of Being Free ✶ Qetsiyah makes three doses of immortality.
Qetsiyah kisses her deep and hungry, one hand fisted in Amara's hair to tip her head just how she wants it, the other spread hot and greedy up the length of her back, and Amara melts into it, opens for it, kisses her back with everything she has because she cannot help it, because she has never once been able to help it—the heat of Qetsiyah's mouth going straight through her, down her spine, low into her belly, everywhere at once. She's already breathing hard. She's already pressing closer, already arching into that hand, already wanting more than she's being given.
Then Qetsiyah pinches her—hard, high on the inside of her thigh—and Amara yelps into her mouth and bucks, hips jerking up off her lap.
And Qetsiyah groans.
Low, pleased, filthy with it—because that's what she wanted, that jolt, that helpless heat of it, and she holds Amara fast and kisses her harder, kisses her right through the sting and the squirm, drinks the sound down and licks back into her deeper. Amara's hands scrabble at her shoulders. Her hips grind down without her meaning them to, chasing the very heat that just hurt her, and Qetsiyah feels it and makes a sound against her mouth like she's been handed something sweet.
…
Wind Around the Willow ✶ Saying goodbye to Elena is the hardest thing Bonnie has ever had to do twice.
Every song was Elena, leaning close to sing it straight into her ear. Every gold morning, every good light through the leaves, every lovely thing Bonnie ever slowed down to notice—it was Elena underneath all of it, Elena the reason any of the beauty ever meant a thing.
And the garden was the last of it.
The last beautiful place they had. And now the garden is gone—burned down to nothing, gone to ash, gone to smoke thinning out on the wind—and Bonnie knows that their time in the sun of over, that their golden season has ceased, that there is no way back to that time, back to that home—
Now Elena will live in the tragedies instead. Now Bonnie will find her waiting at the end of every bittersweet story, in every goodbye, in every quiet ache of a thing that didn't get to last. Every mournful song will be about her now. Every ending will have her face. Bonnie will go through the rest of her life meeting Elena in all the sorrowful places the way she once met her in all the lovely ones.
…
Oh, Dilute Me ✶ Rebekah comes to Mystic Falls for the cure and runs into an old friend. (Note: I forgot to add this one when I initially posted the list of WIPs.)
Rebekah's heart is doing something foolish in her chest.
April is smiling at her—sideways, lopsided, that crooked little smile with her eyes crinkling up at the corners of it, smiling at Rebekah like she's something good, like she's something April is glad to see—and Rebekah does not know what to do with her hands or her face or the fluttering traitorous thing behind her ribs.
She wants to grab April by the shoulders and shout it into that soft unguarded face: why are you happy to see me? Why do you want to see me at all? Why are you looking at me like that, like I'm someone worth being glad about? Aren't you angry? You should be angry. You should be furious with me.
…
💐 – Is It In Your Blood? ✶ Orpheus!Bonnie
The world goes upside down and jolting—his shoulder in her stomach, the ground rushing away beneath Tyler's feet, her hair flying around her—and then his hands tighten and shift and he throws her, and Bonnie has just enough time, sailing through the air, to think, with perfect indignation:
Did you just fucking throw me?
And then she slams into a pair of arms.
Arms that catch her, arms that close around her hard and sure and don't let her fall, and Bonnie's heart is hammering fit to break and she looks up and it's Caroline—it's Caroline, blond and blazing and real, holding her the way she used to hold her, like she's got her, like she's always going to have her—
And it goes through Bonnie all at once, bright and terrible: oh, Care, I think I forgot how much it hurt, losing you.
…
📖 – Stranger Than in All My Dreams ✶ Samantha Gilbert loses her mind by inches.
Her brain feels flayed.
Skinned open, somewhere behind her eyes—soft and red and meaty, sitting there in the wet dark of her skull where no one was ever meant to look. Samantha can feel it. The weight of it. The wet weeping give of it. And she wants her hands in it.
She wants to reach up through the bone and push her fingers down into the pulp of herself, slow, past the skin and the white and into the warm red meat, and feel it part around her knuckles. She wants them to come back black and scarlet, slick to the wrist, strung with her. She wants to see it. She has spent her whole life being told what a mind is worth and she wants to hold hers in her two hands and find out it was only ever this—only meat, only something that bleeds.
She wants to pull, to hook her fingers deep and tear a fistful loose, feel the strings of it snap wet, feel it come away heavy in her palm. To rip her own thinking out by the root the way a child rips flowers, not understanding yet that nothing lives once you've torn it up—
She wants to eat it. She wants to lift each dripping piece to her mouth and swallow it down, wants to feed herself to herself, mouthful by red mouthful, until it is all gone—until the meat that thinks is gone, until the meat that hurts is gone, until there is nothing left in the emptied wet dark of her skull but quiet. Just quiet.
Davina/Monique roleswap where Davina dies in the Harvest.
He had brought crate after crate of art supplies—and somewhere in all of it she had found the sketchbooks, their spines cracked, their ribbons frayed to nothing, and opened one without thinking, and found the dead inside.
A woman turned toward a window. A boy in a coffin with a knife in his chest. A man caught laughing with his hand half-raised, held there a breath before the end of whatever he was saying, kept alive on the page by someone who had loved him enough to catch him. Marcel, young and beloved, drawn over and over and over. And in every corner, small and certain, the same two letters.
KM.
Monique is sure that Davina would have asked about it.
That was Davina—the curious one, the brave one, or the one who could hammer herself into looking brave. She would have gathered the sketchbooks to her chest and gone down the stairs with her chin lifted and her heart going hard, demanding to know who KM had been, how Marcel had known him, who the woman at the window was, who all of them had been to one another and how they had been lost—making that stupid fearless face she always made when she was frightened half to death and refusing, on principle, to let it show. Davina would have needed the whole story.
But Davina is in the ground, and Monique has no room left in her to go wondering after other people's dead. Monique is a selfish girl and she has always known it—she has only ever had pity enough in her for one soul at a time, and that soul is her own now, and there is barely even enough for that.
And whoever KM was, they could keep their dead.
They could hold a beloved face still against the running-out of everything. They could take up a pencil and have them—the turn of a head, the light caught in an eye, the exact shape a mouth made in the half-second before it broke into laughing—could set it down and keep it and keep it, a hundred faithful times, until the years went by and the dust came down thick on the lids of the boxes and still, underneath, the faces waited. Still themselves. Still lovely. Still there to be come back to.
And Monique had loved Davina more than that.
She is sure of it. She would stake what's left of her on it. She had loved Davina more than any careful hand in this dead stranger's forgotten room ever loved anything—loved her running through the light, loved her laughing, loved her bent over the table with paint drying on her knuckles and her tongue caught in her teeth, loved her pushing some small finished drawing into Monique's hands with that wide unguarded smile stretched across her whole face. Monique had loved her so entirely, so without caution, that it had never crossed her mind—not once, not ever—that Monique might someday have to hold her any way but alive.
So why can't she do this too?
Davina/Monique roleswap where Davina dies in the Harvest.
Monique has been trying to pick up painting.
She never liked it before. That was Davina's thing—Davina was the one good with her hands, Davina was always drawing, always bent over some scrap of paper with her tongue between her teeth and then holding the thing up finished, pressing it into Monique's hands with that stupid wide smile stretched across her whole face.
Monique is not good at it. She doesn't like it. She dips the brush and the color goes wrong and the line goes wrong and—
She looks down at the paper in her hands.
Her hands are shaking. They've been shaking like that for days now, like something newborn, like something that hurts, and the paint has done nothing she asked it to. It's ugly. It's a smear, a ruin, a nothing. It doesn't look like Davina. It doesn't look like anyone.
And she keeps thinking: no one warned her. No one told her that they were sheep to be slaughtered, no one told her the harvest would want blood and that Davina would be the one to give it, that she would spend herself all at once and leave Monique standing there alive and unasked—
She didn't get to say no. She didn't get to say anything. She woke to a world with Davina spent out of it and herself hidden away in this attic, this stupid dusty attic with its slanted light and its dead air, that she is not allowed to leave.
If they had told her—it would be different or at least she would be better prepared for the aftermath, but they hadn’t and now she’s in some stupid room trying to paint her best friend, and every picture she could look at as reference is at her house. Every drawing Davina ever pressed into her hands. Every photograph. The two of them side by side with their heads tipped together, laughing at something Monique can't even remember now—
All of it left behind in rooms she will never walk through again, going quietly to dust without her. She has none of it here. She has this. She has a brush and a jar of gray water and a smear on a page that is supposed to be a face and isn't.
I have to give my thoughts on the shatter me announcement from warner bros.
First of all, I don't care what anyone says, I'm so freaking excited. The way that I screamed and cried when it was announced. My entire friend group sent me the exact same post and I freaked out to every single one of them individually. It's been 10 years since I've started the series and about 6 years since I've finished the first series. (I haven't started her second series, because I'm waiting for her to be done).
As a teeanger, the Shatter me series was the one series I wanted to see on the big screen. Especially as a fan action of all movies/ shows. I'll never forget when I read it for the first time and how my mind just kept seeing x-men over and over again. When the colleen hoover movie came out, I was beyond mad, because I felt shatter me deserved it more. Also I am proud to say that the shatter me series, is the series that got me into officially writing fanfiction and now 10 years later I'm finally writing my debut novel.
I say all of that to say, I'm so so so excited to see what they do. Especially since Warner Bros is also responsible for the new supergirl movie that I'm super excited to see.
Here's what we know, that our beautiful writer Tahereh Mafi is an executive producer. Let's let that sink in. EXECUTIVE PRODUCER. And in her announcement, she specifiocally said "I'll be advocating for you always"..... so why do I see so many comments of people being pissed off?
The main reason I see is about the casting and while I do agree every character should stay true to their descriptions and cultures.... I think that we're going to win some and loose some. IF we can't all agree on a faceclaim (and we can't) then I hope you know that not everyone will be happy with the pick for each actor. I've seen some really good faceclaims from fellow readers, and almost every other comment is either mean (especially to the faceclaims who do not live under a rock and can definitely see your comments) or lacks an explanation as to WHY you dislike the picks.
And I guarantee the more you hate on or talk bad about every potential character or cast, we will LOOSE this opportunity. And yes off campus was hated at first, then it came out and almost everyone loves it (me included heh), but our characters are pretty diverse guys.. our writer is DIVERSE. And the way the world works this opporuntuty doesn't come around often.
I'm not saying don't give your opinion. I'm saying be grateful (because most of us have been waiting to see this on screen for a LONG time) and I'm saying, if you say "I hate (blank) as aaron warner", then give a WHYYY. Like why are we lacking our scientific method if/ then statements. Why are we lacking constructive feedback??? Because we know they're paying attention. We know they're listening and we know Tahereh Mafi is advocating.
So can we just be me a little more grateful for this opportunity and a little more specific with our wants and needs, and NICER IN OUR DELIVERY??? It literally does not pay a dime to be kind and specific.
