i wish i could make no effort lines look less garbage

Chapter-by-chapter analysis: A Court of Thorns and Roses, Chapter 1

Book: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Author: Sarah J. Maas

Oh, Sarah J. Maas. We meet again. And this in many ways manages to be even worse than Throne of Glass. Sometimes I try to be nice even to books I dislike, because I can tell the author meant well, even if it failed. Not here. Brace yourselves for a smorgasbord of racism, sexism, homophobia, and much more! In the immortal words of Jezza Corbyn:

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falling sun

on ao3

hey whats up! this was written for the @meowraculouschatnoirzine​, which you can download now for pay what you can!!!! all profits will go to charity~

back with a classic adrien (or chat in this case) and chloe friendship fic. its been a bit since ive written one of these and honestly? missed it


Chloé decides to spend the night on her balcony. Not the whole night, that’d be ridiculous, she could never sleep with the sounds of the city so loud, but just a few hours. She actually watches the sunset for once, which is nice and pretty and probably emotionally moving or something, and pretends to do a few homework problems. She told herself she’d start being better about that.

After a while, she finds herself staring off to the horizon, the skyline of the city permanently burned into her memory. She blinks in surprise when something on that horizon starts moving.

Chloé squints into the growing darkness as the slightly darker thing starts moving closer. It takes her an almost embarrassingly long time to realize it’s not just a thing, it’s Chat Noir.

Strange for him to be out, he doesn’t usually patrol on Thursdays, and there haven’t been any sounds of akuma.

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Silence//Im Jaebum

Summary: A scenario loosely based on Jaebum’s character in “If You Do”. Both of you struggle to find the reason to stay together in a relationship where only one party is giving their all, while the other is barely giving anything at all.

Paring: Im Jaebum x Reader

Genre: Angst I guess?

Author’s Note: This is my first published scenario, I’m sorry if it isn’t that good! xoxo Sara


That’s all it was.

  It was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. It was eerily quiet, so much so that you heard the ringing in your ears from the many times you’ve blasted your music through your headphones.
  “Is this how it’s going to be?” you thought to yourself, barely sitting up from your position on the floor. The note that sat crumpled by your phone made you tear, the words written on the small piece of paper haunting your memory. You could almost remember it word for word, if you tried.

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Tea Roses

Once, long after my arrival and such colloquialisms long ceased to matter, I was told by a native and longtime co-worker that if you could make it in New York, you could make it anywhere; if you could make it in Philadelphia, you became one of us. Funny how that was one of the few memories I recalled before leaving the place I considered home for fourteen years, much good it did me after I’d been accepted as a Philadelphian—if not a true one by birth.

By the time I was given that piece of advice, my relationship spanning nearly that length of time in Pennsylvania had dissolved and, with the few possessions in my name, found a two-bedroom flat in a hopeless part of the city with a woman who held dual status as roommate and sometimes-lover. As I turned onto the I-95 heading south, a smile crept across my lips with the thought of giving her another thing to gripe about and no one else to gripe to about it.

What a difference from my last departure. New Haven gently ushered me out with some of Yale University’s finest, so the very act of leaving was a bittersweet endeavor. But in leaving Pennsylvania, it seemed the state couldn’t be rid of me soon enough; nary a soul visited me during my final weeks before packing my U-Haul truck and hitting the road. To coin a phrase from my late grandfather, the place gave my ass a swift kick in the way out. Good riddance anyhow, Philly, since you stole from me my prime.

For the first and only time in my life, I had run to my parents with my tail between my legs, an unfortunate distinction no child should bear, especially when said child is pushing forty. They welcomed me just the same, and at a right good time to boot. A massive blizzard socked the entire northeast with no fewer than fifteen inches of snow as I crossed from Georgia into Florida. Who had the last laugh then?

“How on earth did you get here so quickly?” asked my mom as I pulled into the driveway on a balmy autumn evening, just one day after my fly-by-night tactics. “We didn’t expect you until at least Saturday.”

“Traffic was good to me,” I replied and kissed her cheek. “I only needed a few hours of rest along the way, not to mention coffee and 5-Hour Energy.”

“Jesus, son—” That was my dad, who never liked using His name in vain; such utterances were reserved only for moments of extreme surprise or disgust. “You didn’t have to rush. It isn’t like the house was going to be empty when you got here as scheduled.”

But that worried look in my mom’s eye told me different, even if my dad’s emaciated 155 pounds hadn’t said it first. His last dance with cancer took more from him than anyone was willing to admit. That was the moment I wondered if I’d more escaped Pennsylvania for my own benefit than taken refuge in Florida for my dad’s.

The benefit was mutual, as I’d later come to understand in the first two weeks, during which my mom and I established a nightly routine of walking around the neighborhood. Those were among the best, most informative bonding moments we ever shared; not because my life—or my failure at it, rather—was laid bare for parental analysis but because we spoke so freely of family—past and present.

“I found a letter from your great-grandmother, addressed to me,” she said one night as she bummed a drag from my cigarette. “She always knew when I wasn’t feeling well, and with this particular letter she sent me a teacup full of tea roses.”

“Gramma-Great was always like that, knowing what people felt at any given time.” Which was true, even from my early, snot-nosed days when I knew little more than to stake what was mine. “Reminds me of when Sara and I bought our house. It didn’t have a mound of dirt to plant weeds, but there was one spot in the backyard with a beautiful tea rose bush that bloomed despite our lack of a green thumb.”

My mom turned to me, placing her gentle hand on my shoulder, and said, “I think Gramma-Great looked out for you even then.”

“Maybe we can plant some tea roses now that I’m here.”

In that way which I’ll never forget, my mom laughed delicately, almost cautiously, at the notion. Clearly she had other priorities at the present unrelated to growing flowers, and any mention of the topic edged on the extravagant. Just when I thought she wouldn’t answer, she lifted her head and spoke into the night.

“Let’s just focus on your father, OK? He’s had a difficult year, and it doesn’t look to get any easier.”

She seemed resigned to my dad’s death, even before history determined the outcome, and any argument to the contrary opened a wormhole from which nothing good —or anything at all—came. That was our only talk about the tea roses. They’d have to wait for more hospitable weather to bloom; in the wintry climate of my dad’s health, they’d only wither and die, no matter how much care was put into their growth.

In the ensuing weeks, my own garden came under assault with the sight of my father night after night as he fell asleep in his chair, in his hand a glass half full of expensive scotch, hardly paying attention to whatever conversation buzzed about the living room. He looked like a skeleton with a film of paper-thin skin hanging from its bones. Mom knew better than anybody his condition, and even though she convinced herself of his imminent death the evidence was plainer than the cancer that had eaten away at him.

My dad and I went on many drives in and around Orlando, whether for doctor visits or for grocery shopping, which acted similarly to those bonding moments my mom and I shared. In a way, my dad and I had tended to our own garden, though neither of us rightly understood the flora we cultivated. Those plants covered the soil of my grief so that my own pangs of worry and doubt never saw the light of day for so many years.

“Did mom tell you about the letter?” he asked after a trip to the bank. “She found it the day after you agreed to join us here in Florida. How’s that for timely omens?”

“What about getting some tea roses to plant in her garden?” Up ahead, I spotted a florist in a strip mall. “It might cheer her up, given your current situation.”

He smiled. “You think cancer took your old man’s head? I ordered a bunch from that website I always use for your mother’s birthdays.”

“You mean the one with all those awful arrangements?” I poked his ribs. “The cancer couldn’t eat your head—you never had one to begin with.”

“Careful, buddy,” he cast a sharp eye at me, which I pretended not to notice, “or you might not inherit our debts one day.”

Mom’s car was parked out front when we got back, a good sign she had taken a half day to make dad’s favorite dinner—lazy perogie. For a man forty years my senior and eighty pounds less than I, he moved with a speed I was sure would lead to nocturnal activities after the meal was eaten and the dishes washed. None of my business, really, but a child knows what leads to what after forty years. I let him go ahead to have some privacy while I smoked a cigarette.

Moments later, a cry floated out that resembled my dad’s voice and yet didn’t; the sound was too full of grief, too full of stunned disbelief to come from my father, who never let anyone see or hear anything remotely close to either come from him. I dropped my cigarette in the driveway, thinking the sound must have come from a neighbor’s house. Anything at all, just please don’t let it have come from him.

He was in the kitchen, staring at the floor, at something I didn’t immediately see. My eyes followed his line of sight and saw a pair of stocking covered legs extended beyond the island, not moving. Everything moved in slow motion, from calling the paramedics to following the ambulance to sitting in the waiting room of the hospital. An eternity and a year later, the operating doctor appeared through the double doors with a grave look etched on his face.

I heard nothing but the words: “she suffered a brain aneurysm” and “we did the best we could, I’m sorry.”

Just like that, mom was gone. She’d been so worried over dad’s health that she carried within herself a silent killer waiting to strike. My dad looked frailer than ever hearing that devastating news that I was tempted to have him admitted for observation. But, as a man who flirted with death over the last several years, he told me to take him home; who was I to deny a bereaved husband his commanding wish?

The tea roses delivered the next day, terribly arranged in a vase of cheap glass, and I was about to toss them in the garbage when my dad, sensing what I was about to do, stopped me with his gentle hands over mine. He shook his head and took the floral arrangement from me.

“I know exactly what to do with them,” he said as he blinked back tears. “We’ll plant them in the garden out back. That way, she’ll always be with us.”

Together we planted the flowers, and within a year we had a lush growth of tea roses from which dad pruned a few of the choicest blossoms he arranged in a teacup every week. Our loss was also our gain, and filled the house with a fragrant aroma that brought us closer than ever before.

Wherever I ended up after Florida, with whoever I ended up with, the scent of roses would never be far. Mom’s passing legacy revealed something greater left behind than in any last will and testament; it was that we were all gardens, and the fruits it bore depended on the work put into the planting.

That, and the scent of roses meant she and Great-Gramma were looking down upon me, which also meant it was never to late to tend my own garden. Who knew what flora would grow, if only I’d make the effort? So, with my dad’s passing several years later, I left Orlando to find other seeds to plant in my garden.