Queer Writers - Tumblr Posts

Mine | Yoongi x Black male OC

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 ~ 𝐓𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐭, 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄

slight fluff, an age gap, and neighbors sharing a nonsexual intimate moment, and kissing.

𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐬

We were in Yoongi's bed. Me on top of him.

Yoongi was gentle and careful with his hand as he rested it on the back of my neck. I swallowed the lump in my throat. Direct eye contact is challenging. He could read me so clearly. That's what I hate most about him. And I couldn't read him. He carried the weight of so many secrets. He laughed.

"Relax." He said.

"How can I, when you're this close?"

He clicked his tongue. His forehead was against mine. I could smell aftershave and cigarettes.

"Should I put space between us?" he whispered.

Having just drawn his lips into a half smile, he was about to pull away. As I gripped his shirt, he stayed close to me. The only other human-to-human contact I ever had was with my mother and little sister. So this was something different. This was something I wanted more of from the man living across from us in apartment 42B.

"No," I whispered back. "This is fine. You're fine."

Yoongi's eyes searched inside me. Could he see the small boy behind my eyes staring back at him?

"Everything," he said. "I want to know everything about you."

And my heart beats wildly in my chest at his words. I barely stepped foot into adulthood and there is a man interested in me. In me. My eyes searched his eyes for the truth. A glint of truth was hidden in his black irises. Yoongi's thumb rubs the back of my neck in a soothing circular motion. 

"I'm nothing special, Yoongi."

"You are to me," he continued. "Let me in, let me see what you don't show others."

My body buzzes. The vibrations of his voice shook me to the core. Let me see what you don't show others. I breathe deeply. That meant showing him the Demetrius I hid from my mother, grandparents, school kids, and my dad. Yoongi waits for me to say something. I liked how he stared at me like I was meant for him. Maybe I was. Maybe I really was. But could I let him in without pushing him away once things got too real? I saw how my parents loved each other, how the love died, then sparked back to life only to die again, Their love never alive again. It was the end of them. The end of me.

"God, you sound cheesy." I laughed. "Cheesy in a good way."

Yoongi chuckled, his whole body shaking. "Wow, okay." His eyes drop to my lips. "Can I?"

"Can you what?"

"Kiss you?" Yoongi's eyes return to mine.

"I, uh...I never kissed anyone before."

I didn't want to mention how I was kissed by my second cousin before I even knew she was my cousin. So I never counted her as my first kiss or as kissing anyone. 

"Just do what feels natural. We can stop anytime you feel uncomfortable-"

I kissed Yoongi. I kissed him. My lips moved against his. I'm clumsy and sloppy, but he didn't seem to mind. His lips were soft and warm, and I felt a wave of warmth wash over me. I didn't want this to end. Yoongi, he's the perfect kisser. He kisses me with care but with a sense of urgency like he needed to enjoy our kiss before I changed my mind before things got too good. But I wasn't going to change my mind. His mouth tasted of whiskey and it's strange how I felt like I was in heaven Just from his kiss. Do you feel the same, Yoongi? My fingers tangled in his black hair. His hands found their way to my waist. The rhythm. The sound of us kissing is like music to our ears. Our heartbeat syncing as one.

Yoongi needs to breathe. He pulled away smiling, squeezing my waist. He stared up at me and a sliver of sunlight caught his dark brown eyes, melting them into honey. I felt my heart skip a beat. He leaned forward, his lips brushing against mine lightly. His breath was warm and inviting.

"That was something, wasn't it?" he said, out of breath.

I nodded trying to catch my own. Now that I've kissed him, I want more. And Yoongi could clearly see that.

"Before we kiss again. Tell me something."

"Like?"

He shrugged. "Like anything."

So I thought, and I thought and I told him about my mother and the fight we had last night. Because her shitty boyfriend was a no-good thug. I knew why he only came around and that was to have sex with my mother. He doesn't pay my little sister any mind, and he treats her like she isn't his. My mother forces him to buy her clothes and food, but he says that's my job as a man because I was her older brother.  

Now I felt like I killed the mood with Yoongi talking about my home life, but when he said, "He's a dick. You shouldn't have to step in and play her father. She's your sister, not your daughter."

And Yoongi was right.

"I know. But what can I do? I'm her older brother, so it's my job to look after her. I take care of her more than my mother does. So I'm like both mother and father to her."

"And I'm sure your lil sis appreciates everything you do for her, Demetrius. I'm an only child, so I can't relate to having someone to look after. But I know the responsibility is a lot and you manage it so damn well, love."

"I do the best I can."

"That's all you can do. As long as you know you're doing your best, that'll keep you going."

I tear up and say, "Some days I don't feel like I should keep going. I just want to give up." 

"And that's okay. You are human, you are still young and can only take on so much."

This was the first time I had been so open with anyone. To be able to speak freely without being interrupted and validated.

And like before, I kissed him. This time I took it slow. I felt him smile against my lips. It felt magical kissing him. Soon every bit of him would become me. I would inherit his mannerisms. Eventually, I would pick up on any lingo he uses, blending it into my speech. I'll wear his oversized T-shirt when I spend the night. He'll make room on his bathroom counter for my things and even give me a toothbrush next to his. I'm thinking ahead. Too far ahead to see us at the altar saying our vows. Oh, Demetrius, you're just a foolish kid head over heels in love with the man from apartment 42B.

Author's note: This was an intro to a yoongi fanfic i was going to write on wattpad but never went through with it. so I turned it into a one-shot. If anyone is interested in their story I don't mind writing their story here on Tumblr.

IT"S DONE! LPS: Thorns And Roses IS COMPLET!! At a total of 22,563 it's the longest fan fic I've finished. Now excuse me while I let my fingers rest.

(This will have a bunch of spaces for those who struggle to read long/big paragraphs)

This right here is why some writers are just ready to quit, and the lack of interaction from readers, but that’s a topic for another day!

I write stories all the time but never post them because I know how rude people are. And I’m not in the right mental state to deal with that.

Writers have a life outside of writing. Let me say it again.

Creators have a life outside of creating.

They all do; writers, painters, sculptors, knitters, etc.

They do not eat, sleep, and breathe ink or clay or yarn! They have families; mothers, fathers, dogs, cats, fishes, children, husbands, girlfriends, significant others, etc.

Or maybe they just need a break for their mental health. It’s like breaking a bone.

You break your bone, go to the doctors and they tell you to rest, take medication, no physical activities, etc etc.

I’d rather that person take a break and heal instead of pushing their limits and ending up in worse condition than before.

If the creator takes the time to tell you they won’t have an update, or a project will be delayed. You can either stand by their side and give them sympathy, not pity, but sympathy.

You don’t even have to say anything, you’ve acknowledged it and moved on. You’re fine with them needing a break or having plans.

OR, you can leave. You especially do not have to say anything and can call it a day. Leave and never come back. Or leave and just randomly check in on the progress.

But never take the time to say something rude. If you do not want it said to you, do not say it to others.

If you do not want it said to you, do not say it to others.

I know some people can’t help it, but please, try to reread things. Think before you speak, type, write, sign, whatever. Just think!

(Thank you @widowbitessting for letting me use this as an example.)

Why the fuck are you not updating this weekend??? You’ve kept us waiting long enough and now you’re gonna make us wait an extra week?? Is this a joke?

Um, okay, wow. Watch your tone please?

I’m not updating this week as I’m away at a family function and I like to be around when the next part drops in case there’s any issues (like with part 3…)

Apologies you’re having to wait a little longer for the next part.

Wow.

imo the best way to interpret those “real people don’t do x” writing advice posts is “most people don’t do x, so if a character does x, it should be a distinguishing trait.” human behavior is infinitely varied; for any x, there are real people who do x. we can’t make absolute statements. we can, however, make probabilistic ones.

for example, most people don’t address each other by name in the middle of a casual conversation. if all your characters do that, your dialogue will sound stilted and unnatural. but if just one character does that, then it tells us something about that character.

How to Plot A Complex Novel in One Day

Now first, I have to say, that the plot you’re able to come up with in one day is not going to be without its flaws, but coming up with it all at once, the entire story unfolds right in front of you and makes you want to keep going with it. So, where to begin? 

What is your premise and basic plot? Pick your plot. I recommend just pulling one from this list. No plots are “original” so making yours interesting and complicated will easily distract from that fact, that and interesting characters. Characters will be something for you to work on another day, because this is plotting day. You’ll want the main plot to be fairly straight forward, because a confusing main plot will doom you if you want subplots. 

Decide who the characters will be. They don’t have to have names at this point. You don’t even need to know who they are other than why they have to be in the story. The more characters there are the more complicated the plot will be. If you intend to have more than one subplot, then you’ll want more characters. Multiple interconnected subplots will give the illusion that the story is very complicated and will give the reader a lot of different things to look at at all times. It also gives you the chance to develop many side characters. The plot I worked out yesterday had 13 characters, all were necessary. Decide their “roles” don’t bother with much else. This seems shallow, but this is plot. Plot is shallow. 

Now, decide what drives each character. Why specifically are they in this story? You can make this up. You don’t even know these characters yet. Just so long as everyone has their own motivations, you’re in the clear. 

What aren’t these characters giving away right off the bat? Give them a secret! It doesn’t have to be something that they are actively lying about or trying to hide, just find something that perhaps ties them into the plot or subplot. This is a moment to dig into subplot. This does not need to be at all connected to their drive to be present in the story.  Decide who is in love with who, what did this person do in the 70’s that’s coming back to bite them today, and what continues to haunt what-his-face to this very day. This is where you start to see the characters take shape. Don’t worry much about who they are or what they look like, just focus on what they’re doing to the story. 

What is going to change these characters? Now this will take some thinking. Everyone wants at least a few of the characters to come out changed by the end of the story, so think, how will they be different as a result of the plot/subplot? It might not be plot that changes them, but if you have a lot of characters, a few changes that are worked into the bones of the plot might help you.

Now list out the major events of the novel with subplot in chronological order. This will be your timeline. Especially list the historical things that you want to exist in backstory. List everything you can think of. Think about where the story is going. At this point, you likely haven’t focused too much on the main plot, yeah, it’s there, but now really focus on the rising actions, how this main plot builds its conflict, then the climactic moment. Make sure you get all of that in there. This might take a few hours. 

Decide where to start writing. This part will take a LOT of thinking. It’s hard! But now that you’ve got the timeline, pick an interesting point to begin at. Something with action. Something relevant. Preferably not at the beginning of your timeline - you want to have huge reveals later on where these important things that happened prior are exposed. This is the point where you think about what information should come out when. This will be a revision of your last list, except instead of being chronological, it exists to build tension. 

Once you’ve gotten the second list done, you’ve got a plot. Does it need work? Probably. But with that said, at this point you probably have no idea who half your characters are. Save that for tomorrow, that too will be a lot of work. 

After you’ve plotted the loose structure of your novel from this, see my next post to work on character! 

She's trembling.

She's trembling in his arms but there's such calm stillness in her eyes. As if Death was a fine wine she knew had been poisoned. He couldn't comprehend.

"You're afraid." He said, hoping that would shake her from her stillness.

"Yes." She said and her voice was shaken like her body.

But she didn't run. Didn't scream. He could tell she was thinking about it, every instinct on her body demanding it. But the strange, strange creature in front of him did not move.

"You're going to die."

"I'm aware."

"Won't you try to run?" He crooked his head. "To beg?"

"Would it change anything?"

He scoffed, half amused, half incredulous.

"I suppose not." She nodded at his answer, her eyes curious as they shone to him. "Are you suicidal?"

"No." She blinked. "Why would you think that?"

"People who want to live usually try to do something to ensure they do."

"Good point." The corner of her lips turned up. He could hear her beating heart wildly inside her ribcage. "I suppose I like the idea of dying in the hands of a vampire. It's an interesting death, even if no one will know."

"An interesting death?" He was captured by the insane idea as if her words had been a trap for an innocent prey.

But he was no prey.

"It's better than the alternatives, I suppose. Every death I can think of living is either boring, painful, too quick, or all of the above." She looked him in the eyes, fearful but not wavering. "Are you going to do it now?"

"Why would you want to die?"

"I don't but I don't suppose you'll let me go as well" He didn't respond. She hesitated. "Will you?"

"Would you like that?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation this time but they still danced around each other like they were aliens, other species completely. Which, to be fair, he was to her. "But will you?"

"I don't know." He was honest and she got quiet. "Why are you so complicit in your own death?"

"I don't want to die like a human, I guess." She laughed a bit at the irony of it all. "I don't want to be afraid even if I don't want to die now because if I am afraid... fear is the last thing I'll ever feel."

"What do you want to feel like as you die then?"

"Warm"

He blinked, that only word feeding at his heart like predators over carrion. It had been a long time since he had died but he couldn't help but try to remember what it felt like, his beating heart matching hers as memories long forgotten flooded his brain.

"If you died, would you tell me?" He asked then, his voice as soft as summer rain. "What it feels like?"

"I don't want to." Her quick comprehension made him chuckle.

"Why not, doll?"

"What future is there for you, or me, or anyone who lives forever? Where will my loved ones be in thirty years? Fifty? Where will I be when humanity finally manages to destroy itself? What will be left but despair and death and a touch of amused malice?"

"Strange. You seemed like the hopeful type."

"My hope lies in the present. Not in the future. I don't hope for things I know are just a fickle possibility, an echo of what shines bright and loud right now. And I won't trade the burning flames of the present for the certainty of the future. I can live with my anxiety over what's next. I won't live with the empty promises of tomorrow."

He felt his temper flaring.

"Don't you wanna know what it's like to be powerful? What on Earth wouldn't you trade your pitiful human life for eternity and the ease of a darker kind of life?"

"I fear I'm not that power-starved." She sounded amused by his impatience. "Nor am I so easily swayed by promises of a better existence. We're made of the same stuff, you and I, even if yours is better utilized. We're stardust and connected energy, we're freaks of the Universe and still, we're both suffering. Again, we cry and weep over and over. What is there for us, creatures of the same element, then to make the best we can with what we have, and hope the randomness of the Universe grace us with some kind of mercy? I cannot bear to be the protagonist of this story. I cannot bear the thought of suffering without my bright lights and my feet on the ground. I am not made for the intensity of eternity or the pain of idle life. To dream about grandeur is a better thing than to live it."

"So it's a coward's choice." He was disappointed.

"Could be." She said looking at him with the same confusion he looked at her. "Do you like it? Your meaningless existence? The loneliness drenched in despair you wear like a coat? The memories that haunt you every minute of every day against the cold reality of this existence for eternity? Drowning in arrogance and beliefs of Darwinian self-importance so that you can bear it? The fear of going mad slowly in a spiral because you can't remember how it feels like to be human anymore?"

He was heaving. Her lips touched his ears, a shiver running down his spine.

"What are we but desperate creatures, clawing our way through the dirt of our own cores?"

You knelt down.

You knelt down in front of me.

For me.

You looked up to me

Knelt down on the cold hard floor

In front of me like some old ages knight

You knelt down

Your sins and your mouth laid down on my feet

On my lips.

You knelt and that has been all I can think about since then

Truth is... I cannot live with my own heart

It was just that... there was so much loneliness in adult life, so much loss. If she thought about it, Annie could make a whole timeline of her life with the things she had lost as she grew up:

At first, she lost things she didn't care about anyway, like clothes, shoes, and jewelry. Then, she lost toys and blankets and beds as she grew a bit older. Then, she lost friends—both sides forced to separate because of changes in their parents' lives (Annie believed that was why there was so much rebellion in adolescence: nothing but a desperate struggle for a bit of control so that the losses weren't so many, so extensive, so painful, to make things stop disappearing just for a second).

Then, suddenly, people were no longer so kind, so lenient. Suddenly, an adventure was just a trip, Christmas was just another celebration, songs became a little less magical—things started to become duller, less bright than they once had been to her childish eyes, things were no longer a mystery to be discovered. Suddenly, the people who had always been around her started to disappear, leaving only an irreparable void inside her.

But for Annie, the most devastating loss of adulthood was what everyone seemed to call so confidently independence, though to Annie it just sounded like loneliness; it was the belief that because she was an adult now, she should know what to do with all those feelings, with all those emotions, with all those sensations and those situations, with all that life that she didn't fully understand; it was the dichotomy between placing the responsibility of being an adult on her shoulders, but doubting her ability to be one competently with every step she took.

But more than all that, it was the complete and desperate loneliness of being left alone with her own emotions as if they were a messy room she needed to clean up, but that only kept getting messier no matter how much she tried. Alone because other people had their own messy rooms to clean up and Annie could no longer depend on them. There was so much loneliness in being an adult—no more mother's lap for you, because if you need help, it's because you're not ready. No more hands to support you while you walk, no more training wheels while you ride, no more of everything you took for granted yesterday.

Annie was only twenty-one years old, but she was already tired—no, exhausted—of adult life, because it was too many losses from all sides, it was too much emptiness, and it made her understand why adults accepted any desperate form of love that came their way just so they wouldn't have to face that life, that world, with the awareness of that loneliness.

To Decadent Poets - Summary

Hey, guys! That's my book here, I decided to post a few chapters (or maybe more) after translating it from Brazilian Portuguese to English. I really wanted to share this work and hope you enjoy it.

Here's a quick summary of the book:

Title: Taigh Hill Dedications

Series: To Decadent Poets

Tags: Dark Academia, Poetry, World War II, Scotland, Art;

If you liked... you're gonna like this: Chronicles of Narnia, Harry Potter (especially Marauders era), Anne with an E, Enola Holmes, Pride and Prejudice, etc.

Trigger Warning: child abuse/neglect, abusive relationships, racism, antisemitism, xenophobia, biphobia, homophobia, anxiety crisis, mentions of abortion, PTSD, post-partum depression.

Add: The book didn't have a Sensitive Editor, so any problems with how people of color, disabilities, or queer people are portrayed can be discussed directly with the author.

Synopsis: When the war begins Christian is sent to the North of Scotland to live with his estranged godfather in his isolated property. He couldn't imagine he would've found his kindred spirits at that forgotten place, his family in every way but blood.

Noah is a jew, Oliver is German, and Annie has a strong head that can rival his own. All of them were very different but their love for art and an old mystery of the old property can be enough to join them forever or never again allow their friendship to flourish.

Author's note: Historical accuracy is not something this author tried to pass on in this story, dear readers. There are a lot of historical changes happening in the books and in no way should this book be considered a good account of real events of the time they represent.

Summary (with links):

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7 - Coming soon...

Taigh Hill Dedications - Chapter 1

Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!

“In a Midnight dreary while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door ‘Tis some visitor’ I muttered ‘tapping at my chamber door Only this and nothing more’” — The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe

People could go fuck themselves, this was Christian Anthony Evans's motto for life.

From experience, the boy could say for sure that seeking people's approval was always something bad. And Christian had learned that in the worst way possible: through the suffering of being rejected by his own father. When he was a kid, Chris couldn't understand why Maxwell wouldn't behave like his friend's parents did, carrying him on his shoulders and laughing at silly jokes that made no sense.

“Your father doesn't know how to express his own love,” his mother Jeanne would say patiently while putting him to bed when his bedtime would come. “He feels too intensely, Chris, and tries to hide these feelings to protect himself.”

At seven, Chris could understand his dad, or at least, he tried to understand the man he admired the most in the whole world. At sixteen, after countless ignored anniversaries and conversations, he was tired of his mother's excuses for his father's behavior and simply decided not to care. Well, not about everything: Chris cared about his mom and his friends, but not about his father.

Never about Maxwell.

When Jeanne had something to say about Maxwell, he didn't want to hear. Ignore just how he was ignored, Chris thought, and he couldn't be happier after he started to really do it, occupying his time with entertaining his mother, since she suffered just like — or even more than — him with his father's absence. He would have fun with his friends until late — at least after his fourteenth birthday — so he could avoid his dad all day but the five minutes through breakfast.

It was for this reason that when Maxwell came into the house that cold September afternoon, Chris and Jeanne knew there was something wrong. 

At first, the day seemed like any other day: Chris woke up at the same hour to go to school, had breakfast in an uncomfortable silence between his parents, gave his mother a goodbye kiss, and left without looking at his dad. When he came back home at lunchtime, the employees served the food while Nana, the old housekeeper who had raised Jeanne, knit in her rocking chair with an amused smile to Chris. Both of them, like his mother and him, had been very close since he was a kid and she loved to curl her finger through Chris's hair, commenting on how she had only seen his deep shade of red hair in books.

Nana was the one who had awakened the boy's taste for literature, although he rarely mentioned he liked books. For some reason, his friends seemed to think reading was boring and Chris didn't know what to think about it. He thought books were so interesting and truthful, so full of emotions and adventures, capable of curing all his pain with their magic infinite stories. He loved them immediately.

“You're quiet today,” said the old housekeeper with her sweet husky voice, her white hair as soft as cotton.

“I'm eating, Nana,” said Chris in response with a sly smile to the older one while he leaned back and looked at her. “Weren't you the one to teach me it's impolite to eat with my mouth open?”

“Sassy boy,” she provoked, laughing, and got Chris to smile, too. Then, he returned to his food. The old lady, though, seemed restless and said: “I think something is happening.”

“What is it, Nana?” the boy asked, frowning when he looked up from his plate to look at the older woman carefully while she rocked herself and looked at the window, lost in thoughts.

Nana, though, just shook her head and strongly clipped her tongue, smiling a little, but her smile didn't reach her eyes.

“Nothing, son, just an old lady's silly feelings” she finally answered and Chris snorted, sarcastically.

Like his step-grandma could be considered anything near silly.

Knowing what he meant with that snorting, Nana just smiled and got back to her knitting. After some seconds of silence, which was broken just by the soft noise of the needles hitting each other, Chris gave up and continued to eat, aware he wouldn't get an answer from the old lady.

The rest of the afternoon also passed without any problem: after lunch, he got himself clean and went down, where he knew his mother would spend her whole afternoon, waiting for visits that wouldn't come and for a husband who wouldn't come home until late at night. Jeanne was the sweetest person Chris had ever met in his life and it wasn't rare for Nana to say he should always give thanks for having a mother like her, because not many people in the world were like his mother. In fact, there were too many insufferable ignorant people and Chris could even include some of his own friends on the bill. And his parents too.

As always, Jeanne was sitting on the burgundy patterned sofa, staring at the window in front of her, so lost inside herself that Chris laughed at the sight of her open-mouthed and starry-eyed, something anyone would find weird and still, his mother was beautiful.

Silently, he allowed Jeanne to compose herself after this moment of distraction when his arrival woke her up, and walked to the right bookshelf, at the back of the living room. There was two of them, each one in one side of the marble fireplace. The wood floor ran the vertical, from the window to the bookshelves and the cream-colored wall, smooth like his mother, who had decorated the room.

“How about a bit of Jane Eyre today?” the boy offered when his mother turned to him, holding the black vellum and golden words book for her to see it.

“No, I think I want some poetry today” was Jeanne's answer.

Her voice sounded to Chris's ears like a feeling symphony, he almost closed his eyes to hear it better. There were always so many tones printed on Jeanne's voice that it was almost impossible to understand all of it.

However, instead of closing his eyes, Chris just smiled jokingly and raised an eyebrow:

“You guess or you sure?” he raised his hands in peace when his mother gave him that look.

In Chris's opinion, every mother had a look capable of stopping their children from doing whatever they were doing. It was a warning mixed with a caring firmness, hard to explain, but he could feel he should stop what was annoying her at that moment.

“Right, lemme sit next to you then.”

He traded the books on the bookshelf and sat beside his mom, without caring about the fact that she continued to look out the window as she always did, still waiting for someone who would never come. Chris just looked at his mother's red hair and looked down, to the pages of his book. Edgar Allan Poe wasn't Jeanne's style, but Chris was sure she wouldn't hear a word he said, so he just took a deep breath and started:

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary…”

And just like that they spend the afternoon, with his mom looking through the window and Chris's voice, soft and sounding for the reading, filling up the room with the word master's words. He read poems and some tales to his mother and, at the end of the third tale — Berenice — Chris closed the book and supported it on his bent leg, looking to Jeanne with hesitation before asking softly:

“Why don't you try to paint for a while?”

That woke Jeanne up and she looked at him, speechless for a moment with her son's suggestion, then smiled, but there was something painful in her smile, something that made Chris's heart contort inside him.

“Why don't you read to me a little more, cariad? Or maybe I could. Your throat must be dry already” was all that Jeanne said as an answer.

Chris didn't say anything for a couple of seconds, just staring at his mom and trying to convince her silently to talk to him, but it was in vain. Jeanne could be twenty times more stubborn than her son and just looked back at him, that soft expression making keeping the discussion up impossible for Chris. The boy looked away and handed the book to Jeanne in silence, giving up after a few minutes, but before the delicate hands could hold the book, the front door pounded open with a wicked noise and Maxwell appeared in the opening that led to the living room. 

Different from the days he used to arrive early, his hair was a mess and his cravat really twisted. And his eyes, the one thing father and son shared, shone like crazy, wide. That expression in his usually stoic father made his wife move, standing from the sofa and going quickly to him with her preoccupation printed in her expression. Chris also got up, hesitant and unsure what to do, not linking a bit the change in his routine.

“Max, what happened?” asked Jeanne to her husband with a frown. Chris looked at his father, who was staring at him without even blinking, and put his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth while trying to ignore the uncomfortable aura of the room. “Max, talk to me.”

“I'll… let you talk,” said Chris when he heard the urgency in his mom's voice.

He didn't want to see Jeanne like that, especially because of his dad, but when Chris motioned to the exit, Maxwell moved abruptly, as if he had just woken up from a dream, and said with a husky voice:

“No, I need to talk with you two.”

Chris felt his body go stiff, resisting Maxwell's authoritarian tone, but the boy forced himself to just nod, clearly uncomfortable, and sat back on the sofa, putting the book in his hand on the table beside it while his father held Jeanne by the shoulders, firmly gentle, and put her in one of the armchairs.

For a moment, all of the three stood there in silence, looking at each other as if they were strangers. Chris was impatient but just vibrated his own leg while massaging his right hand, which was sore. Maxwell's eyes fixated on his son's hand, who recoiled quietly under his stare, ignoring his pity expression.

When he was younger, Chris had an accident and broke his hand, which had never been cured quite right. Maxwell didn't even go to the hospital, although his mother told him he was worried. Not enough to go to a hospital, apparently. The older man didn't seem satisfied when he knew Chris could never be a part of the military like him because of his hand.

“Talk to us, Max,” said Jeanne, taking her husband's hand, while he was standing.

The older man looked at them and sat down, his face frozen in an angst expression made Chris's heart beat faster inside his chest.

"Today by afternoon, less than an hour ago, the prime minister decided we're at war against Germany,” said Maxwell, and Chris almost snorted his disdain if it wasn't the preoccupation he was feeling. 

Different from his friends, he didn't share their arrogant beliefs of England's superiority. Actually, he didn't even understand it, but maybe that was the result of his mother being Scottish, and Scotland, in general, was still sore about England. None of them spoke for a long time, then Maxwell cleared his throat and said, looking at his son:

“You and your mother will go to your godfather's estate at the north of Scotland in a week. It's already decided, Elijah has given his permission…”

“Hold on” Chris got up, his hand in the air, making his father stop. “How come, out of nowhere, I'll go to Scotland? What about school? My education? What the hell am I going to do in the middle of Scotland?”

“You'll be secure!” Maxwell yelled, closing his eyes as if asking for patience Chris also had to control his own temper, but just because of his mom's eyes on him. “And don't worry, Elijah was an Oxford professor, he will be able to take care of your education.”

The last words were said in an impatient tone that made Chris want to continue the discussion, but he was tired of all of this. He knew his father wasn't sending him to Scotland to free him from some responsibility: Chris wouldn't be able to fight in a war even if he wanted to. So that meant England was expecting violent attacks on the capital. Air Strikes, probably, but attacks nonetheless.

“I'll help Chris with his bags,” said Jeanne calmly, exchanging looks with her son before turning to her husband and adding: “But I'm staying here.”

“No, you won't!” Maxwell had an immediate reaction, turning to his wife with an expression nearly panicked. 

Even feeling himself shivering and his body freezing with fear, Chris turned to his mom and stood silent, waiting to hear what she had to say.

“Max, I'm not gonna argue with you. I'm staying and that's final” said Jeanne with a silent firmness, her eyes shining strong to her husband, who swallowed and tried to protest, but the woman was already exposing arguments: “You're gonna need me here to take care of everything. Wars last year, you know that, and we won't leave this house for anyone to enter, we won't leave Nana here alone and in danger, I won't abuse my friend's hospitality, we won't leave our things to thieves and mostly, I won't leave you here alone for the time you'll be in England, even if it is just a little.”

The two adults looked at each other in a silent argument and Chris took advantage of that to climb up the stairs in his room's direction. His mom knew how to take care of herself and, unfortunately, there was nothing he could do or say to convince her to go with him. With Jeanne's stubbornness, there wasn't a soul capable of making her go to Scotland with him and Chris knew it better than anyone.

Sighing, confused, he passed his finger through his hair, feeling the curls straightening in his hand. 

He had a lot to think about.

Go to Chapter 2

Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!

And I'll tell thee: Love to understand'em 'Cause only those who loved could hear Could listen and understand stars. — Milky Way, Olavo Bilac

Oliver smiled from his house's window when he saw his father walking through the street, satisfied because Anton had come back home safe and sound. Not that he was afraid of the war, but he was afraid of what people could do to a German immigrant in the middle of it.

Of course, Oliver understood England's fear, but it didn't make him any less worried about his father, not even a little bit. The war had started six days ago and, on that day, especially, their memories of Germany were particularly hard on Anton and himself, but his father couldn't get out of work early to spend time with his son, especially because his dad's boss, the Terrible Mister Kurtz, as Oliver used to call him, didn't allowed it.

In general, the day had been good, something really surprising. Oliver had gone to school and had some fun with the colleagues he had, even if all those memories were there, pinching him every moment of the day and if it was hard to breathe sometimes. That was the reason why the sight of his dad entering through the door was such a relief for Oliver: he didn't know if he could go through the day without Anton's help.

The moment he heard the noise of the key scratching the door, Oliver left his bed and climbed down the stairs to the hall. Anton had just put his keys on the table when the boy hit the first floor and, when his eyes met, they stared at each other, motionless.

His dad looked like he had aged a lot more than the three years that had passed since Liora, Oliver's mom, had been taken from their house by the SS. That day, November 9th, 1936, would be marked in their memories forever. Anton tried to hide since then, but Oliver knew his dad was exhausted to the bone since they fled Germany to England.

The old man's blonde hair was grey and his eyes had dark circles and wrinkles. Anton walked increasingly more shrunken, trying not to drawn attention to himself in the middle of English society, because everyone knew that dark times would come to each one of the beings who lived under European skies.

“Let's go,” said Anton with his strong German accent in English, without a greeting, but stretching his hand to him with a sorry glow in his light-green eyes. “I'm going to make some dinner. Did you excuse Mrs. Mason, didn't you?”

Oliver swallowed hard and nodded, letting his father guide him by his dad's hand on his back, realizing how shaken they were by the touch. Anton didn't speak while making toast with jam for them, because the old man had no idea how to cook. Sometimes, Oliver thought that was the biggest mistake: how could someone leave to other such a basic necessity as food making?

Any other day, he'd have annoyed his dad with that, but not that day. Neither of them knew how to act normal even if they tried, Oliver knew that for sure. They had tried nine months ago on his mom's birthday and four months ago, on Hadrian's birthday.

Because of that, neither of them spoke while eating, facing the plaid white and red tablecloth they used for picnics in the countryside when his dad had to travel for work. Oliver had such sweet memories with his father and was grateful to Anton for all of them. He was a wonderful dad and had always been, Oliver just hadn't been capable of noticing it before they'd lost his mom.

When the boy got up after finishing up, aware that his every move was monitored by his dad, Anton caught his attention with a calm and tired tone of voice. He had been using this voice after the German soldiers had taken Liora, much weaker than his usual baritone voice, the voice his mother used to love echoing through the house in endless songs.

“Oliver,” he said, “sit down again, I want to talk to you about something.”

Slowly, the boy sat again, feeling the muscles on his back stiffening with the tension while Anton ran his hand through his face with a sigh full of exhaustion. That made Oliver’s heart miss a beat, sore for his dad’s pain, and he wanted to get up and hug him more than anything, but something in his father’s expression warned him not to.

“What about, dad?” he asked with caution, getting more worried when Anton stared at him with a shinier look than before.

“Do you remember me and mister Kurtz work for a Scottish man named Elijah Wood, right?” asked Anton and Oliver just nodded, frowning with the suspicion that he knew what way this was going. Anton had already tried to talk to him about it, but he thought his father had given up after a whole hour of fighting about the matter. “Mister Wood allowed you to stay with them in Scotland during the war.”

For a moment, both of them stared at each other, their eyes identical except for what they showed. Oliver was deeply mad at his dad even considering the thought of him leaving him alone in the middle of a goddamn war when they were the enemy there.

Anton, on the other hand, had decided that his son was going even if he had to force him to enter that train, the strong necessity of keeping Oliver safe was his everyday motivation and he wouldn’t give up on it that easily.

“You can’t be serious,” said Oliver after he processed the information his father had just given him. “I told you I didn’t want to go!”

“It’s not about what you want, it’s about your safety, Oliver,” Anton countered without raising his voice, his tone still calm as a windless night. “We’re talking about a war and London will be one of the most affected by it.”

“I’m not going,” Oliver declared, frowning. “You’ll be here, dad, you’re my only family.”

“And I’m going to be forever,” Anton said with a bit of soothing. “But I need you to be safe, Oliver, you know I need you to be safe.”

“Don’t use mom and Hadrian against me,” the cutting in Oliver’s tone made the older one recoil in his chair, shrinking even more and the boy hated that, he hated his father thought he had to hide from him, because of him. “You know as much as me this family would stay together if it was up to her.”

“And look how things turned out, Oliver!” Anton exclaimed and, even with the desperation in his voice, all the boy could do was resent it, because he was really trying to use his mother to make him change his mind. “You’ll go and I’m not going to discuss it further. I… can’t allow you to stay here.”

“You’d preferred if I had been taken last year,” Oliver said without looking at his dad, it seemed like such a horrible discussion he couldn’t do much to hold his tears. “It’s the reason why you want to send me away, right? Because you don’t wanna remember what you’ve lost.”

“Oliver...” Anton whispered upon hearing him, but his voice failed and he said nothing more, mainly because Oliver got up, dragging the chair on the floor and making the screeching noise echo in the house’s silence, and he left the cramped kitchen, leaving him alone.

The boy didn’t think of anything before climbing the stairs and entering his room, feeling the anger pump blood into his veins and making him hot. He threw himself on the bed, looking up at the painted stars in the white ceiling while they blurred with the unshed tears, and then focused again when they ran through his skin to the roots of his blonde hair.

Those stars reminded him of his mother and, when they’d arrived in England, to see them was like a self-inflicted punishment to compensate for the guilt Oliver carried around in his heart, but now they were just a painful sweet memory.

Liora Krause was the most wonderful person to ever exist, Oliver thought. His mom was the face of Life, always cheerful, always willing to drag the family men to a dance in the middle of the night or throw a party in the tiniest apartment in the world to close friends of their family, always willing to help old ladies cross the street and shelter and give food to shelterless boys even if one of them ended up robbing her every time.

She had a fiery spirit and carried words in her hands like her shield and sword, ready to defend the one she loved and be firm with those who needed firm words. It may have been because of that, and her harsh critique of Hitler and his hateful government, that she was marked as one of the Jewish women to be taken that night. It may have been just random. Oliver didn’t know and probably wouldn’t come a day when he’d find out.

His brother, Hadrian, was just six-year-old when he was killed by nazi soldiers. Oliver had seen it all. He saw it when the soldier pointed the gun at his brother’s head and shot, the blood and remaining brain matter spattering through the small apartment which had been his family’s, on the living room his parents used to dance and sing and play with him and Hadrian. Even after a year, Oliver could still hear in the silence the buzz the gun’s noise had caused in his ears.

Oliver heard when his father’s shuffled steps got closer and stopped by his room’s door. Hesitated. Anton carried on to his own room, closing the door quietly, so quietly Oliver barely heard it.

The things Oliver had said to his dad weren’t even close to the truth, he knew that. And knew he had broken Anton with his false accusation, but he was so mad the word just slipped out of his tongue, without any coherent thought. He knew that wasn’t a good excuse, that when he was angry, the best thing to do was take time, calm down, and think about it when he could, but the thought of leaving his father alone scared him more than anything.

After what happened that night, Oliver’s dad didn’t rest until he got his best friend, who was a soldier, to help them flee to English territory. Once they got to England, Anton was just a shadow of the man he was before, not even close to being the father Oliver remembered or needed.

Those first months were so hard sometimes that he didn’t even want to get up, knowing the day would find countless ways of making him melt down with the memory of his mom. Oliver could hardly breath in those times and now, they were a blur in his mind, so far away the seemed to have happened years ago, but still hurt like hours ago.

Oliver couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t sleep, not yet, not when he knew he had hurt his dad, not when he knew the nightmares would torment him during sleep, hopeless and terrifying. When the clock struck eleven PM, he rolled over, took the book from his nightstand, and opened it to his most beloved page.

The paper was worn and yellowish, and curved slightly in the corners, but Oliver passed his fingers through the written words below one his mom’s favorite poems in life. Low-toned, he read to silence the buzz in his left ear:

“Well (you say) hear stars! Right Lost thy mind!” And I tell you, however, That, to listen’em, many times I wake up And open my windows, pale and baffled…

And we talk the whole night The Milky Way, as a pale openness, shines. And, coming the sun, wistful and morose, I still search for them in the desert sky.

You say now: “My mad friend! What do you talk about? What sense Can their words have, when with you?”

And I tell thee: “Love to understand’em! ‘Cause only those who love can hear Capable of listening and understanding the stars.

Oliver, then, read what was written below Olavo Bilac's poem with attention and felt his heart clenching as he saw the familiar handwriting:

I hear the stars because I love an easy-laughing boy and the smiling young man with a silver tongue to whom I gave birth and because I love the man who makes all the stars shine in his eyes.

He knew Anton was crying in his room and knew he should go to him and apologize for what he had said, especially after re-reading his mother’s words. He knew he’d been wrong, knew that Liora’s first priority in this situation would be ensuring that her kids and husband were safe. And he knew his dad couldn’t bear to lose him, knew he was the only thread of hope Anton had in his life because he was Oliver’s as well.

Dragging himself out of bed and through the corridor, Oliver didn’t knock before entering, finding his dad crying as he clutched to a portrait of Liora and Hadrian. In the picture, they were on a family trip to the countryside of Germany. It had been in the summer so they didn’t need to worry too much about coats and gloves. They were all smiling, having fun in the grass and, if he closed his eyes, Oliver could still hear the sound of his brother’s laughter and his mother’s arms around him.

At that moment, however, the broken, sad image of his dad crying over it broke his heart and ended up making Oliver realize the severity of his words and the effect they had had on Anton, as well as the fact he’d have to deal with it.

Oliver quickly closed the space between him and Anton, gently taking the portrait off his hands and sitting beside his dad on the bed before he could say anything. Anton didn’t look at him as he said, his voice hoarse from the crying:

“I’ve never, not in a single moment, wished you to have the same fate as your mom and brother, Oliver.”

“I know,” said the boy with a painful lump in his throat, stopping him from speaking anything he needed to. “I know you didn’t. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I said that. I’m... sorry.”

“I just want you to be safe,” murmured his father and Oliver couldn’t hold the tears back any longer.

He also started crying and hugged his dad with all his strength, as if he was never letting him go. Oliver was so completely terrified he wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with his dad just so that Anton could tuck him in like he did when Oliver was a kid — even if it wasn’t the same because of his age.

“I’m afraid, Dad,” said Oliver in a desperate whisper, “I don’t… I don’t believe anything I said to you in the kitchen, I’m just terrified of losing you too.”

Anton stayed quiet and didn’t promise anything. They knew some promises were Worth nothing in the face of war, knew Anton didn’t have a say whether he died or not in it. Instead, his dad said: “You’re a Krause, you’re Liora’s son. You carry part of her fire inside of you, Oliver, I could see that every day of my life. You’ll do it because if anyone could, it was your mom. And you are just like her”. Those words ensnared Oliver’s heart and consoled him enough that the perspective of going to the property of his dad’s boss didn’t seem so unbearable. When he nodded, consenting to the trip, Anton just said: “Let’s go down to the kitchen, I’ll make you come hot cocoa.”

Go to Chapter 3

Overanalyzing my OCs' relationship at 2AM just because I can

I know no one you'll read this but I wanted so bad to make a character analysis of the characters of my latest book series, so I'll just do it and leave it here for anyone who might be interested,

So, one of the things I love about Khaos and Amalie's dynamics (and something that is vital to understand about their relationship) is that they don't fall in love with each other until the third book because the romance is not what their stories are about.

Of course, they feel attracted to each other but they really, really don't like each other in the first two books. The thing about Khaos and Amalie's relationship in the first book (Prison of Darkness) is that they are learning to trust each other as people who can do the job they are assigned to in their mission - the one thing they do share and are obliged to in the story, the thing that brings them together.

The first book (for them) is about establishing Amalie's trust in Khaos' ability to lead and to actually respect those who are below him in this group's hierarchy, and about Khaos' ability to actually trust that Amalie will go through with her promises and stay by their side even when she has such a strong set of morals. Once they recognize that the other has the capacity to be and do what they need them to be or do, they realize they can trust each other to be a reliable part of the same team.

That's the point of the first book in regards to their relationship - to establish trust, not between romantic partners, but as part of the same team.

Then, by the first book, once Khaos is forced to confront the worst demons of his childhood, Amalie is forced to see the humanity of Khaos. And it's in this context the base of their romantic feelings will be set later on in the third book, but I digress: the point of the second book is that Khaos is not a good person and that's not supposed to be ignored by the readers - Khaos is not a good person and he isn't a good person by choice.

Amalie sees that, and she despises him for it, and she is right to do so because Khaos is aware of the pain and suffering his actions as well as his inaction put people through, and he still chooses it every time. And unlike some dark romances would make us believe, it's not actually sexy, healthy, or even healing to not give a damn because of trauma. It's actually the opposite of it.

Of course, Khaos has his reasons, he has deep-rooted trauma to overcome on the path to becoming a better person than he chooses to be but what Amalie is forced to see in the second book (Crown of Death) is that, deep down, he's not cruel or vindictive or insensitive for the sake of it. What she is forced to recognize and accept throughout the second book is that Khaos is very much human just like she is, and he has the same complexity she has.

It happens with Amalie's perception of other characters as well but especially when talking about Khaos, the second book forces her to see him in a new light so that the pot twist in the ending lands more heavily on her. The story of the second book will reveal to Amalie that even through his cruelty, Khaos is capable of not only caring but also capable of choosing better options, choosing to do better by himself and the people around him.

And for Khaos, the second book is about showing him that he can do better without losing himself like he fears will happen because of his trauma. It's about his understanding that change can happen and as such, forcing him to recognize that his perception of Amalie is jaded, is tainted by his trauma's lenses. For him, the development of his character gives Khaos the chance to look at Amalie as someone who can not only rival his intelligence but also push him in the direction he not only needs to be pushed but also wants to be pushed to, just by her personality alone.

It's about him understanding that Amalie was right, and being humbled by it, and accepting that he was wrong in his choices - albeit justified - and thus opening a path for him to change in the ways he needs to.

And that's the point where we reach the third book (Treason of Blood) and I absolutely love that Amalie and Khaos just start to sincerely love each other in the last book because it's only then they actually become the people they would fall in love with.

I could never have written Amalie falling in love with Khaos before because I could never fathom loving a person who thinks so little of my principles and morals, so little of my capacity to understand the world around me, like Khaos does for her. And for Khaos, I could never convincingly write someone falling in love with a person who thinks so little of me, of the person I am, who judges me even though she knows nothing of my struggles or my past or the things I've been through.

So the third book is about change, it's about becoming better versions of ourselves, and more than that: doing right by the rest of the world because of it. The third book is about forgiving bad deeds but demanding change for them, accepting traumas but also holding themselves and others accountable for their own choices (even when guided by these same traumas), it's about falling in love with a person because they're trying to do better (not for you but just because they realized they had a shitty attitude) and falling in love because of their capacity to forgive, to be kind and amorous even when we can't forgive ourselves.

I just love their dynamic so much, I wish more people knew about them.

To Decadent Poets - Chapter 3

Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!

“Inside the night that covers me Black as the pit, from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.” — William E. Henley, Invictus

Christian didn’t want to talk but it seemed no one in this house knew how to understand the concepts of privacy and personal space. Maybe that was the reason why his father was almost knocking the door of his room down, demanding he open it, his voice grave and powerful.

And he would. Sometime after getting out of the shower and dressing up.

But he knew his mom would end up having to endure it if he didn’t open it soon, so Chris hurried up to change and opened up the damn door, facing Maxwell with stony eyes.

“What do you want?” he asked, hissing in anger while his father stared at him with a furious expression, the deep brown eyes they shared shining bright with his bad humor. Chris couldn’t care less about all of his drama.

“Why are you not having dinner?” asked Maxwell, clenching his teeth and Chris looked at him, incredulous.

“Oh... because I’m not hungry?” he asked in a sarcastic tone that made his father frown deeply, wrinkles appearing all across his forehead. It made him look old.

“You’re leaving tomorrow and you won’t even have dinner with your family?”

The question was loaded with accusations and it made Christian feel rage downing in his veins like lava flowing from a volcano. He passed through the door’s threshold, closing the door behind him to stand on the dark corridor of his house as Maxwell watched him.

“I already spent the day with my family,” Christian said, using the same tone Maxwell had, wishing more than ever that he could hurt him, wishing his father cared as much as Christ tried not to. “Mom and Nana had me the whole day, I don’t need to worry about me being an insensitive prat like you are.”

“Be careful of how you speak to me,” Maxwell stuck his finger in Chris’ face with a severe expression that would never intimidate him. “I’m your father”

Those words made everything inside Christian freeze. He looked Maxwell in the eyes, feeling nothing more than cold and ice cascading down his veins like a snowstorm. He had no will to get angry at that because as Much as it was true, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all.

“A father is one of the things you never were to me,” was all Chris said before leaving, going downstairs silently, not wanting to be noticed by anyone.

Miraculously, Maxwell didn’t follow him to continue their argument, and at least that made Chris relax as he walked slowly to the living room, where he knew he’d find what he needed to push away the knot in his throat and the tightness in his chest from what would happen tomorrow and in the nearest future.

Chris couldn't help but ask his mother during breakfast that day who was his godfather whose property he’d be staying indefinitely and Jeane was helpful in giving him all the information she could remember about his godfather, Elijah, the owner of Taigh Hill, and Elliot Wood, his younger brother. As it was, they both seemed happy to accept him just like two other boys his age, children of his staff who had solicited the favor.

Chris couldn’t deny he was curious to know more about the other boys but he also couldn’t push away the feeling he was abandoning his mom, which made him reluctant to think about such matters and get even a bit excited with the prospect.

Chris sighed as he looked at the shelves beside the fireplace, the countless books bound by leather whispering their stories, dropping their honey to those who were thirsty for them. Filled with life and too attractive for Chris not to let his fingers dance over their spines, reading the familiar titles, books his hand had passed through thousands of times, that made him feel like he wasn’t so alone. He knew it was cliche to say that but books had saved him from so Much unnecessary suffering.

They had saved him.

Finally, his fingers stopped at the book he was looking for and he pulled it from the shelf, leafing through the pages until he found the one he’d already read thousands of other times, running his finger over the ink and the letters, murmuring the words he knew by heart:

         Out of the Night that covers me          Black as the pit, from pole to pole,          I thank whatever gods may be          For my unconquerable soul.          [...]          It matters not how strait the gate          How charged with punishments the scroll          I am the master of my fate          I am the captain of my soul.

Chris looked at those words of blurred ink, internalizing them with an involuntary shiver. They were so powerful he could almost feel them physically, caressing his cheeks, warming his heart, loosening the knot in his throat as he knew they would do.

“Chris, is everything okay?” the sweet voice of his mom entered his ears, taking him from the world of the words with a sudden push, making him raise his eyes to her, blinking away his surprise at seeing her there with Nana, both of them knitting.

Jeane seemed better with the afternoon while Nana still had that serious, sour expression on her face, no doubt remembering the Great War time when she lost her husband. He forced himself to smile at his mom, walking towards them calmly, not allowing himself to hesitate.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he answered while sitting on the armchair beside hers and watching the two most important women in his life. Chris waited for a while until he took a deep breath to gather the courage to ask Jeane: “You’re really not going?”

He didn’t know what he looked like then but Chris could hear the tremble in his voice, the vulnerability in it. And maybe Jeane had seen something in her child’s eyes because he put aside her knitting needles and turned completely to him, her baby blue eyes shining with all the worry she was fighting to hide from him.

When her fingers touched Chris’ face, he felt the same as when he’d read the poem. It was like the words were penetrating his soul as if his mother’s touch was something sacred and revered. He let his head roll down, closing his eyes to enjoy the caress. When Jeane spoke, her voice was melodious, a murmur full of emotion:

“Believe me, cariad, I wish I could go with you or that I had a way to keep you close to me but I can’t...” Her voice was taken by emotion, making Chris open his eyes to look at his mom’s baby blues. “I can’t abandon your dad because this will be Hell for him and it’s my duty as his wife and life partner to stay by his side. I couldn’t bear, though, if you were in danger.”

“While you’re free to choose the risk,” Chris shot back resignedly, leaving the armchair to sit on the wooden floor, by his mother’s leg as he embraced them like he did when he was a child and felt sad his dad wasn’t present to some special date or event.

He let his head rest on her lap and Jeane didn’t hesitate to run her fingers through his hair soothingly.

“We’re all free to do so, mi hijo,” said Nana with her Spanish accent getting thicker because of the emotion she was trying so hard to hide. “But you know your parents would never know peace if you stayed. Or even me, to be honest. War is hard and it takes a lot of people, but more importantly, it takes a lot from people. The young ones especially.

“I’m realizing that,” was all Chris said in a murmur, his eyes closed as his mom kept running her fingers through his hair.

He didn’t leave when Maxwell entered, although it wasn’t the same relaxed feeling he felt as he talked to both women before, but Chris tried to pretend he didn’t exist as his father did the same. Chris found out pretty quickly it wasn’t so relieving as he thought it would be.

——— ◘ ———

On the following morning, Chris and his family arrived early at the train station, which was already filled with people coming and going from their jobs, all of them carrying tired expressions but with arrogant, optimistic feelings on their straightened backs. He could hear his father’s assistant commenting that they already had won the war and that the Germans wouldn’t have a chance. Chris almost laughed at the poor fool.

As a diligent reader, Chris had begun to understand the world they lived in too early and he had always cared about the news, especially When it was about external affairs. He knew well that England was broke, as were many countries because of the Wall Street Crash of 1929 and the Great War at the beginning of the century; he knew it’d be a difficult war that would drag on for years before it was over.

Chris also knew about what Hitler had been doing to the Jews in Germany and to think of that kind of cruelty gave him shivers even if he tried not to think about it, as his mother had requested some time ago. It was hard to have hope when one knew everything there was to know around the world and something they quite needed was hope.

Chris took a deep breath, trying to ignore the push and shove of people around him as he tried to also protect Jeane from it. They were in front of the train, impatient because they knew they had no time left. Maxwell seemed as cold and distant as always, and he didn’t even look at his son or Jeane as they said their goodbyes, preferring to speak to his assistant instead.

When the final moment arrived, mother and son looked at each other with pain filling their eyes. Chris didn’t even try to resist the impulse of pulling his mom in to hug her with all the strength he had, holding on to her as if she was all that he had. For a long time, it had been true.

Jeane hugged him back, always armed with her infinite softness and didn’t let go of him until the train whistled, warning the passengers to get in soon. As they let go, Chris touched their foreheads together for a couple of seconds, his eyes still closed. Then he let go of her, looking at Jeane, then at Maxwell.

They exchanged an uncomfortable look, neither of them knowing what to do. At last, Chris turned with his back straightened. As he walked away from his parents, he had this latent sensation that he was losing a part of himself and the shadow of his dad’s goodbyes was tormenting him. It was like the phantoms of Maxwell’s arms were around him as he walked, pushing him back to them so that their place was finally occupied. The words he could’ve said also brushed his brain, circling his thoughts he couldn’t get in order.

Chris knew if he’d stayed even one second more in Maxwell’s company, he’d end up saying something he would regret and they’d end up fighting just like they had done yesterday and the day before. And the weeks prior. And the months.

And all those years since Chris had grown tired of waiting for him at his birthday parties. He was thirteen when he cried for the last time because of his father’s absence and he remembered that night very well. It was the night of the accident. The night he’d lost part of the movement on his hand and what made it impossible for him to join the Army.

A sigh escaped his lungs before he could suppress it and Chris ignored the bad look of the old lady in front of him because of it. It wasn’t like he cared what she thought of him — the woman meant nothing to him anyway.

While passing through the cabins, Chris saw some interesting people and others that seemed as boring as attending a trigonometry class. He kept himself far away from the latter until he found an almost empty cabin: the only passenger was alone in it. The blond boy seemed unhappy and uncomfortable as he stared at the window, lost in his thoughts.

“Excuse me,” Chris said, catching the boy’s attention. “Is there someone seated here?”

“No,” said the boy in response, clearly apprehensive and the reason was obvious: Christian could easily identify the German accent.

This is the reason, he thought as he stared at the boy for a couple of seconds, why the cabin was empty. The boy was German. In the minds of ridiculous people, he might have been an enemy, although Christian could hardly conceive that logic.

“Right, I’m gonna sit with you then,” he said as he got over his moment of shameful hesitation. Christian pulled his suitcase along, putting it on the luggage rack above with some hardship, and sat in front of the boy, looking at him in open curiosity. “I’m Christian. You?

“Oliver,” the boy said, looking back at him with equal curiosity. “You know you can sit anywhere on the train, don’t you?

“Here seems like as good of a place as any,” Christian responded as he felt his stubbornness grow. He smiled, raising his hand to the boy in front of him. “It’s nice to meet you, Oliver.”

There was only a second of hesitation before Oliver smiled back and shook his hand.

“I can say the same, Christian.”

“Call me Chris.”

Go to Chapter 4

To Decadent Poets - Chapter 4

Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!

A friend: a being life can’t explain Who only goes when another is born And the mirror my soul multiplies... — Vinícius de Moraes, Friendship Sonnet

Oliver watched Chris attentively, hesitating, his leg shaking with the anxiety that was running through his blood. The boy seemed like a good company to have and he was really funny with a dry sense of humor. They had spent most of the journey talking and Oliver’s accent had kept other people away, not that Chris seemed to care.

He was surely a singular creature, Oliver thought, analyzing the boy: Chris had auburn hair and his brown eyes carried disdain for everything and everyone, making Oliver remember himself before everything happened.

The Oliver from before had been unruly and sarcastic, so much he could exasperate even his parents, who were the epitome of patience. But everything changed after his mother and Hadrian had been taken from them.

It changed because Oliver knew he shouldn’t give his father more grief than the one he was already in and also because no one liked foreigners, let alone a funny one. So, he’d spent a lot of time learning to bite his tongue to stop his dry comments and ironic observations from slipping out, as Much with his dad as with the rest of the world.

In reality, he had to do so a lot of times still: it was hard to give up that part of him, the only one that connected him to his old life, and Oliver didn’t like to do it. But he didn’t feel safe enough to go back to being himself and, if he faked long enough, maybe he wouldn’t be able to separate the mask from who he really was anymore. From what he’d lived through.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” asked Chris suddenly, his eyes still closed from the nap he’d announced he’d take, scaring Oliver, who felt himself flush for being caught staring.

And maybe it was because of his shock, but he snapped in a petulant tone that he hadn’t dared to use in a long time now:

“You’re not the epitome of sociability, mate,” Oliver was surprised at himself and his eyes widened, regretting his words almost immediately although his pride stopped him from apologizing, so he just swallowed, facing Chris, who just stared at him for a moment silently. Oliver was caught by surprise by the slow smile forming on Chris’s pale face.

“Touché,” he said before straightening on the train stool and changing the subject abruptly: “Where are you going to alone?”

“To my father’s boss’ property. He let me stay there during the war,” answered Oliver with a resigned sigh when he saw the daring Shine of Chris’ eyes, making it impossible not to be honest with the boy “What about you?”

“To my godfather’s property,” said Chris, shrugging even though it was noticeable, at least for Oliver, that was complicated “he also let me stay during the war. What’s the name of the place you’re going to?”

“Taigh Hill” Oliver’s pronunciation slipped a bit in the two words but it seemed that Chris had still understood him because for a moment he looked at Oliver as if assessing him, and then he smiled.

“It seems like Destiny got it right today, don’t you think, Oliver?” he softly asked, making him frown, confused with what Chris meant “I’m also going to Taigh Hill. I’m Elijah Wood’s godson, whom I believe is your father’s boss.”

——— ◘ ———

They talked during the rest of the journey, learning more about each other, or at least as much as they allowed each other to know. It was hard sometimes to talk about some things and they respected this, not pressuring the other into talking about what they didn’t want to and Oliver liked that. He liked that silent complicity that seemed to exist between him and Chris. It was encouraging and trustworthy, and as soon as they began to talk, Oliver realized Chris had a certain gift to encourage the worst parts of him, like his sarcasm and his temper.

And when they discovered their common taste in books, the talk flowed through them like a river’s stream, running between the two with a scary naturality that could make Jane Austen even more certain about her assessment of the human relationships in Sense and Sensibility:

It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; —it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.

Oliver really liked to get to know someone who wasn’t his father in all of London and wondered for a moment if that friendship would last. Chris seemed nice enough and didn’t care he was German, which was a more than good start.

And while they discussed how much they wished to read A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens, next, both of them realized they had more in common than the rest of the world could guess they had. At that moment, Chris commented thoughtfully:

“I make a habit of thinking people are idiots. Of course, I always need to remind myself that they also have something good inside of them, even if they are idiots, but most of the time, I feel quite alone because of it. I mean, most people would advise me to not get close to you and I think that’s so dumb because look at us! It’s not like our differences mattered more than our similarities.”

Oliver smiled, really smiled, when he heard that. It was like Chris had just read his mind as if he could understand what Oliver thought. It was impressive considering they Only knew each Other for a couple of hours but some friendships were just like that, weren’t they? Spontaneous and simply inexplicable in the strength of their connections.

After his comment, Chris changed the subject, asking him about what he thought Taigh Hill would be like.

“Much bigger than my house, that’s for sure,” Oliver said with a sarcastic smirk blossoming on his face while he leaned down on the rough tissue of the train’s stool “But you’re the one practically related to them, what do you know about the place?”

“I’ve never been to Taigh Hill and never met my godfather or his family, to be honest,” Chris admitted, resting his feet on the stool after glancing out the door of the cabin they were at. He also had this smirk on his face, the kind of smirk just a young man who was arrogant and completely sure of himself could flash around like a trump card for life. “I think they’re old and deaf but really gentle. Elijah and his brother, I mean, Elliott. My mom said Elliott is married and has two daughters, one of them our age. My father and he were at her christening when I was a baby. What do you think about that?”

“I’m not sure there’s much to think about,” Said Oliver, shrugging and looking out the window. “If they’re not annoying and spoiled, I have nothing to say about any of them.”

“Maybe they’re like ghosts, walking through the mansion with pure, virginal white gowns, ready to give us heart attacks like in Gothic books,” Chris joked, making Oliver laugh out Loud and he didn’t even worry about the people passing through their cabin, who looked through the glassdoor as if they’d heard a specially nasty curse word. “Worse, they could be complaining harpies like old housekeepers who value morals and the old times.

“My God, I really hope not,” Oliver shivered, joking, and added: “I hope, by the way, that none of them are like that. It’d be torture.”

“Can you imagine if Elijah or Elliott want us to wear those old vests and hay hats, or worse, those white pants that get dirty with literally anything?” Chris’ eyes widened as if he couldn’t think about anything scarier thing and Oliver laughed. “I think I could have to run away and live the rest of my life in nowhere of Scotland.”

“Well, those clothes are not so bad,” Oliver said, and Chris looked at him incredulously. “They’re worse.”

They both laughed hard, imagining all kinds of scenarios possible for Taigh Hill and mocking them all. The conversation was comfortable and light like most conversations they’d had ‘til then weren’t. To Oliver because his longest conversations were, with the exception of his father, with the butcher; and to Chris because his friends were always talking about matters that didn’t concern him at all.

Soon the day transformed into twilight and both of them got silent to watch the rose and orange sky, the colors mixing up and changing every minute over the emerald-green lawn of the plains and the mountains that surrounded lakes so still they seemed like portals to the skies. It was in comfortable, soft silence they shared deeply; the kind of silence that could make old friends get emotional but not the two of them.

Because, after all, they had just met, and it’d be weird if it happened. But in that silence, their eyes met, hazel against green, and they laughed together with a complicity neither of them could understand because they had never experienced it before.

But it was one they liked a lot.

——— ◘ ———

When they finally got off the train, Chris was insistent that they stay close, so that it would be easier for Miss Turner, the Wood family’s housekeeper, who would come to get them, according to their parents, to find them. Although the thought was quite practical, Oliver could not help but notice that some of the boys their age were glaring at them when they heard his accent and he was thankful when Chris had nothing to say about the matter.

He didn’t need everyone reminding him of what he was all the time.

They walked through the station, then, trying to get rid of the crowd mounting together because of the small size of the place. They were in a small city near Inverness, as they had been instructed to stop; and decided to wait outside, in the street, something Oliver was grateful for, as those people were starting to make him really uncomfortable.

It didn’t take long for a lady with a prudish dress that seemed to belong to the last decade to pass by them with a car that seemed old. She looked at them both with a semblance that varied between doubt and a welcome. There was also a girl with red hair like crackling fire, who looked at them both curiously.

“What are your names, boys?” The Woman asked, and her voice was firm without being harsh, her hands were trembling and her black hair, which had begun to become gray, was the only thing that denounced her older age.

A rosary hung from her neck in a delicate silver chain and the darkness of the metal left it clear she had the habit of rubbing it.

“I’m Oliver Krause, ma’am,” the blond boy introduced himself in a meek tone of voice, very different from how he presented himself with Chris during their journey.

The other boy, with a quick glance at Oliver, also introduced himself with a charming smile, much more open than the first:

“I’m Christian Evans, at your pleasure, ma’am.”

The housekeeper, who frowned slightly at hearing Oliver, smiled a bit at Chris, commenting:

“A good christian name, just like the rest of your family, Mister Evans,” she paused, then added: “Get on, I’m Marjorie Turner, your new housekeeper, and this is Mister Elliott Wood’s youngest daughter, Annie.

They smiled at the red-haired girl and she smiled back at them, still cautious and timid like a little mouse. Oliver and Chris hurried to put their bags in the trunk of the car, which Miss Turner indicated while she seemed nervous, looking to the train station with a bit of anxiety clear on her face.

But as soon as it came, it went away when a boy their age left the station and looked around, seemingly lost. He had dark brown hair and eyes, and his skin was almost as pale as paper. As she saw him, Miss Turner made her way to him and spoke to the boy, bringing him along after a few seconds.

“Boys, this is Noah Kurtz. He’ll also live with us in Taigh Hill,” said the housekeeper while she climbed back into the car, which seemed to be even more filled with people.

Seeing that the only seats available were either at Annie’s side or Oliver’s side, the woman took the place beside Oliver, a very conscious choice the attentive young people noticed but didn’t comment about it. Oliver was tense since he heard the boy’s last name, knowing he was his dad’s boss’ son and worse, Jew.

His own ascendence from Liora made Oliver a Jew for all effects, both culturally and ethnically, although he never thought much about it — it wouldn’t help Oliver because when people looked at him, none of them saw a Jew and that’s what was important to the world.

Noah didn’t say anything more than a murmured and general greeting as he climbed into the vehicle, avoiding everyone’s eyes. This intrigued Chris, who tried, as the car started to make its way, shaking beyond what he thought was possible on the dirt road, making some kind of conversation with Noah, only to receive back monosyllabic answers that discouraged him. Finally, he turned his attention back to Oliver, talking to him in low voices.

The girl, who regarded the three boys with a curious look, soon lost her interest and directed her attention to the window, feeling ignored, which made Oliver feel bad for her — he knew what it was like to be ignored and left out for reasons outside his control. The housekeeper also kept quiet; her eyes lost to something none but her could see as she rubbed her rosary distractedly.

In general, it was a trembling, tedious path filled with silences far from comfortable like the ones Oliver and Chris shared on the train. The newest friends looked at each other, predicting a boring stay from that experience alone, not even dreaming of what they’d soon find in Taigh Hill.

Go to Chapter 5

All Creatures on Earth - Volume 1

Hey, guys! That's my book here, I decided to post a few chapters (or maybe more) after translating it from Brazilian Portuguese to English. I really wanted to share this work and hope you enjoy it.

Buy the entire work on Amazon through this link!

Here's a quick summary of the book:

Title: All Angels from Heaven Above

Series: All Creatures on Earth

Tags: Dark Academia, Murder Mystery, Fantast, witches, demons, angels, colonialism, imperialism, political intrigue, hate to love, friends to lovers, friends to enemies, hurt without comfort;

If you liked... you're gonna like this: Vicious, The Atlas Six, The Shadowhunters Chronicles, Stalking Jack the Ripper, etc.

Trigger Warning: the story deals with themes of grief and also mentions child neglect, physical and psychological abuse, as well as a few gory depictions of murder, and mentions addiction, though barely.

Add: The book didn't have a Sensitive Editor, so any problems with how people of color, disabilities, or queer people are portrayed can be discussed directly with the author.

Synopsis: Adra is a witch in a world of demons, which means problems all on its own, but when your father is murdered by the same person who is killing teenagers inside the mysterious Lethe Academy, she won't hesitate in the face of hardship to enter the school and hunt down the person responsible for it.

With Damian Kolasi, a cheating demon who's also charming as Hell, and his friends' help, Adra is prepared to take revenge on her father's killer. But what seems to be a simple case of assassination becomes embedded into a political web Adra didn't expect to fall into, just like she never expected her body to react to Damian as intensely as it does whenever he's near.

Sometimes, we can't get everything we want. And Darkness conquers all.

Summary (with links):

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4 - Coming Soon...

All Angels from Heaven Above - Chapter 1

Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!

Buy the whole book through this link!

The walls of Lethe Academy carried its ghosts the same way blood stained the walls of Jerusalem: just because it was impossible to see them, it didn’t mean they weren’t there. But, just like any dark past, they’d always come back to haunt innocent generations, which were ignorant of the crimes committed before their existence in the world. 

So, when all the papers in the city of Agraés published that Death had visited the Academy, none of their elders were surprised; but the young ones, anxious to hold the world in their hands and naively believing apt to do such inconceivable feat, watched it all with attentive and morbid curiosity, very little moved by the death of one of them.

Not that it mattered now that she was already dead, though Adra Anoixi while walking through the dark wooden floor of the store, her steps producing a hollow sound on the floor while her black dress rustled against the surface. She faced the three girls, as dazzling as goddesses, who waited for her in front of the counter, facing the entry. All of them wore the most expensive dresses money could buy and had their hair done in a way Adra would never use on a day-to-day basis.

Or to a funeral, like the one they were going to.

“Here it is,” she gave them the incense as it was asked.

The girls looked at Adra for a second longer than necessary before one of them — the taller one, with black dark skin — took the incense from her hand with a last look of contempt. 

Without any more words or thanks, they left the store, imperious as just demons could be, leaving her payment on the counter to not have to touch her. Adra looked to the ceiling with an impatient sigh.

“I should’ve given them the fake incense” she murmured to herself, remembering the terrible smell of that specific product. “It’d be deserved if they whisk away everyone with that stink.

But since the death at the Academy, the sales were low. The city hadn’t been receiving as many travelers as it used to every week and that was worrisome: if the tourists started to avoid the city because of superstition, a lot of stores would be forced to close.

If Witches & Daughters were one of them, that would break her mother’s heart. And that wasn’t acceptable, not when the store was a gift from her father, Kia’s only love.

Despite the lack of humans visiting Witches & Daughters, demons were interested enough in her to buy some cheap trinkets that humans made the mistake of thinking were magic. If they did it for mockery or because they believed the same as humans, it didn’t matter to her. What did matter was that the store would survive another month's savings from debts and debt collectors.

Many hours passed until the bell above the door rang again with the presence of other people in the dusty store, full of dried herbs, crystals, and other natural products. Happy to have something to do, Adra got up from the small chair behind the counter and raised her eyes to her new client.

The man in front of her wasn’t older than Adra herself and watched her with his black eyes full of glow — like a star —, there was a silver earring in his right ear and his brownish lips were curved in an arrogant smile. A demon, but not any demon: Adra could feel his power making her shiver, even two meters away from him. 

Powerful and handsome as Death: that was a dangerous combination, especially when talking about a fallen angel.

Adra was immediately suspicious and curious, and that made her frown: it wasn’t common for such a powerful demon to enter her store and Adra didn’t like what it could mean.

“It was way too easy to find you, miss Anoixi,” he said, his voice calm as a breeze.

Every single one of Adra’s instincts were alert at his words, the coldness in his expression. Carefully, she slipped her hand to the slit of her dress, just below the carpet, feeling the dagger’s hilt her father had given her.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Adra said, raising her chin proudly. “So, I’d imagine that finding me wouldn’t be a problem.”

She was, after all, one of the best witches in Agráes and people would look for her often, but never a powerful demon like that one in front of her. The shadows whispered to Adra as if feeling her uneasy with the demon’s power, even though he didn’t seem menacing.

“How can I help you?” Adra asked then, her voice professional, but the warning in them was unmistakable.

She didn’t think he’d do something bad, but being alert near demons was already an instinct for a long time now, especially those ridiculously handsome.

Her words made the corner of his lips tremble up as if he was finding all that quite funny for reasons Adra could only imagine, his dark eyes shining mysteriously.

Adra didn’t smile back, even though the amusement was taunting the corner of her own lips too.

The demon wore a dark gray overcoat, black social pants, shirt, and shoes — Lethe Academy’s uniform, she easily recognized. He walked to the counter, watching Adra carefully before saying anything else.

She didn’t move, uneasy under his scrutiny, but didn’t recoil from the slow and interested eyes of the demon, choosing to hold the dagger tighter instead, just in case. Finally, he smiled, still politely, and said:

"I am looking for you, Adra."

She didn’t ask how he knew her name. Most demons knew her because of her father, as was expected, but the fact that he had that little bit of advantage over her bothered Adra.

Despite her grip on the hidden dagger, Adra trusted that the demon wouldn’t dare to attack her. She knew that, in a power match, she couldn’t defeat him, but demons knew witches didn’t fight with their powers only. So Adra just arched an eyebrow while calmly asking:

“And what do you want?”

“Damian Kolasi” the demon introduced himself and held out his hand. Adra looked at it for a couple of seconds before shaking it.

Fortunately, her free hand got to keep holding the dagger.

“And do you know how to answer a direct question, Damian Kolasi?” Adra asked slowly.

The man laughed lowly and Adra was forced to suppress a shiver so he couldn’t notice the impact he had on her. The demon, however, looked at her like he knew exactly his effect.

“I want to make a deal with you.”

Absently, he walked away from her, examining the store. Damian gripped and shook a jar full of eyes. All of them false, of course — the eyes. Despite the gossip going around between the humans, no witch had the need to use anything but their own minds to yield their powers.

Adra watched him, expressionless, while he roamed through the place, picking up random products and crouching down to get a look at what interested him. She wouldn’t admit it, but she was disappointed. That demon looked dangerous enough to be interesting, but it looked like Adra was wrong.

“Any witch with common sense knows she shouldn’t make deals with demons, mister Kolasi,” she said, her voice stable and unperturbed. “So, your answer is no.”

“I don’t want... favors, Adra,” said Damian, and there was an edge of tension in his voice, something dark and gloomy that made Adra shiver. “I want you to join Lethe Academy as a student. The first witch student. I think you heard that there’s a place available.”

A rude way of saying that one of the students died, no doubt. Adra raised an eyebrow to him, but the demon just crouched to analyze the crow’s feathers in one of the lower shelves, without realizing his own lack of empathy.

Meanwhile, Adra’s mind was like a scorching cauldron about to overflow. The Lethe Academy had never had a witch among its students, since all the vacancies were destined to legitimate children of demons. 

As she was possibly the only witch who was the legit daughter of a demon, maybe she could enter, but it would have consequences for her father, so Adra never asked this of him, even when her fascination for the school was evident every time she got near it.

The fact that that unknown demon had entered her store and simply handed her oldest dream to Adra could only be some fucked up kind of prank.

“What do you want in return?” she asked this time, knowing very well how tricky the words of a demon could be. 

Damian smiled at her as if pleased with her question and got up from where he had crouched to look at the crow’s feathers, walking towards her again.

“I knew you’d be more intelligent than your friends,” he said and Adra rolled her eyes.

She filled in the information that Damian had already spoken to other witched about that ridiculous idea, however. It’d be useful to ask about that to her coven later. For now, she had to deal with a demon.

“Answer my question.”

“I already told you,” he said quietly, trying to judge her skills in detecting his bullshit. “I want to help you to become the first witch student in Lethe Academy.”

“I heard you the first time,” Adra said, raising her chin. “But I want to know why you want me at the Academy. I’m not stupid enough to think it doesn’t come with a price.”

“You’re the first witch I found that thought about indulging me,” Damian said with a satisfied smile.

“That’s because no other witch is interested in going to that place,” she said in an explanation tone of voice, but impatient nonetheless: “Far too many demons.”

“You don’t like us, do you?” he didn’t expect an answer so Adra didn’t give him one. The hate between their species was obvious and had good motives to exist, and yet, there he was, searching for a witch to help him in whatever it was he wanted help with. Even so, it was intriguing and Adra couldn’t deny to herself the shadow of curiosity present at the back of her mind. Damian analyzed her again and clicked his tongue. “I wonder what’s different about you.”

That was a dangerous question and the way he tilted his head to the side, looking at her, intrigued, was even more so.

“What do you want in exchange for the available place?” Adra asked again, tired of walking in circles with that annoying man.

“I need a witch to do a job for me,” said the demon with a dangerous smile forming on his face while his dark eyes made Adra want to recoil because of their intensity. She stood stubbornly still. “You see, I have a hunch about the murder of my... colleague.”

“You don’t know if it was murder,” Adra said, frowning.

All the papers had said was that the cause of death was a mystery and no one could say for certain if it was murder, suicide, or just an accident. No other detail. It was that, among other things, that made people so nervous about that situation.

“Oh, but I know,” he said, walking toward her again with that damned smile on his face. 

Adra had her dagger in his neck before Damian Kolasi could lean over the counter and the demon froze. She would rather go to prison for his murder than allow him to do something to her, thought Adra, alert to his every move.

Instead of being annoyed, however, Damian Kolasi laughed, looking even more amused by Adra. He looked at her like a cat would at a bird whose efforts to escape its claws were useless, even when she was the one holding the blade.

“Oh, you really are sweet, aren’t you?” he asked as if there was not a dagger about to slit his throat.

“I wouldn’t say that about someone who could kill me,” she said and he smiled, gloomy.

Adra frowned, allowing Damian Kolasi to lean over to her a bit, leveling their eyes, his face near enough that she could see the cracks of his lips.

“You’re so dangerous, candy” he smiled as the sweetest of the poisons when he said that as if he was satisfied with that. “Anyway, there is no motive for violence, I’m not going to attack you.”

Adra didn’t lower her dagger. She knew better than to trust a demon.

“How can you know that was a murder?”

He looked at her, incredulous.

“Do you really think that a completely healthy, right-handed young adult would stab herself in the ribs with her left hand, even in an accident?” Asked Damian as if Adra was stupid and she hissed at him, her shadows gathering around her, reacting to her feelings before she could control them. 

Damian’s black eyes followed that power, showing a little bit of preoccupation for the very first time.

And admiration.

Adra frowned — it was the first time a demon that wasn’t her dad looked like he was awed by what she could do. The shadows retreated, reacting with confusion to Adra’s control and shock. No one had seen her power without fearing it, not even other witches, because unlike them, Adra controlled them as easily as she breathed.

“And how do you know all that?” she asked.

“Oh, I found the body,” he said as if it wasn’t a big thing while shaking his hand to dismiss further explanations. “Criminalistics classes did the rest.”

Adra’s grip on the dagger relaxed a bit. Lethe Academy for Demonic Arts trull offered criminalistics classes, just like anatomy and necromancy lessons, each one depending on the year one was. It made sense that, if Damian Kolasi had found the body, he’d know all that. It would also make sense, however, if he was the murderer.

“And why, exactly, do you want me to enter in the place of your colleague?” she asked again, watching while the smile crept back to Damian’s perfect face.

“I have a hunch.”

“A hunch,” she repeated.

“I think the murderer at Lethe Academy is just at the beginning and you’re the only one that can help me to catch them, candy,” said Damian.

With a quick move, he took Adra’s dagger from her, twisting her wrist slightly before nailing the blade to the wood of the counter with a yellowish paper and backing away from her, smiling before pulling the doorknob.

“Meet me at this address in a week at six pm if you want to know more about it, Adra Anoixi. I’ll be waiting.”

Damian Kolasi laughed when Adra threw the dagger at him, missing by a few centimeters before he closed the door behind him.

She watched as he walked away through the street as if he had just had a nice afternoon tea, incredulous with the nerve of him. Then she circled the counter to catch her dagger from the doorframe.

When she turned, a simple letter had appeared at the side of Damian Kolasi’s address. Adra groaned when she recognized the letter’s handwriting.

Go to Chapter 2

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All Creatures on Earth - Summary

The series will follow Adra, a witch born in a world of demons who has to navigate this world to get revenge for her father's murder. A murder mystery filled with political intrigue and a bit of Dark Academia vibes.

To Decadent Poets - Summary

The series is a coming-of-age type of story and will follow Chris, Annie, Oliver, and Noah as they grow up together in the north of Scotland as World War II devastates the world. A historical fiction with some mystery, a lot of comfort vibes, and Light Academia aesthetics!

The Freak Show Series - Summary

The series is based on two independent books but both are focused on heroines leaving abusive relationships with their families and discovering a whole new world ahead of them (and falling in love, of course). Ah, and there is a circus of horrors (running away with the circus was never more appealing haha).

Freedom Girl - Summary

Hey, guys! That's my book here, I decided to post a few chapters (or maybe more) after translating it from Brazilian Portuguese to English. I really wanted to share this work and hope you enjoy it.

Here's a quick summary of the book:

Title: Freedom Girl

Series: The Freak Show Series

Tags: contemporary romance, hurt and comfort, BAFM women, a horror circus, charming love interest;

If you liked... you're gonna like this: It Happened One Summer, The Roommate, Book Lovers, etc.

Trigger Warning: the story deals with themes of abusive relationships with family, emotional and psychological abuse, as well as a few gory depictions of wounds.

Add: The book didn't have a Sensitive Editor, so any problems with how people of color, disabilities, or queer people are portrayed can be discussed directly with the author.

Synopsis: Lana is tired of playing her grandfather's good girl. She wants more, she wishes for a fulfilling and intense life, she wishes to be free. The arrival of her grandfather's new wife, Cinara, might be exactly what she needs, Lana rapidly realizes when her family knocks on the door. Cinara's family are nothing short of itinerant workers who own a circus of horrors, something she'd never seen before, and yet, it seemed to call for Lana with their world of mystery and fantasy.

Cam, on the other hand, is not a fan of the world his godmother, Cinara, is entering. And he'll do anything he can to understand better the venomous pit that is Henrique Vidal's life, even if he needs to use his granddaughter for that. To protect his family, Cam would do anything, even the unthinkable. But what to do when Lana becomes a part of his family?

Summary (with links):

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 - Coming soon...

Prologue - A Broken Heart, Like a Clock

Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!

Part 1 – Shall be Lifted… Nevermore “And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted… Nevermore.” The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe

To make it right, Cinara needed to break two hearts that afternoon and conquer another one by night time.

If she couldn’t, lives would be ruined, all because of a failed-before-it-even-began engagement. At that moment, Cinara would pay to have her own head struck by something heavy, anything to get the hell away from that familiar campsite, full of motorcycles and motorhomes.

Full of freedom.

How the hell, Cinara asked herself, could she have the courage to break her own heart?

Go to Chapter 1