#parallel query

[bookwyrminspiration]

omgggg i genuinley just do not at all like the william pov chapters in oathbound.. like the plot stuff that happens in them is interesting but! i just dont give a shit abt william or his struggles.. and i def dont care abt his relationship with lark. sorry just had to rant abt this to someone abt this for a second bc i feel like im going crazy..

ur uninvited from my birthday party 🙄

Way to feed into William's belief he is less valuable than everyone around him and needs to prioritize them as a healer. Briana Matthews would never forgive you

[thedbahub]

Unraveling CXPACKET and CXCONSUMER

Ever found yourself scratching your head over those mysterious CXPACKET and CXCONSUMER waits in SQL Server? Don’t worry, you’re not alone. I’ve been there too, and today, I’m going to break it down for you in a way that’ll make you go, “Aha! Now I get it!” We’ll dive into what these waits mean, why they happen, and most importantly, how to fix them. So grab your favorite beverage, and let’s…

[faemytho]

At the Peak of Truth, Despair Not

story analysis of the Diverged Paths costume set story with pure vanilla's truthless recluse and shadow milk's sage of truth, chunk by fucking chunk because i am INSANE and the parallels keep stacking up. they are the same in every universe. even this one.

this is an essay post and it is long. i am rambling a lot. i dissect certain lines in the story and talk about word choice. i also talk about how many parallels there are in this story to beast-yeast ep 7-8. i swear to god it makes sense. i am a writer by the way. fuck. anyways enjoy my insanity.

-

"Quiet, quiet! Our lecture will resume shortly! Please take your seats in a timely fashion!" A sonorous voice filled the old, quaint square. The voice belonged to a peculiar Cookie dressed in white and gold. Surrounded by a crowd of spectators, this mysterious Cookie now stood in the center of the square. He had just finished reciting an epic poem and was now explaining a convoluted philosophical concept to a freshly-baked flock, wide-eyed with wonder. "The Sage of Truth," they called him.

Setting the scene here, this is an "old, quaint square". The Sage is described here as "peculiar" and "mysterious", indicating that the cookies around him think he's odd. I'll return to the word "mysterious" later.

The word "flock" used here is also an interesting choice; a "flock of sheep". It's a backhanded way to call these cookies "sheep", which is used often in a derogatory way to indicate someone is unable to think for themself or unable to think critically at all, and just plays follow the leader instead of forging their own beliefs.

What's also an interesting thing to note is that the cookies call him "the Sage of Truth". The way this is phrased implies he didn't come up with that name, that he let the cookies name him. That, or he was waiting to be asked his name and was never asked, which I believe is also likely.

It almost seemed as if the Sage of Truth had always stood in that spot, sharing truths and teachings with anyone interested. With time, more and more Cookies came to listen to the Sage. Some said he was a professor of magic, others claimed he was an archivist, until an eager disciple decided to put an end to this dispute with a question. As always, the Sage welcomed the query with a graceful gesture. Pointing upwards, he uttered, "I hail from a peak so tall and narrow, it pierced the firmament itself!" His confounding reply caught everyone by surprise. Only then did the disciples realize that never once had the Sage spoken about himself. Yet, they wished for the lectures to continue and chose never to pry again.

The phrase here, "always stood in that spot", makes him seem more like an object, and less like a person with his own thoughts and feelings. The fact that the cookies begin to come up with things to say about him, that being that he's "a professor of magic", or that he's "an archivist", instead of asking him directly further lends to this line of thinking of him as an object.

This next part, where he is finally asked a question about himself, he exhibits two pieces of body language that show up later in the story at crucial moments. First, when he "welcomes" the query, he is being truthful about it; he wants more of these types of questions about himself. Second, when he "points upwards", he is lying; he claims to "hail from a peak so tall and narrow, it pierced the firmament itself!"

It is an exaggerated fib about the truth. This statement is immediately described as "confounding", meaning surprising or confusing especially in the context of not aligning with the inquirer's expected answer. The disciples then immediately realize that the Sage had never spoken about himself. Paired with such a confusing statement, one might think that such a realization would prompt more questions about the Sage himself, but instead, the disciples decide to focus on the knowledge he gives instead of wanting to learn about him, and so, never ask him another question about himself again.

This is why the Sage is described as "mysterious". They have never asked, and he has never told. The one time he was asked about himself, he said something exaggerated and outlandish; one can only assume he was trying to bait more questions of that nature, only for them to never come.

Another day, another fascinating lecture came to a close. The sky above began to tinge with red and Cookies headed back to their homes when a stranger entered the square. The visitor was draped in a dark cloak and donned an enormous hat that cast a shadow over his face. The Cookie stood there without saying a word and watched the Sage. The silence was broken by the Sage’s courteous greeting, his eyes having already discerned the shadow of despair hanging over the guest. "I don't believe I've seen you here before, my friend…! Alas, today's lecture is over. Care to come back on the morrow?" Yet, the dark visitor paid no heed to his words. "Stop teaching about the Truth." "Why must I?" inquired the Sage.

Setting the scene again for the debut of the Truthless Recluse. He approaches the square when the sun is setting and the sky is turning red, which is a nice bit of contrasting symbolism to Pure Vanilla representing the sun itself.

The Sage takes initiative to greet the Recluse, and immediately defaults to letting the Recluse know that he's done lecturing for the day instead of asking the Recluse about himself (not even a "How are you doing?"). One could speculate that this is a learned behavior; he is used to being used by the cookies who want knowledge from him, is never asked about himself, and as such, never asks personal questions of anybody else either.

But next, the Recluse addresses him directly, talks to him directly about the nature of what he does instead of asking for knowledge or treating him like something to wring answers from. This is probably the first time he's been talked to like this. It's a command, and he answers with a question of his own; the holder of the virtue of knowledge... answers with a question. "Why must I?"

The guest only grinned in reply and stepped closer. For the first time, a ray of light illuminated his face, and the Sage of Truth exclaimed delightedly. "Aaahh, if it isn't the Truthless Recluse himself. To what do I owe such a pleasure?" His monocle glistened with genuine curiosity. "It is said that the Truthless Recluse never descends from the Peak of Truth… How may this humble scholar be of service to you?"

It's interesting that the Sage recognizes the Recluse as soon as his face is revealed. It might indicate that they've met before, especially considering the Sage previously claimed to hail from what we can assume is the same peak the Truthless Recluse has stationed himself at.

The Sage is delighted to see the Recluse, and finally asks the Recluse a personal question, but phrases the question in an interesting way. "How may this humble scholar be of service to you?".

Calling himself humble could mean two things; that he is really a prideful person and is lying by calling himself humble to hide this fact, or, that, in choosing a passive adjective to describe himself with, he is attempting to deflect any aggression he might receive by asking a personal question. It could be both.

He also takes care to point out that he is "being of service".

The Recluse's eyes brimmed with sorrow. "Stop pretending. You know all too well that there is nothing at the Peak of Truth." The Sage clapped his hands. "Eureka! At last, the answer to the age-old question is found! Why the Recluse never leaves his beloved peak vacant! Why every Cookie who neared true enlightenment was inevitably pushed back from the ascension they so craved!"

The Recluse directly calls him a liar. "Stop pretending". The Sage of Truth is a liar! He tells lies and the Recluse can see right through them! But at least he has one thing going for him; he didn't name himself the Sage of Truth. The cookies did. They assumed he would never lie, and because nobody questions him, he has never been caught lying.

Cross referencing to canon Shadow Milk, we know that he holds resentment towards other cookies for just believing every word he said was truthful; being called out on a lie is probably something that's never happened before, especially not to the Sage of Truth.

On top of that, the Recluse is previously described as "a stranger", and the Sage mentions never having "seen him before" in the square where this takes place. All of that tied together means that the Recluse never heard the Sage's exaggerated fib about being from the Peak of Truth, and yet, somehow knows that the Sage is from the Peak of Truth. This is further evidence that the Sage and the Recluse have met before.

Upon being called a liar, the Sage of Truth reacts with delight, only to immediately deflect and deceive again. He turns the subject away from himself.

He tilted his head, expecting a confirmation. "All this time, my best hypothesis was that the Peak of Truth had been seized for good by some petty curmudgeon. Do you mean to say you sought only to protect seekers from disappointment?" The Recluse did not bother to deny the Sage's words for he loathed the Sage for guiding Cookies right into the maw of the cruel Truth. "I, too, once made the same mistake, and for that, faced despair upon the Peak… There was no Truth expecting me. No Truth to save us all. And I cursed myself hundreds, thousands of times over for my folly." And all his sorrow and despair surged forth in a single question. "Why do you persist?!"

"... seized for good by some petty curmudgeon". There's so much going on in this sentence.

If the Sage really does hail from the Peak of Truth, saying it was "seized" puts himself into a "helpless" position. If he cared about the Peak of Truth, what's stopping him from going to take it back? He is, after all, the holder of the virtue of knowledge, a godly power in his own right. Saying it was "seized" puts him in a helpless position and absolves him of any blame for anything that happens to it. Holding the power that he does at his fingertips also implies he doesn't care about the Peak of Truth at all, and is content to let it fall.

He says he'd thought the Truthless Recluse was a "petty curmudgeon"; I'll admit I had to look this word up, but it means a stubborn, ill-tempered person, typically an old man. Really funny actually, but he's negating this insult.

The Sage asks if the Recluse is turning cookies away from the truth to protect them from disappointment. The Recluse doesn't deny it; he "loaths" the Sage for guiding cookies towards the truth. Inverting that sentiment would imply that the Recluse turns cookies away from the truth to avoid disappointment, and uses deceit out of compassion for them. This is to prevent them from getting hurt, because "he too made the same mistake" of ascending to the truth, finding only despair instead.

The truth being described as a "cruel" "maw" is also such interesting imagery. It reminds me of Shadow Milk's snake that devours the sheep on the loading screen of the Awakened Pure Vanilla update. I'll also point out the fact again that the Sage's listeners were explicitly referred to as a "flock".

And finally, the question the Truthless Recluse asks the Sage of Truth. "Why do you persist?"

Because as far as the Recluse is concerned, he just got done explaining why the truth isn't worth it, so why should the Sage continue to preach it? Why do you persist?

It's a question asked out of a genuine, haunting, need to know why the Sage continues to send cookies into the hungry, crushing maw of Truth. It's asked out of desperate compassion for those cookies.

To that, the Sage only pointed upwards and said, "Alas, the Truth is imperfect by design… and yet, one must not turn away from the light of one's own Truth." And with a welcoming gesture, he added, "Not unlike yourself whose Truth is to protect others from anguish." The Recluse never answered. The Sage knew the answer anyway.

Here, the Sage points upwards; a previous indication that he's being deceptive. The statement he gives, "One must not turn away from the light of one's own Truth", seems to imply that he wants anyone listening to him to think that he thinks the truth is a good for cookies, of course, why wouldn't it be? However, throughout the entire story, the truth is regarded by the Sage as something negative, something that's been used to hurt, used to treat him like an object. So to truly answer the Recluse's question, what he's really implying here is that he guides cookies towards the truth because he's hurting, and he wants them to hurt too.

Next, he welcomes; a previous indication that he's being truthful. A welcoming gesture; spreading his arms wide, inviting the Recluse in. He truthfully wants the Recluse to call him out on this lie. He truthfully wants the Recluse to continue to speak with him. He sees an equal, a companion in the Recluse. Someone who understands.

This is such a blatant parallel to Compassionate Pure Vanilla offering friendship to Shadow Milk in episode 8, I would just like to point that out.

The Recluse never answers, but the Sage knows the answer anyway. Whether or not that "answer" is an agreement of companionship or a rejection of it is unclear, and is probably meant to be left ambiguous.

A long night passed and a new day dawned. Yesterday's guest was long gone, and the square was as peaceful as it could be… But the Sage could hear them. The footsteps of many seekers, stepping forth towards the Truth.

"The square was peaceful... But... the Sage could hear them."

This ending is very painful. The cycle of hurt continues. It would imply the Recluse rejected the Sage's offer of companionship, which is probably more likely here. However, the nature of the ambiguity means the Recluse could have accepted, and the seekers of truth may be what links the Sage and the Recluse now that they are apart. It's less likely.

Either way, they are the same in every universe. Even this one.

As I put it in a previous post, the difference between Pure Vanilla and Shadow Milk, no matter which path either of them are on, is their compassion.

The Truthless Recluse pushes cookies away from the cruel truth, while the Sage of Truth encourages them to seek out what he knows will hurt them.

Because even on diverged paths, Pure Vanilla will always care, and Shadow Milk can't ever find a reason to.

[sakasakiii]

some rumil doodles in response to @whimsicallywiddershins who asked: Oh my god I love your art!!! I'm curious about Rumil. I've never really heard of him and I'm curious about what happened to his eyes....

thank you for the ask!!!! im real happy to hear you like my art, and even happier you took the time to ask about rumil! <333 it took me until your ask to realise that, despite him frequently appearing in group concept sketches n doodles, i've never really elaborated on him haha 😅 i tried to illustrate and summarise some of the key points in the art, but more detailed yap incoming under the cut!

so! to start off, my version of rumil is pretty much at his core the same as canon rumil wherein he's a noldorin sage/scholar responsible for inventing the Sarati and later going on to write the Annals of Valinor. his whole being captured and enslaved in angband for a while comes from the other version of him the Book of Lost Tales, where he was a slave of Melko who learned the speech of monsters and goblins --essentially i thought it'd be fun to combine the two to give him a more complicated backstory ^^

in response to your query about his eyes, i hc that during his time in angband he was one of those who were experimented on by Sauron - acting on Morgoth's orders - during the initial testings for the evolution of elves -> orcs. (maybe sauron thought that blinding the first elf-orcs would make them more unlikely to disobey orders/easier to control? hmm) his band of captives were able to break him out in time and they fled back to safety before he was too far-gone, thus allowing him to reunite with finwe, miriel and co, and then eventually follow Orome to valinor :D

him being miriel's dad was also something i felt would be fun to explore, especially because i thought his ties to Sarati and Feanor would be an interesting dynamic! it's very very much noncanon, and incredibly self-indulgent on my part (im so sorry... 😭), but i like to go on tangents abt their relationship! i think rumil wouldve made attempts to dote on feanor and encourage his linguistic pursuits, but would have been held back a lot on truly being around him by both his health and his lingering guilt about miriel. he is incredibly proud when feanor refines his abandoned Sarati concepts and turns Tengwar into a near-universal system of writing however :D

other thoughts on rumil... hmm... i think he's kind of pitiful tbh. something about him being an absent (albeit not of his own volition) father to miriel, and then in turn him feeling unfit to offer feanor as much emotional support as would be ideal, is a theme i would like to keep exploring (^3^) adding on to the fact that he outlives his wife, daughter, son-in-law, grandson, and like 6/7 of his great-grandsons while miraculously not Fading himself gives him an essence with parallels to maglor that i do appreciate...

major apologies for going off on such a rambly tangent, but i do suppose an explanation on my rumil has been overdue for a few years!! i hope i havent misled anyone since i first drew him in that family tree, but thank you so much again for taking the time to ask about him! im always grateful for the interest in my absurd headcanons, and i hope you have a wonderful weekend ahead!!! ❤️

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

TRIGGER WARNING: NARCISSISTIC MOTHER, DEPRESSION, emotional abuse, manipulation, cognitive dissonance, undiagnosed mental illness.

My mother was a good mother.

When she walks through the threshold, she carefully places her heavy bag on the table before settling into the chair next to your bed. You're unsure of the reason for her presence or what to say, given how heated things were the last time you spoke. So, you bide your time, waiting for her to speak first, like the obedient daughter she wished you had always been.

You wonder how she feels—if she sees herself mirrored in you. This bears parallels to that day in the past, except the roles are reversed now. You stepped into her shoes, while she takes on the part you once played at the age of eleven, or perhaps twelve.

At that time, you didn’t judge her; you just stared at her, face filled with curiosity and a little bit of sadness. With questions yearned to be satiated. But it remained unspoken—those endless strings of "why." Why did this happen? Why would Mom do this? Why couldn't Mom talk to you? Why didn't Mom tell you anything? Why did Mom want to leave you? The litany of unanswered queries clamored at the tip of your tongue, yet you stubbornly refused to let them slip past your lips.

You wait for her anger, your body gearing up in case she starts to raise her voice. But instead, in an almost hesitant voice, she asks, “Why did you do it?”

The question stops the gears of your mind. You sit there stiffly, waiting for her lashing out—for the usual barrage of insults that typically follow. But instead, what greets you is the sound of a choked-back sob. Hesitantly, you look up and see her head hung low. Like a sorrowful soul.

“Sabrina… she.. she called me,” she managed to say between gasping breaths. “She said you were in the hospital, that the doctor said it was… poisoning.”

Within the four walls of this monotonous room, your mother sobs, tears seeping and painting her jeans dark. However, all you feel is confusion—questions about the authenticity of her sadness because all your life, you’ve known your mother to be a great performer. The last thing you want to be is someone incapable of empathy, but you can’t help the ripe doubt trickling down your throat. You want to be able to choose the person you are; yet, someone has shaped you into a human full of distrust.

“If you had… if you…” Mother lifted her head, trying to regain control of her breathing. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

Hearing that, all you can do is sit with a tense stillness in your spine. Déjà vu. You catch a glimpse of your twelve-year-old self sitting in that very chair, expression blank because Mother hates somberness. In the past, she had too pondered that—of what she would have done. It wasn't just the world's overwhelming vastness that scared you as a young teen. Rather, it was more like the realization that the world would be so dark without a mother. What would you have done if Mom had taken more pills? You didn't want that. You loved her dearly.

“I’m sorry,” is what you manage to say. An apology. An apology for putting her through what she put you through.

Mother's shoulders shook again as she took a quivering breath, tears clumping her eyelashes together—you could almost remember your own state before you arrived here. She took another deep breath, and as she exhaled, her eyes finally settled on you. Instantly, you shrank beneath the weight of her gaze, feeling like an alien—a deformed creature whose shape and form she was criticizing.

“Did it ever cross your mind how much it would hurt me? The shame it would bring our family?”

Shame? Of course. Shame. To have a child so troubled that they would kill themselves. If you ended up dead, there would be whispers, judgments. There would be comparisons. People would talk. They'd wonder what drove you to it, and they'd compare Mother to Joyce in the same way that Mom often compared you to Sabrina. How was it possible for one to be blessedly wedded while the other took her own life?

There was always a search for blame. Had the fault been in how Mother had raised you, leading you down a path towards God's malevolence? Or have you been carrying hamartia since childhood, which has led you to this tragedy?

You remained silent, molars dully digging into the inside of your cheek. You had just survived suicide. Mother had asked if you hadn't considered how much it would hurt her—how much shame it would bring the family, she had said. Repeating it over and over in your mind, you furrowed your brows, feeling like something was off. But, as usual, you swallowed the words on the tip of your tongue and spoke only in a small voice.

“I… I didn’t think about that,” you admitted. “I wasn’t thinking about anyone else.”

It was half a lie, as you did think about Mother at one point—though not in the way she had hoped. She crossed your mind but didn't deter you from swallowing the pills. You didn’t know why, and each time you were unable to rationalize or provide an explanation for whatever you did, you hung your head in shame.

“Why did you do it?”

Why? She repeated her first question, expecting one reason when your "why" was far more complex—it was a tree with roots that had plunged deep into the earth, spreading in every direction, creating a tangled web of intertwining reasons. There was never just one answer to the question "why" for you. When confronted with such demands, you begin to question whether you have taken your 'solitude' for granted all along.

And yet, despite how suffocating it feels under the weight of her stare—your self-consciousness reaching a peak as you worry about the outline of your face, your anxiety about her opinion of your features (the possibility of her commenting how your nose is not “small enough” like hers), your unease that she will point out any perceived imperfections in your skin, and your fear and hyper-awareness of maintaining an acceptable expression to avoid disapproval—she is the only one who bothers to visit you in this foreign place.

Mother had come all the way here from San Francisco, had dropped everything, just to be by your side – the disobedient daughter who failed to live up to her expectations.

“Did you do it for attention?”

The accusation should have stung, should have filled you with indignation. You had been desperately grasping at any way to make yourself feel better before you attempted. You had tried to shut your eyes and will yourself to sleep before you got up and popped every pill you could find into your mouth and chased them all down with alcohol. There were several reasons why you did it, but the primary one was because you were lonely. Alone. You didn’t hesitate to leave anyone because you had no one left.

You had no one left, so you never considered expecting anyone's attention. That night, you just wanted to die.

“Of course not.” you answered without hesitation, quick and certain. Yet, when you lifted your gaze to meet her eyes, a sudden flicker of doubt crossed your mind.

Did you do it for attention?

Despite knowing you didn't, what if it looks that way to others? What can you do to change a mind that isn't yours? The nagging thought of being misunderstood gnawed at you, fueling your frustration and annoyance. Which part of you makes them perceive you this way? Is every perception they have of you who you truly are? Like a spineless reptile, you long to shed your skin, to become someone new—to redefine yourself and escape the allegations people placed on you.

Alas, no opportunity presents itself. You are forever bound by the perceptions of others, and with time, the line between who you truly are and the misinterpreted image of yourself becomes increasingly impossible to distinguish.

“Why did you do it?” She repeated the same question but never begged for an answer. Your mother kept her ego intact. It sounded more like a demand—this was more like her. Demanding, never begging. “Was it because of that man?”

You pause for a moment. “I was just tired.”

The words sound hollow but familiar, like a mimicry of a scene from the past. Mother had uttered something similar once, when it was you sitting in the hospital chair, staring at her pale face after a near-death experience of her own making. You wonder if she remembers it—if it left the same impact on her as it did on you, or if it was simply another Wednesday in December. Your roles were ironically reversed; did she realize this?

“Was it because of him?”

Like Mother’s other questions, there is repetition. It makes you wonder – was it out of genuine concern, or was there something she wanted to prove?

How would she feel about your answer? It's almost as if there's a common theme that binds the women in your family, passed down to you, from your mother, from her mother—a lineage of suffering that seems to revolve around the men. Would her heart ache at the thought of her daughter following in the doom of her predecessors? A paradox of contrasts and twins.

Or… will your mother feel a twisted sense of vindication? Will she look at you and say, “I told you so,” with her all-knowing stare and a smug smirk? That you are here because you ignored the warnings she repeatedly demanded you remember. Even now, you don’t know which is worse: being pitied or being cursed.

Fortunately, unlike your mother, you do not like repeating yourself, nor do you intend to meet her gaze. The silence stretches between you in this hospital room. Your mother, out of the kindness of her heart, allows it. Another déjà vu descends upon you. You remember very well how your conversation with Mother ended that day—on a Wednesday in December. That role-reversed version.

You lied a tremendous deal to the psychiatrist. Do you regret it? Of course, you do. Would you do it again given the chance? Most likely. Throughout the entire session, you waited for her to call out every lie you told, but it seems that psychiatrists don't possess polygraphs in their minds. You should feel relieved. Yet, you know that each unchecked lie is another burden you must carry with you for life.

When you came out of the office, Mother was still sitting in the chair where she had been waiting for you. She asked you a few questions, and while you didn't answer them all, you did tell her that everything was alright. Satisfied, the two of you walked the sidewalks of the city once more, beneath the somber, cloudy London sky.

“What should we have for dinner tonight?”

It seemed almost surprising when the question effortlessly rolled off your tongue, sounding more natural and lighter than it had in the previous days. On the day of your discharge from the hospital, the conversation between you and Mother felt unusually stiff and guarded—at least on your part. There were no arguments, but a palpable tension hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, filled with unspoken expectations and hidden demands.

Now, it felt like no time had passed. As if you were simply picking up where you had left off, back in the days when your relationship had been strained but still intact.

“Well, I was going to cook something for you, but it’s getting rather late,” she replied. “I know there’s nothing in your fridge, so we should probably go out and grab something instead.”

“Where do you want to go?”

Mother shrugged. “I don’t know. You know this city better than I do. You choose.”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“Anything is fine.”

You settle on the first Italian restaurant you pass by. Despite not being the fanciest establishment, the casual ambiance and soothing jazz music mixed with the chatter of other patrons create a cozy vibe that draws you in. One of the four walls is painted in cool crimson, adorned with black-and-white photographs and a few framed sepia-toned prints that hint at the restaurant's family-run history.

The waitress who tended your table jotted down your orders and whisked away, leaving you alone to wait for your food. Leaving you alone with your mother.

This, you realize, is the closest you’ve been to her after a long time. Throughout her visit, you spent the majority of your time together in the hospital ward, with nurses constantly entering and leaving the room. Once you were discharged, Mother spent her time meticulously cleaning your apartment to her specific standards, while you avoided conversation by switching on the television and keeping her occupied with her favorite shows.

In the air floated the combined aroma of garlic, tomatoes, and hot oil. As you looked up at your mother, you found her sweeping a critical gaze around the surroundings. Resting her head on her hand, you spotted the fine details you had never noticed before: the gold ring on her middle finger, her medium-length, almond-shaped nails painted a deep red, the pronounced structure of her digits, and her wrinkled knuckles. The dichotomy between how she seemed exactly the same as you remembered and yet bore changes underscored the silent distances that have grown between you.

Mother's gaze drifted to the window. “This place is so depressing,” she muttered.

You gaze in the direction of the object of her observation, searching for clues about what prompted her assessment. Is she referring to the cafe, the street outside, the city as a whole, or the table where you both sit? As you search for answers, you're also desperately searching for a positive quality to highlight so she gives this place a chance, so she doesn't contemplate packing her things and bolting out the door as she has done before.

Turning her attention back to you, she said, “It’s better back home.”

Thinking she was talking about your apartment, you had to disagree. Despite spending most of your time at home, you'd rather be anywhere than there.

“There’s a place like this in Polk Gulch. You know, the ones with the stars, what is it called…” She made a vague gesture with her hands, searching for the word.

“Michelin stars?”

“Yes, exactly. The ones with the Michelin stars. Now, those are the kinds of places we should be going to. Back home.”

The word was received in a strange way by you, but you did not comment. Mother read this as another turn for her to continue the conversation.

“Your favorite places are still there, you know,” she said. "Don't you miss it?"

“Sometimes,” you admit quietly. And it’s true. There are nights when you think about San Francisco, about the places you used to visit—places you grew up in and some fond memories they hold. However, there are also the seeds of something rotten there, ones that you know may find you even in your dreams.

San Francisco, the city of your attempted self-dismantlement. Your attempt to strip away all that you were and repair the creation you have become. It failed miserably, so you fled to London. For a new beginning, for a new you.

And yet, somewhere along the way, you’ve inadvertently turned London into a second San Francisco. What should have been a fresh start has now turned into an echoing cycle. The same demons you sought to escape from have followed you here, infusing their putrid influence into the foundation of your carefully constructed dream life. Now, you're unsure how to salvage any of it.

Sometimes. Your mother cocked a brow, her expression unreadable except for the downward tug at the corners of her lips. Before she could say anything else, the waitress placed your orders down in front of you, the aroma of Italian cuisine wafting across the table. You hoped the food would be good enough for her.

Mother was unusually chatty on the way home, words flowing freely in a pleased tone. It must have been the wine that the server had offered to you both. At first, you expected Mother to decline, as she often does, muttering about the harm of alcohol once the man was out of earshot. However, it took you by surprise when she accepted it without question, and you wondered whether she had changed.

The feeling of lightness envelops you, even in the presence of unfamiliarity, as you listen to your mother chat away. You exhaled as Mother continued to talk about whatever, each laugh and random comment eroding the tension that had been weighing on your shoulders. The heaviness that once defined your interactions now dissolves into fission. She sounded like somebody new, and you treat her like somebody you don’t need to tiptoe around.

“It wasn’t bad,” she said, talking about the food.

You tucked your chilly hand into the warm protection of your coat pockets as you gazed at the ever-glistening street and the passing cars. “It was good,” you replied.

 “Well, I wouldn’t say it was that good, but it certainly wasn’t bad.”

The two of you continue walking, and as you make another turn, the opera building's well-known shape comes into view. Your heart clenches in panic, realizing you have been unconsciously leading yourself down the path you always take when returning home from rehearsals. Not wanting to draw attention to it, you remain silent, but your efforts are in vain as Mother quickly notices the distinctive neoclassical structure.

“Isn’t that your ballet place?” she asked, her manicured finger pointed at the building.

“Yes,” you replied simply, hoping she would look elsewhere before she sees it, before—

“Is that you?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the large illuminated poster in the front window—the bold-lettered title “Swan Lake,” and your own face staring back at you, radiant and poised like a girl who has earned her place in the world.

“Yes,” you reply, throat constricting as if bracing for something.

But instead of whatever you were expecting, your mother's expression shifted, the crease in her forehead accentuated as she turned to face you. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” She asked, and the hurt in her tone took you aback.

Before you could formulate a response, she had already crossed the street, so determined that she didn't bother looking both ways. She headed straight toward the poster, the click-clack of her heels on the street accompanied by the howl of the wind. You hesitated for a moment, but ultimately decided to trail after her, heart pounding in your chest.

You watched your mother pull out her phone, snapping a few quick photos of the poster. She then held the phone close to her chest, gazing at the image wordlessly. You wondered what was going through her mind. Was she proud? Disappointed? Indifferent? Your mind replayed the last discussion you both had on your ballet career.

“This is… this is something,” she said—the click of her heels sounded again as she took quick, tiny steps toward you. “You made it! The lead role!”

“It’s called the Swan Queen, the role.”

"The Swan Queen…" she echoed, turning back to the poster, the silver light reflecting on it allowing you read her expression more clearly—a proud smile stretched across her face. Proud. “I always knew you had it in you. See? I know you so well; you’re my daughter after all. It’s a good thing I brought you to that ballet class when you were a little girl, isn’t it?”

You let out a chuckle, feeling the warmth spread from your sternum.

To your further surprise, your mother reached out and cupped your cheeks, aligning her eyes to meet yours with a tenderness you nearly forgot she was capable of.

“Oh, my little girl,” she murmured.

And you… suddenly want your mother again, and hope for her to want you back. You remember the times when you both sang to your favorite songs in the car, driving under the iconic Golden Gate Bridge as the dying sun from the west caressed Mom's crow's feet. Belting out something of Mariah Carey, although not quite matching the skill of the original singer, but making up for it with an equal amount of enthusiasm and love.

(I will never be anything without Mom.)

In the present day, you find yourself leaning into her palm, like a fawn finding its loving mother. Your past arguments seem so far in the past, and you are big-hearted women forgiving each other and creating excuses to keep this moment lasting. Perhaps somewhere in those past conversations, you had overreacted, or you weren't good at understanding her words.

Because your mother would never intend to hurt you. She is a good mother.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull @olives10 @cricricorner @idrkman @strrynigghts @mims900

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[dchuntress]

reposting from a reddit post i made

Hi everybody!

One thing I see happening commonly is that people are often confused about the two Helenas/Huntresses of DC, often confusing them both for each other or preferring one over another or stating the same person. I am no expert, but I do love these two characters deeply and I have read extensively of their comics, so I thought to share a polished version of a summary that I originally wrote for my friends! I hope this helps, and I am open to civil feedback as well as further queries.

// I am not citing any specific sources here, but I can back up what I'm saying if you ask about anything specifically. I am referring to comics, wiki summaries, and various blogs dedicated.

// This is a summary, there is obviously more to what I describe.

// I am using Earth 0 as a shorthand for whatever the main earth is.

// I am using the terms Pre-Crisis, Post-Crisis, New 52, and Current to describe the continuities. I am aware these have other names, but for the sake of understanding both Helenas, I think these terms would be apt to follow.

// English is not my first language, apologies in advance for any errors.

The name itself, Huntress:

The first person to hold this name was Paula Brooks, actually. She was originally written as a Golden Age villain by this name, before she later on got renamed Tigress.

Pre-crisis: (featuring: Helena Wayne)

In Earth 2, an alternate world parallel to the main timeline, Batman and Catwoman settle down, semi-retire, get married, and have a kid named Helena Wayne. Helena Wayne grows up to be the Huntress, a morally grey crossbow-wielding vigilante. (Fun fact: There is the implication that she was originally created in lieu of an Earth 2 Batgirl).

Helena Wayne originally led a relatively stable life and grew up to become a lawyer. However, Selina is killed in a series of tragic events where she was blackmailed and framed, and Helena became the Huntress, wanting to bring justice to whoever was responsible for her mom's demise, clear up her mom's name, and dedicate the rest of her life fighting for what's right and just, to helping the people of Gotham.

Helena Wayne initially kept her Huntress alias a secret from everybody, including Batman himself. she did not use her father's name, rather she proved herself a determined detective and hero to the Justice Society of America, and became a member there. For Helena Wayne, being a member of the JSA is very integral to her story. she was also a member of the Infinity, Inc. Despite her big name, she still continued to fight street-level crime in her hometown.

Helena Wayne was a prominent lawyer, but she was constantly in doubt about it, feeling that she was doing more as a vigilante than a lawyer. Still, she kept that job, using her advantages as a lawyer to gain evidence and whatnot for the cases she'd handle as Huntress.

Helena Wayne had also met various people from earth 0! This was usually a result of attending JSA/JLA collaborations.

Then a crisis event, Crisis on Infinite Earths, happens, ending the multiverse and Helena Wayne is killed off.

Post-Crisis: (Featuring Helena Bertinelli)

Enter Helena Bertinelli.

The Huntress was reimagined completely, she no longer was the daughter of BatCat. Rather, she was now born into a Mafia family — the most powerful one in Gotham.

Helena Bertinelli, despite being born into excessive wealth, led a capricious life in a dark and unforgiving world. One tragic day, her entire family is killed off brutally in front of her, while she ends up being the lone survivor. The reason for this varies depending on the origin story, but none of it brings her closure.

A young helena bertinelli trains day and night, to be ruthless, to turn her fury and grief into a weapon she can wield to fight back, to avenge her family's deaths and kill their killers, to kill the men who stole her childhood innocence.

She's scared, constantly. She fights despite the fears. She doesn't ever want to be a prey again. She wants to hunt down predators who destroy innocent lives and protect the people of Gotham from these horrors.

Another thing to take note is that Helena Bertinelli is devoutly Catholic*, having a complicated relationship with God, faith, and the institution of religion. This is especially prominent in this time of her comics.

*(In Last Rites, it is indicated that Helena Wayne was raised Catholic, having gone through confirmation. However, so far, I have yet to see Helena Wayne being religious, really, one exception being her wearing a cross when she was impersonating Helena Bertinelli in Crossbow At The Crossroads).

And also, Helena Bertinelli is a schoolteacher. The details of this change; often she's an English highschool teacher. Regardless, she cares deeply about her students and has a soft spot for children.

In this time, Helena Bertinelli prominently has been a member of the Birds Of Prey; she was also briefly a part of the Justice League and the Outsiders.

Initially, Helena Bertinelli wanted to try and be a part of the Bat clan. However, time and again, she and chiefly Batman clashed the most, mostly over their ideologies, despite also teaming up often.

No Man's Land is also another important arc for Helena Bertinelli; after a devastating earthquake, Gotham is basically disowned by the country, there's no law and order, and Bruce Wayne has disappeared. In his absence, Helena Bertinelli stood up as The Bat*, hoping to give people the hope they had with B around as well as keep rogues in line. However, despite Helena's great works for keeping Gotham safe and helping its people during this time, this ultimately does not end well for her: She does not get credited properly for her contributions, she does not get to keep the Batsuit she designed, and she goes back to being Huntress mainly.

*[Not Batgirl as people commonly say. She called herself The Bat, she told people that Batman was a woman. Batman called her Batgirl after he arrived.]

New 52: (Featuring Helena Wayne & Helena Bertinelli)

Earth 2 is back again, one of the 52 alternate realities of the new Multiverse, the focus is on Helena Wayne Again; Helena Bertinelli is originally presumed to be dead during this time.

Helena Wayne, here, was Robin from a young age under the training of Batman and Catwoman.

Her childhood best friend is earth 2's Supergirl, Kara. (Karen was also Helena Wayne's best friend in Pre Crisis).

After a battle with Darkseid's lackeys, Helena and Kara are displaced to Earth 2 at a very young age.

They both continue to survive, usually by cleverness, various crimes — identity fraud, deception, wiring money from this world's billionaire Bruce Wayne, and so on. on this world, they became Huntress and Power Girl, as other mantles were already taken. Power Girl was now called Karen Starr herein.

While Helena Wayne wanted to focus on settling down and fighting crime in this new world and moving on from the past, Karen was deeply passionate to return home. and ultimately, that happens.

At around the same time, after Helena Wayne has left, Helena Bertinelli resurfaces, this time, being revealed as a member of Spyral. It's also revealed that she had actually faked her death to join the spy organisation.

Currently: (Featuring Helena Bertinelli & Helena Wayne)

Both Helenae are Huntresses again, although they're pretty much collecting dust, not having been used much in comics as of now.

Helena Bertinelli is a solo vigilante in gotham, with a vague past of Spyral involvement. Mind controlling parasites had attacked Gotham, and she was affected; although she was entirely cured of the parasites, she gained a power as a side effect — Crime Vision; aka, if someone in a certain nearby is assaulting or harming of killing someone, Helena can see the assault happening through the eyes of the monster. Although it gave her a headstart on tracking down those predators and saving their victims, this ability understandably has had a huge impact on Helena Bertinelli's mental health, wanting the visions to stop, being constantly reminded of her bloodied past, and the blood in her veins crying for more blood.

Helena Wayne is currently said to be retconned from one of the possible future timelines of the main world, not a different planet. She's a member of the JSA; this is her New Golden Age verse.

[ If it's not clear, I don't like Spyral stuff for Helena Bertinelli and New Golden Age stuff for Helena Wayne at all LOL it makes no sense ]

Other:

Helena Wayne has been Batman and Batwoman respectively in Earth 2 Society and Elseworlds/last Rites comics. she was also Famine, under the control of Apokolips.

Helena Bertinelli was briefly a panther in Beast World Tour!

Personality wise, I don't know how to succinctly describe them, but here's what I'd say: in terms of philosophy, they're quite similar — they're both morally grey, strongly feminist, and often follow the "the ends justify the means" mindset. they're both very stubborn, resilient, intense, and determined. they're both very skilled, multitalented vigilantes. One difference I'd note is Helena Wayne presents as more emotionally stable, while Helena Bertinelli openly expressed her emotions more, not one to be cold or tame her intensity for other people. They're both strong and ardent personalities and they care so much about making the world a better place for other people.

More ways to differentiate them:

Helena Wayne has only collaborated with the Birds of Prey one time, in a Batgirl! Barbara Gordon comic. Other than that, it is Helena Bertinelli who's usually a Bird of Prey.

Karen Starr and Helena Bertinelli have interacted once; Karen was mourning Helena Wayne and so, she sought to find something within Helena Bertinelli. Helena Bertinelli was naturally confused why Karen was seeking her out, and ultimately, Karen realises that both Helenii are irreplaceable. Ultimately, Helena Wayne's best friend is Karen Starr.

Both Heleneese have variety in their arsenal and suits. However, in my opinion, Helena Wayne's stuff tends to lean more towards fancy tech sophistication, while Helena Bertinelli's style leans towards more old school.

Helena Bertinelli tends to wear crosses and have touches of gold on her suit; Helena Wayne does not on the other hand.

Helena Wayne's suit in Pre-Crisis has the same design for the most part, meant to symbolise a combination of the suits of Batman and Catwoman.

Helena Bertinelli was a victim of CSA (Huntress 1989 & Huntress: Year One), so her motivation for fighting for women and children are very personal.

For Helena Wayne, fighting for victims of domestic violence, trafficking, and so on is also personal in its own way, usually being motivated by her mother Catwoman's works.

Both Helenaes were born into wealth, yes, but ultimately, their privileges did not blind them from fighting for the safety of Gotham at a raw, deep level. While Helena Bertinelli chose not to accept her inheritance (Huntress 1989) and sold her childhood house (Batman: Family), Helena Wayne lost everything in the New 52 storyline. Even in Pre-Crisis, she worked for these causes.

Crossbow At The Crossroads is actually a Helena Wayne comic. She uses Helena Bertinelli's identity to dismantle a human trafficking ring in Italy.

Speaking of, it is absolutely crucial that Helena Bertinelli is Italian; her Sicilian heritage is integral to her characterisation.

Why I consider them different:

These two women are not replaceable or interchangeable. They are very distinct and different characters past the surface level similarities.

Helena Bertinelli has conflict with Batman; Helena Bertinelli is often criticised for her morally grey actions and use of lethal violence, while Helena Wayne usually isn't. However, that doesn't mean Helena Wayne is any less violent than her, she has a more nonchalant attitude to murder in my opinion.

Their parentages are very deliberate and important for them. Helena Wayne is the definite daughter of Batman and Catwoman in a different reality, representing a life where these two people can finally be happy and choose each other and slow down. Which is why I don't think it makes sense that Helena Wayne could be born in the mainverse, considering Batman and Catwoman have more tumultuous lives and personalities and relationships there. Earth 2's Gotham is shown to be less dangerous than Earth 0's.

It is ABSOLUTELY imperative that Helena Bertinelli is a fourth generation Italian and born into a crime family. Whether her mom fakes her death or not, whether her biological father is the very man who placed the hit or not, whether her father is loving or abusive, whether Sal is her cousin or bodyguard, it does not matter. Helena Bertinelli is tragically doomed from her birth and by blood, destined to be hurt and lose her family, to overcome the shadows and the cages of her survivor's guilt and desperately hold onto something called faith to rise and emerge as the Huntress.

BOTH of them are worthy of the Huntress mantle, in their own ways. BOTH of them deserve to tell their stories. Neither Helena is better or worse. The world won't end if there's two Huntresses, they don't need to compete and they don't need to replace each other. We can have MORE stories of promising young women.

Thank you for reading thus far. I have been working on bettering my understanding of them and writing this for a long, long time.

Love you, have a good day, take care. 🩵

[mcytblraufest]

It's the final day to sign up to play Battleship with us! Go go go! Get your signup in on Ao3 today!

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[sphxxshthealien]

the Roaring Knight is to Dess as Ralsei is to Asriel

look. look at them. they resemble Dess—the bat and antlers that mimic Dess, akin to ralsei's horns and fluffiness that are also possessed by Asriel—but they also resemble a darkner, being all silhouetty like the shadowguys.

obviously there's already parallels between Asriel and Dess: both the older siblings of two childhood friends that are no longer at home and are hinted to have a much deeper backstory than on the surface. so it's an intuitive thought that Ralsei might have a Dess-like counterpart.

but the knight makes fountains! how can they (or she, if I'm right) be a darker? well fear not for I can not only resolve this query but I am fairly certain that the knight has to be a darkner.

remember that the knight lies. she told the king and queen that she created the dark worlds, but also told them that they could conquer the light world. Queen didn't even know about the roaring. the knight lies. But if the knight didn't create the fountains, what about this video evidence?

well, the game itself makes a point of telling us that you can't actually make out who is doing it. It seems like the roaring knight showed up in every dark world right after they had been created, took the credit, and then used this credit to become worshipped by the darkners to the point where her word could not be questioned.

so how does the knight get to each dark world imediately after the fountains have been made? well there are two simple reasons:

she is working with the actual creator of the fountains. can't make a fountain because you're a darkner? just call up a lighter to do it for you! I wonder who that could be (it's kris we literally see them do it)

she can travel between dark worlds the same way that Ralsei does. now I can't say I know how Ralsei does that—it seems to be deliberately left a mystery—but if Ralsei can do it then it must be possible. I do have a suggestion as to how they both move between dark worlds: through the light world. Ralsei traveling through the light world is something that has been theorised for a while, and we kind of see the knight do it at the end of chapter 3. that "kind of" is very important. when we follow her from Kris's house to the shelter, we never actually see her on screen, but at the end of the chase there seems to be a kind of trail of darkness into the shelter. So maybe there's some kind of darkness shield around her, or maybe it takes a few moments to un-dark after leaving the proximity of a fountain and you can stay dark if you're quick enough, idk (my point is, it doesn't matter how as long as she's doing something that only Ralsei can do. The mysterious method of travel only strengthens the parallels between them.)

furthermore, the knight must have somewhere to live when all the other fountains are sealed. another dark world. some kind of parallel to Ralsei's castle town. where could there be another dark world... oh wait

the shelter is the Knight's castle town.

I could try to give some attempt at backstory of Asriel and Dess that explains why they have darkner versions of themselves but there's not much to go off so it would be almost entirely guesswork. I think we really just have to wait and see.

just kidding I'm going to list two different possibilities

Ralsei is Kris's horn headband and the Knight is Dess's guitar (or maybe something else belonging to Noelle that reminds her of Dess). They have unusual abilities because they are not just objects come to life, but are infused with the memories of real people. Ralsei is kind because he embodies Kris's love for Asriel and the Knight is less kind because she embodies Noelle's grief over Dess's disappearance.

Asriel and Dess are dead and Ralsei and the Knight came from their dust, which makes them a kind of hybrid between lightner and darkner like the old man / Gerson in chapter 4

[bardic-tales]

Title: The Dream that Never Dies

Pairing: Bianca Moore(f!OC) / Sephiroth

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 1946

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII (AU)

Tags: Alternative Universe, Canon Divergence, Crossover (original & FF 7), Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Whump, Enemies to Lovers, Soulmates, Anxiety and Mental Health, Introspection, Magic and Fantasy, Parallel Universe, Supernatural

Warnings: Psychological manipulation, captivity, emotional coercion, non-consensual touching, obsession, trauma responses, intense imagery, unsettling themes, yandere

Summary: In a dreamscape of silver moonlight and withering flowers, Bianca runs, but Sephiroth always follows, waiting for the moment she will surrender.

Author’s Note: This story explores Yanderoth (yandere!Sephiroth) and takes place after Bianca is captured by Shinra following the Nibelheim Incident. With his descent into madness already set in motion, Sephiroth becomes obsessively fixated on reclaiming her, unwilling to let anyone else have what he deems his. His love for Bianca twists into dangerous possessiveness, driving him to extreme lengths to ensure she remains by his side. As Bianca struggles against both Shinra’s torment and Sephiroth’s relentless pursuit, their bond is tested in ways neither of them could have foreseen. This is a dark and intense take on relationships, blending obsession, devotion, and the unbreakable thread that ties them together.

The dreamscape shimmered and pulsed as Bianca ran through it, the air thick with the scent of unknown flowers and a feeling of unreality. The air rasped in and out of her lungs, a harsh, ragged sound accompanying her desperate struggle. She darted through the night-blooming flowers, their velvety petals brushing her ankles as her feet barely touched the soft earth.

With a silken whisper, the silver petals shut, concealing her passage as a sea of blossoms unfolded before her, their delicate perfume a sweet and subtle reminder of her journey. The eternal moonlight cast long, dancing shadows on the twisted trees. Their argent and ebony leaves shimmered in the gentle glow. A soft, almost inaudible breeze stirred the leaves. The white ribbon, stark against the ethereal landscape Sephiroth had crafted, fluttered behind her like a lost soul. Its delicate fabric whispering secrets only the wind could understand.

Sephiroth followed. He pursued behind her, his steps slow and deliberate, each one carefully placed and measured. His footsteps smashed the flowers behind her as he endlessly pursued his query. In the dim glow, his long, straight silver hair shimmered like a cascade of liquid mercury. With an intensity that pierced the dreamscape’s soft haze, his cyan eyes glowed, their pupils slit. His black coat moved around him like a living shadow, as his silver pauldrons caught the moonlight as he stalked her, his presence a blend of elegance and menace. His gloved hands hung loosely at his sides, the fingers gently flexing, as if silently expecting the exact moment he would seize his opportunity to catch her.

“You can’t run from me, Bianca,” he called, his voice a smooth ripple through the night air. A chilling calm settled over his words, devoid of any heat, yet laced with a bone-deep certainty that sent shivers down her spine. “You’ve returned to me, just as I knew you would.”

With each gasping breath, her bare feet pounded the earth, the yielding grass offering no respite from her desperate flight. Her wild, luminous indigo eyes darted around for an escape, but this world was his. There were no doors or edges, only the endless expanse of his creation. Her wings, heavy with the weight of despair, beat weakly, a desperate struggle against his unyielding chase. She had learned by now that nothing in this place was accidental. An icy dread seeped into her bones as his insidious influence coiled around her, leaving her vulnerable and exposed.

With each lengthening stride, Sephiroth left a trail of withered flowers, their once-bright colors fading to brown beneath his dark influence; the crunch of his boots broke the silence only. He did not need to rush. As a hunter who had already cornered his prey, his movements were a deliberate waltz with the inevitable outcome, a dance of precision and purpose leading to a certain capture.

Bianca stumbled, her porcelain skin catching the moonlight as she fell to her knees. Her fingers dug into the earth, and the silver threads of grass twisted around her hands like chains. Trembling violently, she felt like a wounded creature trapped within the nightmarish grip of the dream, its power overwhelming her senses and leaving her vulnerable and afraid.

A bitter dread, like a Northern wind, washed over her as she felt Sephiroth’s presence loom a few paces behind, his shadow stretching long and menacing.

“Enough, Bianca,” he murmured, his voice both a command and a caress. His arm shot out, a rush of warmth enveloping him as the flowers bloomed brighter, the sky exploding with vibrant color with the rotating crimson and cyan glow of the nebula and celestial bodies overhead suspended in their orbit. The slow, deliberate approach was all she could sense before the crushing weight of oblivion, paralyzed as she was and feeling his coat brush against her as a final, heavy touch. His hand rested on her back. His thick fingers moved slowly, languidly, across the material of her trench coat, their touch feather-light as they brushed against the soft down of her wings.

With a sharp jerk of her head, her eyes blazed with furious intensity, and an uncontrolled rage emanated from her entire being. “I don’t belong here. I don’t belong with you.”

His lips curved into a slow, tender smile, a smile so gentle that it almost seemed to soften his features, yet it couldn’t quite erase the sharp angles of his face, leaving a hint of underlying intensity.

“You are exactly where you belong. With me.” A cold, gloved hand brushed her cheek, making her breath catch in her throat, a shiver tracing her spine. A furious fire ignited within her at his touch, a cruel mockery of the intimacy she had once experienced with him, his hand brushing hers with a shocking intensity.

“You choose her.” Her voice, a ragged whisper, trembled with a pain so profound it felt as if her very soul was unraveling. “You chose madness.”

His smile remained a serene mask. “I chose truth. And you, my beautiful little bird, you came back to me despite it all. Our bond, our thread tying us together, led you here. You can deny it all you wish, but your soul knows where it belongs.”

She struck him then. Her fist crashed against his chest, hitting him in the center where his suspenders crossed his massive pecs. The impact, though considerable, had absolutely no physical effect on him whatsoever.

However, the intense, unfiltered agony reflected in her eyes stirred a strange reaction within him, a perverse sense of satisfaction that seemed to solidify his certainty, as though her suffering provided the last piece of validation he required. With repeated blows, her sharp nails raked across his coat, leaving bloody streaks that looked as if her touch alone possessed the power to rend not just his clothing, but the very essence of his being, a terrifying demonstration of her strength and anger.

“You died!” she screamed. “I saw you!! I-I saw you in the Nibel Reactor. I saw you fall. I tried to reach for you but you turned your back on me!”

The rawness of her sobs, jagged and uncontrolled, caused her strength to abandon her, leaving her weak and slumped against him. Clawing at his coat, her knuckles white, a biting tremor ran through her as she buried her face in his chest, the silence deafening. Each shuddering breath was a quiet betrayal of her resolve, a small crack in the dam of her composure that threatened to unleash the torrent of her emotions.

As his arms encircled her, dread gripped her as Sephiroth’s arms encircled her, as their pressure was suffocating, like a vise tightening around her ribs. His chin trembled on her head. The scent of lavender and smoke—a phantom sweetness—was a chilling reminder of their fleeting time together. Each breath was a chilling reminder of the lurking danger, like icy fingers gripping her throat.

“It is the world that died, not I,” Sephiroth whispered into her hair. His breath ruffled her soft, dark strands. “I am here, Bianca. I have always been here, waiting for you.” His fingers tightened around her, his grip enough to bruise. “You saw me fall, but what you truly saw was the world shedding its illusion. I am reborn, and I offer you the same rebirth. You need only accept it.”

“I don’t want this.” As she sobbed, her breaths became softer, each one trembling against him, a delicate shudder against his chest. “I don’t want you.”

A low, dark chuckle, originating from deep within his chest, vibrated through his body, resonating into hers and sending shivers down her spine with its intensity.

“Lies. You are here because you want me. Because despite everything, you still love me.” Slowly and deliberately, his free hand moved up her stomach, tracing the scar to her navel before circling it and moving up her torso until he stop under her supple breasts. Warm against her ear, his breath carried the weight of unspoken sorrows, a sigh escaping his lips in a barely audible whisper. “You kept my ribbon, even now. You can never escape me because I am part of you. Just as you are part of me.”

The contact felt like the weight of ashes settling on her skin; a chilling touch that extinguished the last flickering embers of her already dwindling hope. The crimson thread throbbed, a frantic pulse of dread against the encroaching darkness, mirroring her terror.

“Look at me.” His gentle words barely registered; her head slowly rose, the weight of grief pressing down on her, eyes overflowing with unshed tears. “There is no freedom outside of me. No sanctuary but the one I offer. The world beyond this dream is nothing but cruelty and chains. But here, with me, you can be whole again.”

With a gentle touch, his thumb brushed the corner of her eye, smudging the remaining trace of a tear; in that moment, it was as if a painter was skillfully blending a stroke of despair into their work of art, making the emotion part of the finished product.

She shook her head, but her movements were sluggish, as if the weight of his words pressed down on her very bones. “You’re just another cage,” she whispered.

“No.” His voice, a silken thread weaving through her mind, was accompanied by the oppressive weight of his presence, crowding and constricting her thoughts. “I am the key. And you, my love, you are the lock. Without me, you remain closed, lost.”

She didn’t respond. Her chest ached, each shallow breath a painful reminder of their loss, his death and rejection, that left her hollow.

Shifting his weight, he leaned closer, the distance between their lips now negligible, a mere breath separating them. “You need only say yes, and I will make this dream your eternity.”

As he drew closer, she gasped, her breath hitching in her throat, and her lips parted involuntarily, overwhelmed by his nearness. She knew Sephiroth could feel her surrender; a tangible shift in the air, thick with the scent of her grief and defeat, a silent cry swallowed by his power. She was incredibly close to surrendering, to allowing him to completely pull her into the encompassing darkness where, together, they would rule as gods amidst the ruins of a fallen Existence.

But then, a flicker of resistance, a spark of that angelic light that still clung to her soul. She pulled back, her voice small but firm. “No.”

The word, a delicate and fragile thing, hung suspended in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning and implications. His smile tightened, a fissure cracking through his perfect composure.

“You say no now,” Sephiroth drawled, “but this dream will not end, Bianca. Every time you close your eyes, I will be here. Waiting. And you will come to me, again and again, until you realize that your dreams are the only reality worth living. You will be mine.”

He let go, and as she fell, the world tilted sickeningly, the vibrant petals of the flowers seeming to claw at her. Sephiroth rose, his silhouette a lonely monument against the cold, indifferent glow of the moon. His predatory gaze never left hers, a burning intensity promising a nightmarish devotion. The chilling weight of Shinra’s violation of her body and Sephiroth’s corruption of her mind was palpable in that unwavering stare, promising endless torment with no escape unless she gave in.

“I am your haven, Bianca,” he murmured as the dreamscape shifted, drawing her into another cycle of their twisted dance. “And you will come to love your prison, just as you were always meant to.”

tagging some fellow mutuals: @themaradwrites @craftyhal @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap @seastarblue

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon

[y2kuromi]

࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 LOVE LETTERS ?! O2: stars aligned,

synopsis: love is a foreign concept, often hard to express in words. except your feelings poured into the sweetest letters, intended for your eyes only. when the saccharine envelopes are mailed out to the five boys you've loved sparks fly, hearts break and chaos ensues. "heavily inspired by tatbilb"

𝖎. series: seishiro nagi x f! reader (she/they) | wc: 7.0k | contents : fake dating trope. kinda? forced proximity. toxic/fake friends, heavy pining. second person (you/your/yours) swearing in italics.

𝖎𝖎. notes: pretend it’s been two days and not two months since i updated this… so sorry wth

⇆ series masterlist prev: parallel lines next: call me baby

MONDAY,

. . . ❀ the weekend dragged on in a hazy blur of ignoring texts and staying curled up in the confines of your bed watching old shoujos, but you couldn’t forget your current predicament.

it felt like a recurring nightmare. and you half wished it was. but it was real. the sick feeling in your stomach. the constant buzzing of your phone. and rensuke kunigami standing outside your house.

your hands faltered, your spoon filled with cereal suspended in the air. the eerie sound of milk dripping off the metal echoed in the kitchen

he was outside your house. of course he was. the two of you always walked to school together. your spoon clattered into your bowl, splashing white droplets onto the kitchen counter

“should i let him in?” your mom asked, the scent of her warm lavender body mist filled the kitchen with a false sense of hope

“no!” you shook your head fervently, “i can’t talk to him mom, i don’t even want to go to school today.”

“you can’t avoid him forever” she sighed, “i told you i didn’t like that kiyomi girl constantly sleeping over, now look what’s happened”

you groaned, pushing your half eaten bowl of cereal away from you. “can you just get him to leave — please?”

your mom exhaled loudly, but she set her phone on the counter and drifted out of the kitchen. you could faintly hear the door opening in the distance and muffled dialogue between them. she returned shortly, with her lips pressed in a thin line and her arms folded across her chest.

you glanced at your phone, watching a notification from kunigami pop up on your lockcreen. you felt awful. you could vividly picture the dejected look fleeting across his face when your mom lied to him

+ 1 new message from: ren you went to school without me?

“you have to sort this mess out” your mom said, shaking her head, “kunigami’s a good kid, don’t throw away your friendship over something so fickle”

“‘s not that easy mom” you frowned, pushing yourself off the stool and smoothing your neatly ironed skirt down, “but i’ll try”

“what are you going to do about meguru and that kid you used to be close with?” she asked, raising a brow as you slung your school bag over your shoulder

you had been ignoring bachira's texts as well, you knew deep down he didn’t deserve it. he'd been really sweet about everything , even going as far as to offer to send his letter back to you. but you couldn't bring yourself to respond.

“who, nagi?” you asked, tilting your head to the side, she hummed in response. “i’ll avoid him too. it shouldn’t be hard, i doubt he’ll go out of his way to talk to me”

"are you sure about that?" she queried, "his letter was pretty intense"

"yeah i'm sure- wait." you narrowed your eyes, "did you read my letters mom?"

"they were cute" she smiled warmly, "you really should get better at hiding things, not that it matters now,"

"thanks" you said through gritted teeth, turning on your heel and making your way towards the front door "i'll be home late, i have to work extra hours to cover my shifts"

"have a good day at school" she called, "or at least try to!"

. . . ❀ you slumped against your desk dejectedly . having a double period of economics first thing in the morning after a subpar weekend seemed like a 'gift' from the devil himself. a gift that went unappreciated, you had suffered enough

it had its silver lining, kunigami wasn't in any of your morning classes. nagi and kiyomi, on the other hand were in some of the classes you had lined up throughout the day. kiyomi rarely attended physical education and you would simply sit beside reo in geography. nagi tended to skip physical education to play video games, he’d be asleep in history too — so that wasn’t a problem.

you heard the scraping sound of the chair beside you being pulled backwards, (e/c) eyes landing on reo mikage. he looked as good as ever, his hair slightly damp from his shower after soccer training and the everpresent scent of his woodsy perfume engulfing him in a soft cloud.

"your hair's wet mikage" you said languidly, your head resting in the cavern of your arms.

"reo" he sighed, sitting down beside you, "and good morning to you too" he was smiling now, the smile that had all the girls at hakuho falling to their knees. except you.

"morning" you hummed, eyes darting around the classroom as the rest of your classmates streamed in.

"you did amazing on friday" reo said, trying to make conversation. you raised a brow. would nagi have told him about the letters? was reo mikage about to congratulate you for being good at writing cringy love letters?

"the semi finals" he added, raking a hand through his lightly dripping hair. you let out a nervous laugh "you guys are really good"

"thanks mikage" you smiled, a soft genuine one that made your eyes sparkle . reo thought you were the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. he couldn't fathom why nagi had chosen sora over you in the first place.

"reo" he said, "c'mon just once? everyone calls me reo"

"it's a good thing i'm not everyone then" you said, stretching and leaning back in your seat. you'd been friends with reo since you were fourteen. three years of banter, three years of him secretly pining after you

"can't argue with that" he murmured, averting his warm violet gaze. he half wished he'd received that letter instead of nagi. nagi didn't deserve you. he did

he was the one who'd found the letter in the first place. nagi was too lazy to check his mail. he said it was too much of a hassle, reo had been sifting through bills and soccer academy envelopes when his fingers grazed the faded yellow envelope

he wanted to talk to you about it. he wanted to tell you that you didn't deserve to be a second choice, he wanted to tell you he understood how you'd felt. but he'd be lying then because he wasn't even a choice at all

you gazed out the window absentmindedly, completely oblivious to the whirlwind of emotions storming through reo's mind. you breezed through the case study assigned after mr. ikida finished teaching. sketching graphs and writing detailed evaluations

his notebook remained blank, he wanted to blame it on being exhausted from morning training, but he knew deep down that the reason he couldn't think about production possibility curves, or demand and supply was due to his surplus feelings for you

"i'm assigning you pair projects for your continuous assessments, a powerpoint presentation analysing the effects of demand and supply in terms of economic growth." mr ikida announced

collective groans and complaints echoed in the classroom and his lip curled into a frown.

"you can pick your own partners" he added, "at your own risk, the presentation is due in two weeks"

you nudged reo with your elbow, pulling him from his thoughts "wanna do the project together?"

"do you even have to ask?" he asks, his violet eyes twinkling. you rolled your eyes.

"you weren't even paying attention" you scoffed, scooping your notebooks into your arms. the bell rang shrilly and your chair scraped backwards as you stood up, "see you in pe mikage"

"reo" he corrected, shaking his head fondly, "see you (y/n)"

. . . ❀ the sun hung lowly in the sky and the faint gusts of breeze enveloped you as you ran effortlessly. you were literally and figuratively running away from your problems

your teammates had noticed the tension between you and kiyomi, —you couldn't blame them, you could cut it with a knife — and you decided to bask in solitude. charging ahead of them, floating through the wind on a trajectory

until your serenity came crashing down chaotically. in mere seconds you were sprawled on your hands and knees on the track. your eyes flickered around the burnt orange expanse, searching for the source of your fall and you found it

seishiro nagi. his leg tangled beneath yours and his head blocking out the sun. the glowing rays highlighted his snowy curls in a way that resembled a halo. ironic, because nagi was no angel. they called him the devil's child for a reason

“are you actually insane?” you spat, shooting the snowy-haired boy a glare. your hands grazed the track roughly and you could feel bruises forming on your knees “like genuinely?”

“nah” he says, shaking his head firmly. “you’re the crazy one”

“excuse me?” you inhaled sharply, eyes widening in disbelief. only seishiro nagi could trip you and somehow make it out to be your fault. your mild irritation slowly subsided as he stretched his hand out towards you

“‘m not repeating myself”

“have you always been this annoying?” you ask, taking his hand. you suppressed the burning urge to pull him towards you and leave him sprawled on the bristled track. you stood on the balls of your feet, tentatively stretching out your legs. "what the hell is your problem?"

“i wanted to talk to you, but you’ve been ignoring me” he pointed out, and you purposefully avoided meeting his gaze.

“there’s nothing to talk about” you said matter of factly

“there is” he said, “your letter”

you had two options: come clean or play dumb. you chose the latter, a near convincing look of confusion was plastered on your face, “what letter…?”

“this letter” he shrugged, pulling it out of his pocket. a flash of yellow paper came into your period vision as he languidly waved it around in your face.

this complicated situation was no longer a distant nightmare. your words lay bare. it was real. it was your handwriting, your letter, your everything.

“i’ve never seen that in my life”, you adamantly denied, though your quivering bottom lip betrayed you. he raised a brow and began to read the concluding paragraph out loud.

“so i relinquish you from my heart, seishiro nagi. have fun with sora, i could care less now. the two of you deserve each other anyways. you’re a match-“

“can you give that back?” you hissed, trying to snatch it from him and failing in the process. he effortlessly dangled the letter out of your reach. your face burned with embarrassment. you could feel your classmate's eyes on you.

“i think i’ll keep it” he says, and there’s a near evil smile etched on his face that you weren’t remotely aware he was capable of.

“give it back now” you said, glaring at him with jarring intensity, "or i swear i'll end you."

“‘s mine isn’t it?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, “says dear nagi doesn’t it? ‘s my address too”

“you weren’t supposed to get it” you frowned, “i didn't send them out, kiyomi did behind my back, without my consent, so please give it back nagi”

you tried to reason with him. emphasis on tried. your efforts were in vain, nagi was insufferable

“sei” he corrected, the teasing smile on his lips growing as you seethed with rage and embarrassment.

“what?” you spluttered, a look of utter confusion clouding your visage

“you said calling me nagi felt weird”

“oh my god will you stop quoting that stupid letter” you groaned, “give it back you nuisance”

“‘s not stupid, i want to keep it” he says. shoving it back in his pocket, “‘ve never gotten anything like this before”

“i’m not surprised” you huff meanly, “it’s not like you deserve it”

“is it because i stole your first kiss?” he says carelessly, not understanding the weight of his words, “you said it belonged to me anyway-”

“do you hate me?” you shrieked, covering your face in embarrassment, “like do you want me to drop dead? clearly you do”

“‘m sorry it’s just cute” he says, “‘m sorry for stealing your first kiss too…”

“you should be sorry” you retorted. nagi had a lot to apologise to you for, and this painfully awkward interaction was going to make the top of the list

“i just said i am”

“then give me back the letter nagi”

“sei” he corrected again. his grey eyes sparkled with teasing intensity.

you didn’t even grace him with a response. you could feel kiyomi’s eyes on you. she shot you a smile. hopeful, unsure. you shot her a withering look. this was all her fault, her fickle attempt at playing cupid was ruining your life.

you turned on your heel resolving to continue your warm up. you were growing tired of arguing with nagi, in all honesty.

then you saw him.

he was slightly blurred by the distance but you knew it was him. kunigami. he was heading straight towards you.

“fuck my life” you exhaled, squeezing your eyes shut. maybe if you squeezed them hard enough all of this would go away. you opened your (e/c) eyes tentatively. nope. kunigami was so much closer now.

“i’m so sorry” you murmur before locking lips with nagi infront of the entire class. it wasn’t easy considering how tall he was. your arms snaked around his neck and you stood on the absolute tips of your toes, barely reaching him

he raised his eyebrows in shock and disbelief, and maybe a few drops of amusement but to his credit he kissed you back hard, hand on the small of your back, fingers rubbing circles on your hips

your nerves jittered wildly and your heart thumped so hard in your chest you were sure nagi could feel it against his. but you kept kissing him, drowning in lapse after lapse of poor judgment and the faint scent of minty citrus tinging his lips

it was over almost as soon as it had started. you pulled away hesitantly. eyes locking with nagi’s. his grey eyes are blown wide and his lips look freshly kissed, a bright pink that mirrors the blush dusting his cheeks

“the hell was that?” he breathes out. much to his displeasure you pulled away from his grasp and your eyes dart around the field. kunigami was gone. mission accomplished…but at what cost?

“5 laps ‘round the track sawako and nagi” coach harukaze says, “this isn’t some rom-com, keep the lip-locking off my field”

“sorry” you squeak out, the apology was more towards nagi. he looked shell shocked and utterly bewildered. you almost felt bad for dragging him into this mess. but on the other hand, this wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t tripped you. this wouldn't have happened if kiyomi didn't send out your love letters. none of this was your fault.

“‘s fine” he shrugs. but he stares at you as if you’ve sprouted a second head. maybe even a third. he thinks you’re crazy. he thinks you’ve completely lost the plot but he refrains from expressing this because he thinks he's crazy too.

reo is jogging up towards him. looking straight out of a perfume advert. he deserves background music with how beautiful he looks. a paradox of the pain he feels brewing inside his chest after watching you kiss his best friend.

you shoot him a nervous look as you walk towards the white markings of the starting line, leaving the pair standing alone.

“dude what was that?” reo asked, violet eyes tinged with confusion, “i thought you said you were going to talk to her?”

“i was” nagi says, raking a hand through his hair, “we were talking...then she jumped me”

he touched his lips gingerly. it was just sinking in that you’d kissed him. and he’d kissed you back. and he'd liked it. a week after breaking up with sora. didn’t that make him an asshole?

“did she tell you why?” reo prods, snapping nagi out of his trance, he's practically interrogating him now “was it because of the letter?”

“i think so…” nagi trailed off, “i don’t know, this is such a pain”

“nagi! does that look like running two thousand meters to you??” the coach hollers, “less yapping more running beanstalk”

nagi exhales loudly, frustration clouding his face. his brain was throbbing, he’d never had so much to think about at once. he hated being confused.

“talk later” he murmured to reo, before breaking into a lazy jog. his head was swimming . he couldn’t get the stupid kiss out of his head. you tasted like strawberries with faint undertones of something he couldn’t quite place a finger on

why did you have to kiss him?? the letter had already messed with his head significantly and now he was losing it. he almost wanted to trip you again for revenge when you sprinted past him. but he refrained. he had a feeling it wouldn’t result in a sweet earth shattering kiss again, more of an earful of curses

twenty minutes later, you slowed to a halt. beads of sweat trickled down your face and your tongue tasted like sandpaper. the track was completely devoid of sound. no one remained but you, nagi and coach harukaze

“i should really give you extra laps” coach harukaze said, shaking his head discontentedly, “but you’re cutting into my lunch break”

“it won’t happen again” you said, honesty dripped from your words like honey. you meant every word. it truly wouldn’t reoccur. you wouldn’t be kissing nagi on the track. you wouldn’t be kissing him, period. you’d resolved to pretend he didn’t exist — nagi..? didn’t ring any bells

“i should hope not” he scoffed, turning his attention away from you and bearing the brunt of his glare on nagi, “and you casanova, have detention with me again for skipping practice this morning”

nagi blew his bangs out of his face exasperatedly. “‘m not gonna come”

“ahh you insolent brat” coach harukaze seethed, “i’ll bench you for the rest of the season!”

“you wouldn’t, 'm your star player"

“both of you, pick up all the cones and take them to the storage closet” your coach ordered, “and maybe clean it up while you’re at it”

“no way” you spluttered in protest, “let nagi do it by himself, he’s the one mouthing off”

“do you want detention too, miss president?” he asked, a menacing grin blooming across his face. "friday wasn't enough for ya?" you shook your head fervently. you wholeheartedly believed this day couldn’t get any worse

“no thank you” you murmured weakly. moving to pick up the cones and batons scattered on the track. you wanted to get this over and done with as fast as possible-

“why’d you kiss me?” nagi asked, as if his words held no weight, “do you still like me or something?”you thought he would've gone off and left you to do all the work by now. instead, he settled for trailing you like a shadow.

you don’t grace him with a response. convincingly acting as if he was no more than a fly. you’d hoped he’d take the hint and leave you to your own devices. you were irritated and sweaty, all you wanted to do was take a shower and change out of your pe uniform that was clinging to your skin. but you were stuck hauling physical education equipment

you’d dumped the last of the cones in the storage closet, sneezing quietly as a storm of dust filled your senses. then nagi’s voice piped up again

“ look, you’re great in your own way. but i’m not ready for another relationship” the words sounded mechanical, as if he'd been practising them in his head for the last few minutes — he had.

the tenderness in which he said your name almost melted your heart completely. almost

“i don’t want you” you said plainly, folding your arms over your chest “not even in the slightest.”

“then why did you kiss me?” he asked, sounding completely helpless. you were driving him near insanity. he hated being confused. he hated having to think so much, to feel so much. he was losing his mind.

“it’s none of your business” you shrugged, pushing the closet door open and stepping into the hallway

“it is my business! you kissed me in front of our entire form class” he spluttered, trailing after you

“well go figure it out yourself then, since you know so much”

“what- sawako-” he started, but you bolted then. and he couldn’t be bothered to chase after you. nagi really didn’t understand girls. he figured you were all wired differently. so complicated. so confusing

. . . ❀ “you did what???” bachira exclaimed, his vibrant sunny eyes nearly popping out of his head, “you kissed nagi?? (y/n) you kissed-”

“megs keep your voice down” you huffed, covering his mouth with your hand. his mom let out an explosive laugh as she spun around in her chair. your face flushed with embarrassment, “it was a mistake!”

“he doesn’t think that” he laughed, squirming away from you, before nudging you with his elbow. you had half a mind to dump his pineapple flavoured soda water over his head

bachira didn’t go to hakuho high with you, he went to namikaze in an entirely different prefecture, but his mom was substituting as an art teacher whilst your teacher was on maternity leave. the brunette with mesmerizing golden highlights only stopped by to drop lunch off for yu,

then he’d stick around and keep you company, cross-legged on the carpet, while his mom ate her food and chipped in occasionally

“he can think whatever he wants” you shrugged, passing meguru the pack of sour skittles you shared between you, “and he can burn that letter while he’s at it”

“ooo speaking of letters” bachira sang, pulling his out of his bag and handing it to you, the wrinkled envelope had blue ink splotches beside peeling off dolphin stickers “you can have this back”

“thank you” you sighed, relief washing over you, “sorry for not texting you back all weekend, i was such a mess”

“nahhh” he giggled, waving you off, “‘m sure you got a billion other messages from your cute little harem”

“i did” you groaned, slumping against the wall, “kunigami must’ve called me at least a hundred times by now” guilt crawled under your skin. you’d promised kuni things wouldn’t change between you and they had, "and he wanted to walk to school with me this morning"

“you can’t avoid him forever” he quipped, chugging his pineapple favoured ramune with vigor, “i would've taken you hostage by now and forced you to talk to me. nagi had the right idea"

“yeah you would ‘cause you’re a freak” you said, scrunching up your nose and scowling at him. "you and nagi are a bunch of weirdos"

“a freak you were in love with” he giggled. you swat at him playfully, “you’re so cute (y/n)”

“oh my god shut up” you sigh, rolling your eyes exasperatedly, “i wish kiyomi never sent those out”

“why did she anyway?” bachira asks, curiosity shining in his eyes like a red giant star, “i know you said she wanted to play cupid but that can't be the only reason. what if she's secretly in love with you? that's romantic as hell you've gotta hand it to her”

“you’re crazy” you splutter, and you can hear yu snickering under her breath “you don’t even try to hide it..”

“kiyomi’s the crazy one” he mutters, shaking his head, “thank you for the letter though”

“you’re not welcome”

“i’m serious!!!”

“you’re never serious”

“i mean it (n/n)” he says, and all the usual playfulness in his voice is gone, “it’s probably the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me”

“that’s actually cute” you murmur, ruffling his already messy hair, “you’re welcome megs”

unlike the other boy’s you’d loved before, you’d never really stopped loving bachira. your feelings for him just became platonic, as they had with kunigami until they started bubbling up again.

“just keep your head up” bachira said, cupping your face in his hands and squishing your cheeks together “it can’t get any worse”

“don’t jinx it” you say, shaking your head, “i’ll text you later megs” you reluctantly stand up from the comfortable carpet, smoothing your skirt down and slipping out of the art room

. . . ❀ you’re in a daze as you trudge to geography, you’d typically sit beside kiyomi, but that was out of the question. you opted to sit beside reo instead. the stream of questions came as soon as you came in contact with the chair

“so…you and nagi huh?” he hums, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips, it doesn't quite reach his violet eyes

you sigh, embarrassment tinging your face, “did he tell you about the letter? did you know about it this morning?”

"yes.... i saw it first” he admits sheepishly, rubbing his hand against the nape of his neck “he’s too lazy to check his mail so i do it for him, but there's no need to feel embarrassed or anything, it's just me”

“i’m screwed” you sigh, “mikage can you fly me out to mars or something?” you'd rather be anywhere than on earth right now. you'd even settle for burning on the sun.

“can’t do that” he hummed, “not when you’re dating my best friend”

“i’m not-” you spluttered, "we're not- i'm not dating nagi,"

“that’s not what he said” he shrugs, picking up his pen nonchalantly and flicking through his notebook

“what…?” could nagi possibly be annoying.. and delusional? you wouldn't put it past him. nagi was a complex jigsaw puzzle that you were once able to comprehend. now he was a mystery to you. (and vice versa)

“kunigami asked him about you during lunch” reo explained, “he just waltzed up to our table and started interrogating us”

“and what did nagi say?” you queried, curiosity and nausea clung to your being. "is he crazy? kunigami knows we don't talk at all, there's no story convincing enough to negate that"

“well he said he really liked you, said he saw you a lot at the konbini during spring break” reo shrugged "he also said you were keeping it on the downlow, and kiyomi was mad because you kept it a secret so she sent out the letters"

"oh" you gasped, nagi had singlehandedly helped you solve your problems. he had no reason to. you weren't friends. you weren't even on good terms, "why the hell would he do that??"

“kunigami believed it” reo raised a brow, completely bewildered, “the drama is more or less over now shouldn’t you be relieved?”

“it's not really over, she sent out five letters. though i would be under normal circumstances.” you mused, “but nagi isn’t normal,”

“point taken” reo laughs, his eyes twinkling with amusement, “are you going to keep up the charade..?” he doesn't want you to. he's butthurt that you'd written five love letters and he wasn't the receiver of a single one

“obviously not” you splutter, “first and foremost…sora would kill me?? she's already going to kill me for kissing him” you said the last part under your breath

“sora’s the one who dumped nagi” reo pointed out, ever the critical thinker, “she cheated on him with a college kid, why would she care?”

“because she practically owns him” you said pointedly, “everyone knows that nagi belongs to sora, he always”

“nagi’s his own person” reo said defensively, as mad as he was about this entire situation, he jumped to his best friend's defence. you raise an eyebrow skeptically, but chose to reserve your comments.

an uncomfortable silence hangs between you and reo for the rest of the hour. you’re elated when the bell rings and you bolt out of mr. mishima's class

your short-lived happiness depletes and your jaw drops when you see nagi waiting for you beside your locker, as if he had a right to be there. he gave you a once over, sleepy grey eyes locking with your (e/c) ones

“can you move” you say impatiently, avoiding his burning gaze. he shook his head, heavy lidded eyes fixed on you

“tell me why you kissed me first” he said, "you owe me that much"

“can you…get over that?” you muttered, “it was just a kiss, i didn’t make-out with you or anything”

his eyebrows furrowed slightly and a pink tinge crept up his face, “so it meant nothing to you?”

“it meant nothing to you when you kissed me in middle school” you countered, nudging him out of the way with your hip

he wanted to argue with you, he wanted to tell you it was his first kiss too and it meant a lot to him. but he didn’t. he moved out of your way wordlessly and he watched you fish out your history books with an almost wistful expression on his face

“why would you tell kunigami we’re dating?” you asked, narrowing your gaze as you slammed your locker shut. "as a matter of fact, why would you come up with that story for me?"

he shrugs. you’re beyond irritated by his nonchalant attitude . you’re almost tempted to pull his hair out. you think it looks stupid, curling around his face, making him look cute when he was actually the worst

“can you answer me?” you asked, he spared you a brief glance before walking away. you stormed after him, steam nearly blowing off the top of your head

you tug at his slightly rumpled blazer as he strolls in-front of you. he tilts his head and shoots you an expectant look. your stomach turns, butterflies erupting and making your face heat up.

“let me walk you to class first” he says, “then i’ll answer you”

“in your dreams” you scoff, swerving around him and speed walking to class. he’s not very far behind you and when you plop down on your seat, he sinks into the chair beside you

“can’t you sit somewhere else?” you ask, “you’re drawing unnecessary attention to us” you didn't really mind, kunigami usually sat beside you in history and that would've been an absolute shit show

“us?” he asks, he’s smiling now and you want more than nothing to wipe it away. even if you have to kiss it off his stupid face.

“you are insufferable” you sigh, “just go to sleep or something” you didn’t need to tell him twice. nagi had been fighting sleep all day. he was beyond drained, due to a late night gaming session and the unwavering train of thoughts powering through his head.

“okay” he murmurs sleepily, leaning against you and resting his head in the crook of your neck. he feels you tense up against him and he smiles. fair play, you'd done worse to him today.

“stop it” you whisper harshly, trying to pry him away, “have you finally lost it?"

"'m trying to help you" he shrugs, but to your relief, he slips off your shoulder and slumps against the table. closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep

you take this opportunity to examine his features; his chalky pale skin and sharp cheekbones and soft white hair, falling against his face. you're hyperaware of him. of how his eyelashes brush his cheeks when he turns his head towards the window, hyperaware of his steady breathing

with the sunlight streaming through the classroom window bathing his body and casting a golden glow across your face, he looks ethereal. the soft look on his face chipped at your newfound hatred for him. you almost liked him when he was docile and asleep. almost

you forced your eyes away from his sleeping form. you stared at your history notes as the class progressed uneventfully. you tried to focus on the lecture but your brain was still running amok

you'd had such a long day. you hands fisted themselves in frustration as you replayed the last few days in your head. you couldn't believe this was your life now. all the drama, the irrational decisions. it felt like you were the tragic main character in a cliché love story

you'd kissed nagi. in front of kunigami. in front of everyone. and even worse, your love letters were out. you didn't even want to imagine rin's reaction. or isagi's. you sighed, rubbing your face tiredly.

nagi shifts, pulling you out of your spiralling thoughts. you turn your head to check if he was stirring and finally waking up and found him still sound asleep.

except his head was resting near your arms on your desk. for some reason, you couldn't stop yourself from staring at him. you were irritated now. why did he have to look good? why couldn't he look like a troll so you could hate him with ease?

oh god he smelled nice too. 'don't think about nagi' you scolded yourself mentally 'he's insufferable and he's a nuisance' you looked back down at your notes, determined to pretend he didn't exist

after what felt like hours the lesson finally came to an end and you packed your stuff quickly. you moved to stand up and leave when an hand wrapped around your wrist and yanked you back down

you fell ungraciously onto your seat and shot nagi a withering glare. kunigami catches your eye as he leaves the classroom. auburn eyes heavy with underlying sadness. you felt awful. you swallowed, averting your gaze.

your gaze flies back to the boy beside you, who's now gazing down at you, a soft, sleepy smile playing at his lips. a wolf in sheep's clothing. one would think he wasn't pure evil.

"we can talk now" nagi yawns. you shake free of his hold before he's able to pull you any closer.

"what makes you think i'm still interested in anything you have to say?" you retort coolly. he cocks his head slightly at you

"stop being confusing" nagi complains, "'s such a pain"

"stop being annoying" you shoot back. he grumbles but to your satisfactions he doesn't argue. you sigh exasperatedly before continuing, "i guess we can head to the field"

he’s surprised when you loop your hand through his and tug him behind you. so much for not wanting to draw attention to yourself...nagi stumbles forward slightly, caught off guard, before following along.

his hand was warm in yours, sparks stung your palms and you dropped it like it was blazing metal. he shot you a confused look but he said nothing as you walked through the hallways and made your way outside. you hightailed it to the bleachers and sat down, wringing your hands in your lap

nagi took his sweet time sitting down. shuffling over until he was right next to you, propped up on his forearms. the sun cast the skyline muted shades of orange, pink, and blue.

"why did you cover for me?" you ask, "and don't ask me why i kissed you, because you're smart enough to put two and two together"

"'cause we're friends" he shrugged, "'s a hassle but i'm helping you"

"we haven't been friends for years" you point out, "and i said you were on the waiting list"

"i know" nagi replies, "but i still helped you" you wanted to know why he had. nagi was selfish. you knew that. but here he was proving you wrong. it unnerved you.

"i'm telling kunigami we broke up" you said simply. nagi blinked at you in surprise. he really didn't understand you. but he found that he wanted to. he had before, it shouldn't be too hard now.

"why would you do that?" he asked, raising a brow

"because we're not even dating, he deserves to know the truth" you shrugged, crossing your legs and leaning comfortably on the metal seat behind you "and you’re hooked on sora"

“‘m not” he said adamantly. although he wasn’t fooling you at all. not in the slightest. you shook with peals of laughter, the saccharine sounds wafting around the empty field

“you so are. you’ve been on and off for ages. she’ll come crawling back in a few weeks and you'll go back to her without hesitating”

"'s not funny" he frowns. his typical 'x' pout more prominent than ever, " and 's not true either, i'm done with her"

“it is funny nagi," you say, stifling your giggles, "and she's not done with you. i'm sure the college guy won't last a week" you pat his arm reassuringly, but his frown deepens. you're sure he's about to cuss you out, but the words that leave his lips nearly floor you..

“date me.”

"what??" you splutter, "are you crazy?"

"it’ll drive her insane” he pleads, “she’s always been jealous of you"

"that's even worse" you said appalled, "she'll get revenge on me for being with you. which is pointless because i don't even like you."

"i'll make it worth it" he said, and he sounds desperate now. his grey eyes drip with abundant pleas. his hands are clasped together.

"i’ll think about it" you say, locking eyes with him, he anticipated your verdict with bated breath "yeah hell no! i just told you she’ll kill me??"

“if we're being realistic ‘s not like you have a choice” he says, “with your love letter predicament,”

“you’re annoying” you frown, “has anyone ever told you that?”

"you have, dunno about anyone else 'though” he says truthfully, he probably wouldn’t have been paying attention “ just say yes, ‘s not a real relationship. it's just until everything blows over” 

you contemplate what he said for a minute. for once you had to admit he was being completely logical. you couldn’t deny it. after all, you had no other option, and you needed this more than he did.

if rin or yoichi wrote you back you'd have more on your plate and having a 'boyfriend' would make things less awkward....

"fine" you sigh reluctantly. if anyone had told you a few days ago, that your lover letters would be out and you were agreeing to a fake relationship with nagi — who you hadn't spoken to in ages — you would've called them crazy. but here you were

"solid" he grins, stretching out his hand to shake on it you stare down at his big, veiny extended hand and swat it away.

“we need a contract first” you shook your head, pulling open one of your notebooks and searching for a pen.

“ahhh you’re such a pain” he groaned, “what do we need a contract for, i'm not paying you, you're not paying me”

“boundaries” you said , “work with me, lazy”

“‘m not lazy” he huffed, but relented. he watched intently as you wrote out a title in intricate cursive.

fake dating contract ⭑ 1. no kissing

"first condition, no kissing" you recited aloud. you glance up from your notebook and see a gobsmacked expression on nagi's face. he spluttered uncharacteristically 

“what??” he was dumbfounded, “how are people supposed to think we’re dating if we don’t kiss”

“hand holding, hugs” you said, listing them out on your fingers, “insta posts etcetera”

“you’re joking right?” he asks, “‘s not a very funny joke”

“do i look like i’m joking?” you say impatiently, “the rule stands loser, why do you want to kiss me so bad??”

“whatta pain” he grumbles, pulling out his phone and loading into an fps game. the blaring music filled the silence between you. "sora was always asking me to write her notes, add that to the contract”

“that is so corny" you grimaced, but the idea of nagi writing you cute little post-it notes didn't seem all that bad

⭑ 2. nagi has to write (y/n) notes

"'s funny you say that, considering the fact you're in this mess because of your corny love letters" he chuckles

you shoot him a meaningful glare as you write down the next condition “you have to come to my volleyball games”

"you should come to my soccer games too, it’s only fair"

⭑ 3. we have to go to each other's games

"you’ve got to make me your wallpaper" you said, he glanced at his phone and shrugged. he didn’t really mind. once all this was over he could just change it back to choki

"you gotta make me yours too" he yawns, resting his cheek against his knuckles and gazing at you.

“ughh” you grimace, “c’mere let me take a picture of you then” you take a moment to appreciate the setting sun's warm glow, casting beautiful shadows on nagi's face as he gazes sleepily at you. the soft hues of the setting sun and the shadows it casts dance on his face as you take the picture

as much as you hate to admit it, it's pretty cute. you return to scribbling in your book as he settles back into his game. or at least that's what you thought. he wordlessly takes a picture of you writing the condition down in your notebook. he thinks you look pretty like this. focused and concentrated with your brow furrowed in concentration

“delete that” you say, not even looking up from your notebook. he shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. as weird as this was, he didn't mind hanging out with you

"'s my new wallpaper" he shrugs, "it's candid"

you scowl lightly but you let it go. none of this was real. it didn't matter "whatever loser, we have to go on dates too”

“that's fine, just no house parties, except the sports ones” he says, "sora was always dragging me to those"

“when have i ever gone to a house party?” you laugh, "i mean casual dates, like arcades or whatever. you can pick i guess"

he'd like that, more than he was willing to admit, even if it wasn't real. his dates with sora were painfully boring. shopping, partying. nothing he enjoyed. it didn't makes sense for him to compare you to sora, after everything, but he couldn't help it. you were consuming his thoughts

"sure" he said nonchalantly, his eyes glued to the fps game on his phone.

“also no snitching” you add, “mikage already knows but i guess he’s trustworthy. we can’t tell anyone else this is fake”

"that would defeat the entire purpose” you had to agree with him on that. you gave your list a once over. you could always add more to the contract if the need arose.

⭑ 1. no kissing ⭑ 2. nagi has to write (y/n) notes ⭑ 3. we have to go to each other's games ⭑ 4. we have to go on dates ⭑ 5. no snitching

"okay sign” you said, handing him the pen and the notebook. you grabbed them back almost instantly “wait i forgot one!!” you said, “no falling in love, this is temporary”

“haven’t you already broken that one?” he mused, raising an eyebrow at you. your cheeks flushed and you shoved the notebook into his hands

“just sign the contract nagi"

tags 🏷️: @nishimaru @peachesncats @shacha (open)

©y2kuromi 𝜗𝜚 2024 please do not plagiarise, repost, or translate any of my works on here or any other websites.

[blackbirdofasgard]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you lovely people for tagging me! @elodiah, @in-my-loki-feels, @lokimobius, and @lgwilt

Not gonna lie: what I just started is really weird, and I'm very curious to see if it works or not, which is why I'm sharing a lot more than I usually do. (All that I have so far, actually.) I haven't sunk too much time into it yet, so it's not too late to scrap the whole thing and start over if I have to 😅 Anyways, I hope this makes sense!

"Do you ever think about parallel universes?" Don asked apropos of nothing as he peered across the kitchen table at his spouse. Loki, who had been gazing into the living room with much more warmth than the chaotic toy-littered floor warranted, snapped abruptly out of his reverie upon hearing the question. Raising a brow, he let a bemused grin quirk his lips. "Rather an existential query for a Tuesday evening." He absently shifted the papers of Sean's homework that had been abandoned in favor of playing video games as he asked, "What brought that up?" Shrugging, Don returned his grin. "You know me," he said, "My mind wandered, and that's where it landed." "Hm, I do love your inquisitive mind, my dear Mobius," Loki purred, reaching across the polished gold surface of the table to cover his companion's hand. Blushing, Mobius averted his eyes out to the Asgardian city they overlooked from their spot on the palace's terrace. His distraction only lasted a moment, returning to look Loki in the eyes. "Too bold, my prince," he admonished gently, though he made no attempt to move his hand, a fact that delighted Loki to no end. "But do you think it's possible?" Mobius pressed, "I mean, we obviously know there are nine realms in our known universe, but that's not what I mean. I'm talking about a world that's on a different plane entirely. Like a—" "An identical world to ours, save for some notable differences," Loki finished the thought for him, proving that they were on the same page. Mobius' wings gave a little involuntary flutter of excitement, the motion shimmering with pixie dust. "Exactly!" he enthused, thrilled that Loki had taken to the idea so quickly, "Can you imagine how many there must be out there?" Loki stirred the tea in their acorn cup, but it was obvious by the way they leaned in over the mushroom table that they weren't as invested in their drink so much as they were in the conversation.

It's a bit late, but I'll do some tags if any of you would like to share some WIPs! (With the usual apologies for double tagging.) @insomniaflarrow, @thosegayoldmen, @andthekitchensinkao3, @insert-witty-user-name-here, @natendo-art, @wolfpup026, @mobius-m-mobius, @distracteddream, @devilbearingtrouuble, @mirilyawrites, @mobiusismycomfortcharacter, @impulsemuppet, @boredintjqueen, @kcscribbler

[thedbahub]

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[sokkastyles]

Hi,

Hope you are doing well. Thank you for the response on my query on Aang and violence.

I know that Iroh comments to Zuko that Azula was mad and needed to be taken down after Azula attacks both him and Zuko and he was injured. I know people get angry about the usage of the word "mad", but to me Iroh was stating a fact. At this point, Azula had attempted to take their life, and they had fought to stay alive. Iroh has realized that Azula is a major threat to both him and Zuko. Given that Azula had absorbed Ozai's worldview from a young age, that definitely shows that Azula can become a threat to the world as well, and can cause more damage. I think this is what led Iroh to call Azula "mad"

I would like your thoughts on this.

At this point in the narrative, it is established both that Iroh understands how dangerous Azula is, and that Azula also understands that Iroh is her main obstacle in capturing Zuko. Azula knows she can manipulate Zuko, but not Iroh. Iroh also knows this, and is impressing upon Zuko that he does not have to feel guilt about wanting to protect himself from her just because she is family, especially since she can and does take advantage of this fact.

The specific word Iroh uses is "crazy." I don't mean that as a nitpick, but I bring it up because that exact word actually happens to appear three times in the transcript of the episode. The other two times are Toph praising Aang for "holding his own against a crazy beast" and Iroh saying "what, are you crazy?" in response to Zuko wanting Iroh to shoot lightning at him so Zuko can practice redirecting it.

Iroh isn't literally calling Azula mentally ill. The word is just casually used as a synonym for "dangerous," and not just by Iroh. Which is casual ableism, but 1) that's the show, not Iroh as a character, and 2) policing people's language endlessly is ALSO a form of ableism, especially when you're policing the way victims of violence talk about their experiences.

The real problem Azula apologists have with what Iroh says is that he's telling Zuko that he has a right to defend himself, even from people who might claim to love him. The specific mirroring of the word crazy to describe Azula's lightning and Iroh refusing to shoot lightning at Zuko also highlights that while Azula will gladly use Zuko's love for his family to hurt him, Iroh never will, even if Zuko asks him to. And since Azula and Ozai BOTH will later shoot lightning at Zuko while also trying to shift blame onto Zuko (Ozai saying Zuko is disrespectful and disobedient, Azula saying she's "sorry it has to end this way"), I have to think this parallel is not a coincidence.

[mastercrownmonday]

Heya Crown, have your ever met your Parallel version? I heard they actually managed to take over their Landia! Now ain’t that a shocker for ya?

"An amusing query, but I can assure you that there is only truly one of me. I have heard rumors, though, of a shadowy approximation of myself (and Landia) suddenly appearing in a dimension far away. Supposedly, it's a quaint kingdom with a dark secret: its inhabitants' nightmares are often stolen and turned to reality, resulting in a constant onslaught of all manner of monsters and foes. Who in that land would fear me so? It's anyone's guess, for I am very frightening."

[sketchp00ch]

I DEFINITELY see this Dynamic between The Riddler and Miss Tuesday

(Mainly because I ship her better with Jonathan Crane but that’s another cringy thing about me, please don’t tell anyone)

Also, please remember that (again), this version of Miss Tuesday is NOT from the original canon, she is strictly a personal reinterpretation on how I think she would fit in different adaptations/continuities

More on their dynamic down bellow 👇🏻👇🏻👇🏻

(Add more to the lore if you like lol)

— They are the platonic version of Sheldon and Amy from Big Bang Theory

— They partake in parallel play on their free days (he reads his books while she paints her miniature as soft jazz plays in the background)

— They both live in his apartment with their own separate rooms

— Sometimes Miss Tuesday would sing a Greek hymn and Riddler enjoys hearing her sing as he tries to relax after a long day (he usually asks her to do so)

— They enjoy playing chess together (Tuesday lets him win because she doesn’t want to deal with him crying like a sore loser)

— Riddler often calls Tuesday his “Delphi” because she always know what he needs/wants and what he’s saying/thinking, and she responds by calling him “Apollo” as a joke

— When they’re discussing private matters they discuss it in Greek

— Ari (Miss Tuesday) was a child prodigy with picture perfect memory and is essentially smarter than Edward but he’d rather not acknowledge that notion, while Ari would rather keep her intelligence to herself when she’s not working

— They often have tea with Oswald and (sometimes) Jonathan on Wednesday afternoons where they “take a break” from villainy and just spend that time bantering, gossiping, and have deep conversations on philosophy, theories, and morality— typical girlie pop stuff

— Whenever Edward goes on a business trip for longer than a week, he orders Ari to spend three of her work days to go to Arkham to keep Dr. Crane company for at least two to three hours at most (which totally didn’t lead to anything *cough-cough*)

— Query and Echo adore Miss Tuesday and would often yell at Riddler for even raising his voice at her whenever she gets a lecture

— Edward makes sure Ari’s isn’t overstimulated to he brings emergency noise canceling headphones to calm her down whenever they’re in a larger social gathering

— Ari is the master of grey rocking mainly because she often tunes out Edward whenever he goes on one of his narcissistic tantrums like he’s a chihuahua yapping for attention

— They LOVE watching iceberg conspiracy theory videos together

— Edward sometimes jingles his keys in front of Ari to regain her attention whenever she looks away from him as he goes on another of his hour long lectures (“Okay so, back in the day- JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE!! Back in the day—!!”)

[puck-luck]

new beginnings | august 12 - 18

wc: 20.1K

note: this is the second to last chapter! i can't believe it! we're so close to the end, you guys :( honeytrev have a big week this one... some may say that this is the biggest week of them all. but i think i say that every chapter, so. that's for YOU to decide!

78:90 – HONEY

Honey takes a breath. The air washes over her knuckles. Her hands are twined together, the fingers on her left hand squeezing her right thumb while she chews on the nail of her left thumb, and she’s staring out the car window. They just turned off Providence Road and they’re just about two turns from the street where Honey grew up. All they have to do is turn on Fairview, then take the second right. Then, she’ll be home. Another deep breath. She closes her eyes. 

“You okay?” Trevor asks. He reaches over the console and slides his hand over Honey’s thigh. 

Honey sighs, leaning her head back against the headrest. She looks toward Trevor. “Nervous.” Her hands fall to her lap and unclasp, her right covering Trevor’s. 

He squeezes her thigh before turning his palm over and interlocking their fingers. “Don’t worry,” Trevor says. “I think everything will be okay. If it’s not, I’m here.”

“What if they’re not home?” Honey asks.

“I’m willing to stake out the house ‘til they get back.” Trevor shrugs and flicks on the turn signal. “Or we can give up and go home. There will be other summers and Thanksgivings and Christmases where we can see them. We don’t have to do this now if it doesn’t seem to work out.”

Honey reaches over with her free hand and fixes a strand of Trevor’s hair. He turns back to the road after daring to look at her for a moment longer. Honey keeps playing with his hair. They turn down the final street a minute later and Trevor parallel parks in front of her house.

The driveway is empty, but it always is. Unless they have company, of course. Honey’s parents prefer to park in the garage anyway. 

The dark gray siding on the house is the same as it was five years ago, the last time Honey saw it. They’ve painted the wooden front door from white to black, to match the shutters on the windows. The glass panes are clean, reflecting the lush yard that her father keeps.

The grass is mown in neat lines. The flowerbeds are bright with wildflowers, packets of which her mom used to dump into the dirt and wish for the best rather than taking delicate care of. The bushes are a little overgrown, as is the tree in the front lawn. Fifteen years ago, Honey would’ve spent a day like today outside. She would have hid in those bushes and climbed that tree and sat on the branches until her dad got home from work.

Her bedroom curtains, the left-most window on the second floor, are open.

She can imagine the rest.

Her bed is made. The pink bedspread she’s had since she was in fourth grade is folded over neatly and her favorite stuffed animal sits in the middle of the headboard, laying against the pillows. Her bookshelf is littered with chapter books and trinkets. The bulletin board above her desk is missing a spot. Several, actually, where the cork shows and the pins remain in place. There’s a scrap of paper captured by a blue thumbtack, torn from where Honey ripped a letter from Thomas away and put it down the garbage disposal in the kitchen. The only clothes in her closet are ones that she didn’t fit into at 17, when she moved away, and the white dress from her high school graduation. There’s a picture of her and Bea on Halloween in 2008, smiling over their bags of candy, tucked into the corner of her mirror.

“Any last words?” Trevor queries, gentle and teasing. He unbuckles the seatbelt for Honey, then his own, and leaves the car. He rounds the front and makes a face at Honey before he opens the passenger door and bends down to kiss her. 

Honey shakes her head, but pulls him back for another kiss when he leaves her lips too soon.

“Whatever happens in there,” Trevor murmurs. He tweaks her bottom lip with his thumb. “Doesn’t even matter. No matter what, I’m taking you to Chick-Fil-A to get Ice-Dream cones and Dokes for the ride back to Litchton.”

“Dokes,” Honey laughs. “Only Californians and pretentious people drink Diet Coke, Trevor.”

“And Bea,” Trevor adds.

Honey squints one eye and tilts her head. “Doesn’t she count as pretentious?”

Trevor grins. “Well, if you insist.” He takes Honey’s hand and leads her out of the car, closing the door behind her. “Christian and Stephanie, right?”

Honey smiles fondly at his effort, but shakes her head. “Christopher and Stephanie,” she corrects.

Trevor snaps his finger. “Damn it. I was so close. Good thing we cleared that up before I embarrassed myself.”

“I think they would introduce themselves anyway,” Honey says. 

They’re approaching the door now, walking up the stone-lined path, and they pause on the front stoep. Honey surveys the door. She’s standing just inches from it, but she can’t seem to find the energy to raise her fist and knock.

“I have a key, you know,” she says after a minute. She’s talking to Trevor, but really, she doesn’t need him to hear it. It’s more… like she’s stalling for time. 

“Oh, do you?” Trevor asks, sounding intrigued. “Do you want to use that instead of knocking?”

Honey laughs. “No, I don’t think so. That would be too normal.” She chews on the inside of her bottom lip. “I just have to knock.” She repeats the mantra in her head. All Honey has to do is knock. It’s not that hard.

Still, she doesn’t raise her fist. 

Trevor eyes Honey. “Do you want me to do it?” he offers.

All of Honey’s breath leaves her lungs in a rush of relief. “Would you?”

Trevor flashes his chipped tooth at Honey when his lips stretch upward and he nods. “‘Course, baby,” he says. He lifts his hand and knocks on the front door three times. The sound seems to echo and sink into Honey’s bones.

It isn’t long before she hears shuffling and footsteps behind the door. It’s her dad. She can tell by his footfalls.

He’s grayer than he was when she left. Honey supposes it makes sense. He was almost forty when she was born, so he’s past sixty now. When he opens the door, they stare at each other for a beat of silence.

“Honey,” he says. Honey can’t tell what he’s thinking– his face is impassive and his voice could fulfill a myriad of emotions: confused, surprised, intrigued, even a tinge of upset. Honey hopes it’s not that.

“Dad,” Honey replies. He’s wearing a shirt from their annual church Oyster bake. He got this shirt the year that he volunteered to be a shucker and Honey had to leave early with the McLean family because the seafood smell was making her sick. 

He blinks at her, then opens the door even wider. “Is everything okay?” His eyes flicker over to Trevor, then back to Honey. “Do you want to come in?”

“Yes, please,” Honey says. 

She knows the house like the back of her hand, even five years removed. Her dad leads them to the living room regardless and gestures toward the sofa. “Take a seat, Hon. Your mom isn’t home yet, she had to stay at work for a little while longer. We’re going to House of Pizza when she gets back, would you want to join us? I mean, it’s tradition, isn’t it?”

Honey sees the olive branch that he’s extending, but she can’t seem to take it quite yet. “We actually have dinner plans, but thank you.”

“Okay, no problem,”  her dad replies. He sits in the armchair across from them. “So.”

“So,” Honey echoes.

They nod at each other awkwardly, waiting for the other to say something.

Trevor looks between them. He chuckles a little bit, then covers his mouth when Honey glares at him, betrayal probably coating her features. “Sorry,” Trevor apologizes. “This is just so…” he trails off, shaking his head. He extends his hand towards Honey’s dad. “I’m Trevor. You have a really nice house.”

“Christopher,” Honey’s dad supplies, reaching out and taking Trevor’s hand. They shake hands for a second, then drop. ��Tell you what,” he continues. “Why don’t I head down to the garage and see if I can scrounge us up some drinks? Honey can give you the tour. There’s a lot of house left to see.”

“Sounds great,” Trevor confirms. 

“Your mom should be home in about fifteen,” Christopher announces to the room. He slaps his hands over his knees and stands, heading towards the kitchen, which connects to their garage.

Honey can’t seem to decide what to call him. He’s familiar and she knows him, but it’s been a long time. There are two glass shields between them– the one that she put up to protect herself and the one that he raised in front of himself– and Honey can’t tell whose is thicker and stronger. It’s still her dad through the glass, but she doesn’t know if he’d respond to ‘Dad’ if she lowered her defense and called out to him. ‘Christopher’ doesn’t seem right either. That’s for people like Trevor– not his blood relative. Honey has half of his DNA. She can’t just call him Christopher.

“I think this is going well,” Trevor offers when her father leaves the room.

Honey glares at him. 

Trevor laughs and takes her hand. “C’mon. Show me around. Get comfortable in the house again, then you’ll be more comfortable talking to your dad. He seems nice.”

“He is nice,” Honey grumbles. “That’s why I’m annoyed that this is so awkward.”

“I mean, I get it, Hon. You don’t talk to the guy for five years and then show up on his doorstep? That’s a surprise for sure. I think he just needs some time. Plus, your mom will be here soon, so we’ll see if she can diffuse the tension at all.” Trevor squeezes her hand. “Show me around, babe.”

The tour starts simply. Honey introduces each room in a sullen voice, listing them. Living room, where they just sat. Dining room. Her chair was that one. Kitchen, downstairs bathroom, her parents’ home office, the laundry room. It’s once they head upstairs that Honey opens up a little bit.

It’s because of the baby pictures that line the wall. Trevor makes her stop and explain them.

“That’s me and Mom on my first birthday,” Honey says about the first one. “It was just us. They waited until my mom was 35 or 36 to have me, and my dad’s parents were elderly already, so they couldn’t come visit because they lived so far away and it wasn’t easy for them to travel.”

“What about your mom’s parents?” Trevor asks.

Honey shakes her head. “Her dad wasn’t around and her mom died when she was in college.”

“Oh.” 

Honey shrugs. “She’s okay.” She moves onto the next picture. “My daycare put on a play the first year I was there. I played a bunny and I really loved my ears, so my teachers let me take them home. I wore them every day for almost a year, probably. From the time I was two until I turned three.”

“That’s really cute,” Trevor coos, nuzzling Honey’s cheek with his nose. “Should I start calling you ‘Bunny?’”

Honey blanches and pushes him off. “No,” she says. “That makes me sound like a tramp.”

Trevor slides his hand under her shirt and taps the tattoo at the base of her spine. “Well, if this doesn’t already.”

Honey pushes him away again, further this time. “Don’t be a dick, Trevor.”

Trevor grins. “Okay, baby. Keep telling me about these pictures. You were adorable back then.”

“If the next words that come out of your mouth are ‘What happened?’, I’ll kill you,” Honey threatens. 

Trevor zips his lips and locks them with an invisible key.

Honey points at the third picture. “I’m eating pomegranate in that. My parents used to cut them up for me and let me pick out all the seeds by hand, which would take forever, but it kept me occupied instead of in front of the TV.” Her finger fixes on the fourth. “I got that bike for Christmas when I was eight and I would ride it around the neighborhood every summer until someone stole it when I was eleven.”

“I recognize that girl,” Trevor says before Honey can explain the fifth picture.

Honey smiles. “Yeah, that’s my Bea.” That was a fun day– they went ‘camping’ with their dads that day, but it was more like their dads went fishing and the girls were left to run around and get up to no good under the guise of supervision. It was Bea’s idea to smear mud on their faces like war-paint and Honey’s idea to weave ferns in their hair. They claimed it was camouflage from the monster army in the woods and their dads played along, abandoning their fishing rods in favor of playing pretend. It was after they defeated the enemy that Honey’s dad had snapped the photo on her mom’s digital camera before making them wash the mud off. They weren’t allowed to maintain their costumes in the McLean’s minivan.

“You guys have been best friends this long without a break?” Trevor asks. “Really?”

Honey nods. “Yeah. We just get each other, always have. That’s my girl.”

“That’s cool.”

They continue down the upstairs hall. Honey shows Trevor her parents’ bedroom, the guest room, and the old playroom that her parents have converted into a half-assed gym. There’s just a treadmill and a yoga ball in there. When they pass the bathroom, Trevor plants a kiss on Honey’s cheek and says he’s doing to take a leak. There’s only one room left, at the end of the hall, door facing them menacingly, and Honey accepts. Entering her old room will be like going back in time and she doesn’t know if she’s ready for Trevor to do that with her. It would be nice to have a moment alone.

When she enters the room and sees how everything is frozen in time, Honey feels tiny and seventeen and sad all over again. It was here, five years ago, that she was sent those videos of herself. She was laying in that bed when it happened. In the months before she could leave and run away to Litchton, her bedroom door would get stuck from how hard she slammed it after finding out. It was pure anger and it actually warped her doorframe.

Honey feels dizzy all of a sudden, like a sudden onset of vertigo, and she needs to lay down. She will not lay in that bed, not that rotten time capsule where she lost her virginity to Thomas Jones when she was just a child.

So Honey lays on the floor.

She used to do this a lot, actually. Bea would call it ‘Honey’s Mandatory Floor Time.’ She always said it looked silly and Honey was ridiculous. She said it with a laugh, but Honey is not laughing now. 

This is ridiculous, Honey thinks to herself. Why are you lying on the floor? Get up. Get up.

Her eyes focus, bringing everything back into view where it had fizzled away while she zoned out. She can feel thin tear tracks drying on her cheeks and at the corners of her eyes.

There, at the base of her bedframe, Honey spots a carved heart. Inside the heart lies a scribbled “H + T.”

Honey deflates, finding herself immobile where she lays. H + T. She carved that for Thomas as an angsty sixteen year old, frustrated that her parents hadn’t allowed her to stay out with her boyfriend after homecoming. She’d had to come home for curfew and she missed out on a really fun night. The letters had been her tiny act of rebellion, just out of sight.

She had forgotten about the carving. If she had remembered it, she’d have gotten rid of the bed frame a long time ago. Shortly after his betrayal, probably.

Trevor knocks at the door and enters Honey’s bedroom. He laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he drops to the floor and joins her. Trevor lays with his head next to Honey’s, body close to hers but not touching, except for their hands. He intertwines their fingers. “What are we doing down here?” Trevor asks.

Honey shrugs.

He looks around, allowing the silence to rest. “H + T,” he mutters eventually, lifting their intertwined hands to run his index finger along the carving, tracing Honey's handwriting. “You and me.”

And, yeah. Honey can live with that.

She nods. “You and me,” she echoes, staring at the carving.

Out of her peripheral, she sees Trevor turn his head to look at her. She does the same, mirroring him. He smiles. She smiles. His thumb rubs her hand soothingly and Honey feels dried up. It's hard to cry whenever Trevor's around. He makes everything better.

Trevor sits up, then drags Honey up into a sitting position by her wrists. Honey goes limp to make it hard for him. “Oh, come on, Hon,” Trevor groans. “Don’t be difficult. You’ve gotta sit up so you can tell me all about this childhood bedroom of yours.”

Honey rolls her head back on her shoulders and sticks her tongue out of her mouth like she’s dead. 

Trevor lowers her back to the ground. “Fine,” he huffs. “I’ll snoop myself.”

“Good idea,” Honey says. “You knew you wanted to go through my underwear drawer anyway.”

“I only go through your Litchton underwear drawer,” Trevor retorts. “Don’t be weird.”

Honey scoffs and rolls her eyes. Duh, she’s the weird one in this relationship.

Trevor brightens and reaches across her bed. “Who’s this guy?” he asks, dangling the stuffed animal by his tail in front of Honey.

“Puppy,” Honey replies.

Trevor balks and brings the animal up to his face. “This is a monkey.”

“I know,” Honey says. “I was two when I got him. He kind of looks like a dog, though, don’t you think?”

Trevor tosses Puppy down onto Honey’s lap. She picks him up and makes him sit up on her stomach. She traces his stitched nose. “I don’t think so,” Trevor says. “He’s very monkey-like.”

“Yeah, well. His name is Puppy.” Honey rubs his soft front paw between her thumb and forefinger. 

Trevor has moved onto her desk, but doesn’t seem to find anything that interests him. He walks to her wooden dresser and eases the bottom drawer open. It’s full of pants and he rifles through them for a bit while Honey looks at the stuffed animal she left behind.

Her heart pangs a bit, thinking about how she used to take Puppy with her everywhere. It was a miracle she didn’t lose him out in public or when she’d sneak him into her backpack at daycare and kindergarten. Toy Story must have done a number on Honey. Puppy must have been lonely while she was gone. Five years is a long time to wonder where someone went. She hugs him to her chest.

“Honey,” Trevor says suddenly. He’s moved onto her second drawer, full of old t-shirts. He holds one in his hands, turning around and showing it to her.

“Oh, I used to love that shirt,” Honey says. “I used to sleep in it all the time. Bea and I found it while we were thrifting when she first got her license. I like the font, it makes me think of NASCAR.”

Trevor holds the shirt out in front of him, double checking the words. “Baby.” He stares at Honey. “This is a Ducks shirt.”

That makes Honey sit up. “No, it’s not. I don’t even watch hockey. Why would I have a hockey shirt?”

“It is, look–” Trevor points at each of the words. “‘2007 Stanley Cup Champions, Anaheim Ducks.’” He tosses the shirt into Honey’s chest and she has to drop Puppy to catch it. “And I thought the Nike tattoo was our invisible string.”

Honey takes in the lettering. Trevor’s right– it does say that. Maybe she never cared enough to actually look at the words before now. She just liked the “vintage” design.

“You manifested me,” Trevor teases, smiling smugly.

“Fuck off,” Honey laughs. “You know that we met by coincidence.”

Trevor plops on the ground in front of her, crossing his legs. He brings his hand to her jaw and drags her forward into a kiss. “Nah, you and me are fate.”

“Don’t be a goof,” Honey chastizes. She hears the front door open, then close. Her mom sets down her bag on the dining room table. “We gotta go downstairs before you find anything else and become even more annoying.”

“I’m keeping this shirt,” Trevor declares, wrestling it from her grasp. He plucks Puppy from the ground. “And the monkey.” He’s standing and moving away before she can snatch him back.

“You can’t just take my things,” Honey whines. She stands and chases Trevor as he leaves the room and goes down the hall. She catches him at the top of the stairs, jumping on his back and trying to slow him down. 

They get down the stairs and bump into the wall in the main hall of the house. That’s where they run into Honey’s mom.

“What in the world?” she exclaims before she sees Honey on Trevor’s back. 

Honey freezes a little bit. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, Honey,” her mom replies. Unlike her dad, Honey can read the expression on this face. It’s pure confusion. “What are you doing here? Who’s this?”

Trevor extends his hand the same way he did to Christopher. “I’m Trevor. We’re visiting.”

Stephanie takes his hand gingerly. “That’s great,” she says warily. “But who… are you?”

“Trevor is my boyfriend,” Honey reveals, sliding from Trevor’s back and finding her footing on the ground. He keeps the shirt and stuffed animal out of her reach. “I thought… it might be nice for y’all to meet him.”

Her mom inhales deeply, chewing on the inside of her bottom lip just like Honey does when she’s thinking deeply about something. “Okay,” Mom says. She looks to Trevor. “I’m Stephanie. I’ll join you two in the living room in a few minutes. I believe my husband found some drinks in the garage.” She squeezes past them and goes up the stairs. 

The awkwardness is creeping back into Honey’s bones, but she’s doing her best to push it away. She told her mom that Trevor is her boyfriend and didn’t get this big, negative reaction. Maybe Honey is always imagining the worst.

“I found some LaCroix,” Dad says when she and Trevor sit down on the couch for the second time that day. “You still like LaCroix, right, Hon?”

Honey never liked LaCroix. Bea did, and Bea was a bad influence who swore up and down that it was better than regular water. Honey drank it to play along and avoid a debate. “Sure, Dad,” Honey says. She doesn’t want to embarrass him by saying no, especially since he seems so proud of himself for finding something she enjoys.

Trevor eyes her, but doesn’t say anything. He knows Honey doesn’t like sparkling water, but he seems to recognize that Honey doesn’t want him to do anything.

“How’s the house?” Christopher asks. He sits down in the armchair and cracks his own LaCroix, making a face when he drinks but trying not to make it obvious.

“It’s good. I’m taking care of it. The basement steps rotted out that first year, but Earl– I don’t know if you remember him– he repaired them for me.” Honey feels like she’s talking too much. That’s her own doubt and anxiety talking. She’s talking a completely normal amount.

“I remember Earl,” her dad replies. He sips from his can again and does a much better job of keeping his expression neutral this time. “He’s a good man. How’s Ada?”

“She’s good. It’s blackberry season, so she’s making lots of goodies. The patches in her garden are growing really well this year.”

“And your ladies?”

“They’re still the town gossips.”

“Honey had a very good time drinking with them at Litchton’s annual softball game,” Trevor interjects. “Scarlett especially was a hoot and a holler.”

Honey cuts her eyes at Trevor. Why is he telling her dad about how she was drinking with the ladies? He doesn’t need to know that she gets drunk… as a completely legal, 21+ year old woman.

Her dad laughs anyway. “I bet. That woman has always been crazy. I remember the baby shower my mom attended before Sarah was born. Even sober, Scarlett was the life of the party.” He quiets slightly. “Wonderful lady. She’s got lots of love to give.”

Honey nods. 

Her mom rejoins them. She has changed out of her work clothes into jeans and a loose shirt. She’s also grayer than she used to be and her hands are developing age spots. She sits on the arm of the chair that Honey’s dad occupies. “So, ‘just visiting,’” she says. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s good, Mom,” Honey repeats. “I just wanted to bring Trevor by. I thought it would be nice to introduce y’all, since I’m dating him and all.”

“Oh, you’re Honey’s boyfriend!” Christopher exclaims. He sets his drink down with a clink. “What do you do, Trevor? Do you live in Litchton as well?”

“Are you pregnant?” Stephanie asks.

Honey’s jaw drops. “No. I am not pregnant.”

“Definitely not,” Trevor adds. “We only just said ‘I love you’ two nights ago.”

“When did you start dating?” Stephanie crosses one leg over the other and laces her fingers together.

Honey cringes and doesn’t answer.

Trevor answers for her. “Technically, our first date was July 22nd, but Honey only called me her boyfriend on August 3rd.”

Honey’s parents stare at them and Honey stares back. She understands their concern– it’s only August 12th. Why would she love her boyfriend after only nine days of exclusivity? Trevor ignorantly sits next to Honey with a big smile on his face.

“We’ve been seeing each other since May,” Honey justifies. “It’s not– it’s not like we’re rushing into things.”

Honey’s dad squints at them and traces his teeth with his tongue. Then, he shrugs. “Eh, mountain time is different. Good for you. Now, again: Trevor, what do you do?”

The grilling is pretty normal after that. Trevor answers all her dad’s questions about hockey and the league, about his salary and about the travel. He answers her mom’s questions about how he expects to make Honey happy if he’s gone all the time. 

Trevor handles the questions with grace and ease. He’s got an answer for everything, without hesitation. He’s charming, too– Honey’s parents are laughing with him and playfully poking fun at Honey. They even offer to bring up some old home videos and yearbooks from the basement… which is when Honey cuts them off and reminds Trevor that they have dinner plans. He’ll have to see her baby photos another time– well into the future, when she’s more prepared to cringe and blush and hide her face in a throw pillow.

Trevor whines and complains a little bit, but Honey eventually convinces him that they have to go. He doesn’t leave the house without promising to see Christopher and Stephanie over Christmas, though. 

It looks like Honey now has plans for the holidays.

79:90 – TREVOR

“Where is everybody?” Trevor asks. He woke up a little while ago, having slept in late after the drive back to Litchton last night– he and Honey hooked up in the backseat of the car, too, which tired him out a bit– and the house was quiet. The only person he’s been able to find is Jack, who is out back playing around on their makeshift rink.

“Out, I don’t know,” Jack replies. He flicks a puck towards the net. “Quinn might be at Bea’s. Luke said something about meeting Emma-Kate in Greensboro for a movie. Cole is a mystery.”

“Cool.” Trevor doesn’t need all the details. Jack gave him plenty. “Can I shoot with you?”

“Yeah.”

Trevor walks underneath the covered patio, where the hot tub is, to grab his skates from the little pile they made. He laces them up, pulling his socks high enough that the skates don’t rub on his calves uncomfortably, and tugs his shirt off before he joins Jack on the patch of concrete. The August sun is hot and beaming down on them. Trevor can feel himself sweating already.

They fool around a bit. They take turns shooting at the net, then play couple of games of Horse. That eventually dissolves into a sort of 1v1 scrimmage or game of keep-away, and before Trevor knows it, more than an hour has ticked away. 

Once Jack accidentally flicks their final puck outside of the rink in an attempt to bounce it off their wooden boards, they take a rest. Jack doesn’t want to go get the puck right now and neither does Trevor, so they lay down on the concrete slab and soak up the sun.

Jack pokes Trevor with his stick.

Trevor pokes him back, harder this time.

“Ow!” Jack exclaims, catching his bicep in his hand and rubbing it dramatically. “I didn’t poke you that hard, Z.”

“You’re such a wimp,” Trevor replies, but there’s no heat behind his words. He’s just messing with Jack. “For a guy in the NHL, you’re kind of prissy. A little bruise hurts that bad?”

Jack scowls. “Fuck off.”

After a beat of silence, where Trevor watches a red cardinal hop through the branches above them, Jack speaks again.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, man.”

“It’s about you and Honey.”

Trevor is a little more hesitant now. “Okay…”

“Are you guys, like… that serious?” Jack asks. 

It’s a stupid question, in Trevor’s opinion. They’ve said ‘I love you.’ Of course they’re that serious.

“Yeah.”

“Cool.” Jack closes his eyes and spreads his arms out, palms facing the sky. “I thought I was dreaming when we all camped out the other night. When I went inside, I saw you and Honey sleeping together in the hammock. Was pretty sure it was a hallucination.”

Trevor raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You saw us and didn’t say anything?”

Jack shrugs. “Like I said. Thought I was hallucinating. I was pretty tired and still kind of drunk from all that wine we had.”

“Oh.”

“Why’d you keep it a secret?” Jack asks. “It wouldn’t have been a problem, you know. We like Honey. She’s cool.”

“Honey wanted to keep it a secret, actually,” Trevor says. “I didn’t have a preference, really. I would’ve been fine telling you guys from the start, but she didn’t want to. So we didn’t.”

“She was ashamed of you, then?”

Trevor scoffs. “No, she wasn’t ashamed of me.”

Jack tuts. “I find that hard to believe.”

Trevor reaches out with his stick and smacks Jack with the blade. 

Jack sits up and moves away, to the other end of the rink and out of Trevor’s reach. He leaves a patch of sweat on the concrete where he had lain. It’s the same shape as his shadow. “Stop it, dude. You know what I mean. She was all about pissing you off for a while, or she’s just a really good actress.”

Trevor shades his eyes from the sun and finds Jack in his eyeline. “She’s a good actress.”

“So why’d she want to keep it a secret?” Jack pries.

Trevor frowns. “That’s not for me to say. Honey doesn’t have to tell you everything just because you’re friends, you know.”

“Ugh,” Jack groans exaggeratedly. “What’s the point of even having this conversation if you won’t tell me all the nitty-gritty details?”

“I’m not just going to tell you all of my girlfriend’s business, Jack. How would you like it if I started pressing you about Lani?” Trevor knows he’s hit a chord because of the way Jack tenses up.

“Well, to start, Lani isn’t my girlfriend,” Jack grumbles.

“And yet you hook up with her every summer when we’re in Michigan. Without fail, you and Lani fuck the first night and then fool around for the rest of the summer. You do this every year and never answer anyone’s questions. Why should I reveal Honey’s secrets when you’re so dead-set on keeping your relationship with Lani private?” Trevor is on a roll, venting out the thoughts he’s had for years. “I mean, you didn’t even invite her to Litchton this summer. You’ve invited her to Jersey in the past, but you won’t bring her here. And I know you’re not talking to her. What’s that about?”

Jack scoffs and pushes himself up into a seated position. “You don’t know shit about me and Lani because there’s nothing to talk about. We’re not together. We hook up sometimes. We’re friends. It’s a summer thing.”

“That doesn’t explain why you drunk dialed her last year when you got injured and begged her to come out and stay with you,” Trevor bites back. “That doesn’t seem very summery to me.”

“That’s not your business,” Jack insists.

“Well, Honey’s isn’t yours.”

They reach a stalemate here. Trevor is mad because Jack is being stupid, Jack is mad because Trevor is trying to push him to talk about something he doesn’t want to discuss, and they’re both stubborn.

Jack breaks first. He always does.

He kicks a rock, then reaches out to pick it up and hurl it into the woods. “She’s not happy with me. I didn’t tell her we’d be gone all summer and then I told her about Bea when we were still hooking up, and she got mad at me for ‘being such a slut.’”

Trevor snorts. “Lani slut-shamed you? Good, you deserve it. You’ve been treating her like a fall-back ever since you started hooking up.”

“How was I supposed to know she wanted more,” Jack mumbles under his breath, glaring at the ground. “She never told me. And now she won’t talk to me, even though it’s been over between me and Bea. At least Bea knew that we weren’t serious.”

“Because she’s obsessed with Quinn.”

“No, dude,” Jack groans. “Like, yeah, she’s obsessed with Quinn, but hooking up with Bea was never a thing. She didn’t want anything out of it and neither did I.”

Trevor reads between the lines. Lani wants something and Jack doesn’t– or, he doesn’t know what he wants, so he just wants everything to stay the same.

“I don’t know.” Jack starts to untie his laces, his movements much more violent than they need to be. It must be the frustration. “I wish she would just tell me what she wants instead of being all coy about it. We’re supposed to be friends first.”

“You kind of screwed that when you started hooking up with her.”

Jack sighs. He pulls his skate off. “Yeah.” He sighs again and Trevor lets it go– he doesn’t want to beat up on Jack like this anymore.

They sit in silence for a few minutes longer. Trevor sits up and starts to undo his laces too. They’re done practicing for the day and he needs a shower. He can feel the sweat dripping off of his body.

Jack is the first to stand. He walks to Trevor and extends a hand, pulling him to his feet. He claps Trevor on the back as he walks towards the house. “Look, man, secrets or not, I’m happy for you.” He reaches the sliding glass door near the hot tub and drops his skates into the pile. 

Trevor is very wary of the smile on Jack’s face.

“You know, when I was hooking up with Bea, I had this awesome dream about having a threesome with her and Honey.” Jack’s grin is wicked and Trevor can feel his temper rising like steam in a kettle. “If she’s half as good in real life as she was in my imagination, you’d better lock her down real quick.”

He disappears inside and Trevor tries to stamp down the urge to strangle Jack until the life leaves his eyes. 

80:90 – HONEY

If Bea wants to cause a scene at Scruffy’s tonight, then she’s doing something right. She told all of the boys to meet at her place because she had a surprise for them. Honey was already there. Bea dragged her straight from work up to her building and got Honey hooked with the promise of a homemade margarita.

It turns out, since their Target day two weeks ago, Bea has been plotting a funny T-shirt day. She was inspired by the matching T-shirts that Cole bought for him and Honey, the bright pink one with the unicorn and rainbow. She bought a T-shirt for each person in their little group, wrapped them up in giftwrap, and now she wants to go out to dance at Scruffy’s in their new shirts.

The reveals are admittedly hilarious. 

Honey loves her shirt. Bea ordered it to be about two sizes too big for Honey, which will make it into a good sleep shirt after tonight. This is probably the only time she’ll wear it out into the world, this white T-shirt with red lettering that reads “I lost my virginity at Toyotathon!” with the Toyota logo on the back of the shirt. Honey wishes she lost her virginity at Toyotathon. That would make an incredible story. She threw it on first thing, stripping out of her work top right there in front of the boys and pulling it on. It’s too hot in Litchton in August, even after the sun sets in a few hours, to wear both layers.

Quinn loves his shirt almost as much as Honey loves hers. They’re similar in make: a white T-shirt with red writing. That’s where the similarities end. Quinn’s reads, “Women want me. Fish fear me. Raccoons find me oddly comforting.” He laughs out loud when he reads it, folds it up and looks at Bea, then reads it again like he can’t believe what it said. He starts to laugh again and covers his face with the shirt. “I didn’t know you were buying us silly stuff when you asked for our shirt sizes,” Quinn says. 

“Duh,” Bea replies with a hint of sass. She’s tugging her own silly shirt over her head– cream colored with black text that reads, “4th Wife Material.” Honey thinks any person would be happy to have Bea as their first wife, but less their fourth. If Bea is number four, then they’ve done something wrong in their life. Her shirt is cropped and tight, showing off the lower part of her ribcage and the expanse of her stomach. Honey dares to say that she sees an imprint in the suspicious shape of a mouth on Bea’s abdomen, right where her hips start. Her pleated black mini-skirt ties the outfit together so well, but it’s not something that Honey could ever pull off. She’s sure Quinn loves how tiny the skirt is.

“I don’t have autism,” Jack complains, although he dutifully pulls his “Weaponized Autism” shirt over his head. 

Bea shrugs. “Maybe not. But you memorize hockey facts and games like no one I’ve ever met. It’s your special interest, J. Would you rather wear the ‘Of course I cum fast, I have fish to catch’ shirt that I bought as a backup?”

Cole snickers. “Yeah, Jack. Do you want everyone knowing you’re a quickshot or do you want to wear a shirt with a sick pistol-wielding skeleton on the front?” He gestures at the navy shirt on his chest, equally as cropped as Bea’s, with orange words that spell out “dickrider.” The dot over the ‘i’ is a little cowboy hat. “I don’t ride dick, but this shirt is sick.”

Luke’s shirt is tight on his chest too, accentuating the feature that Bea had in mind when she bought his shirt. It almost matches hers in color and font, although it’s not quite as cream-colored. It’s somewhere between white and Bea’s shade. The font stretches, only emphasizing Bea’s point. “Small Heart, Massive Tits” declares Luke’s shirt, and Honey laughs about how real it is. She’s going to text a picture of Luke to Emma-Kate if she can sneak it. Apparently, they saw each other yesterday– but Honey doesn’t expect that it’s anything too serious. Honey thinks Luke might like having a person outside of their little group, especially one closer to his own age.

“Is this me?” Trevor asks. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since he opened his wrapping and caught a glimpse of his shirt. His question is incredulous and the look in his eyes is equally as disbelieving. “Did you customize a t-shirt with my face on it?”

Bea grins and giggles, proud of herself. “Well, don’t hide the shirt from your friends. Put it on.”

Trevor stares at the shirt for a moment longer. “How did you even do this?”

“It’s not hard to personalize a shirt, Trevor,” Bea laughs. “Especially not when you’re a famous athlete. Do you know how many people use your likeness online?”

“Show us what it says,” Cole demands. He reaches of Trevor’s shirt, snagging the dark gray fabric in his fist and tugging it from Trevor’s hands. He holds it out in front of him and his face clouds. Cole pouts before he looks at Bea. “This is so funny, why didn’t you get this one for me?” He turns the shirt so everyone can see what it says; in the center of the shirt, there’s a framed photo of Trevor with hair that is longer and fluffier than it is now. Surrounding the frame are the words “Rest in Peace Princess Diana.”

Honey has to cover her mouth to keep a laugh in, so as not to offend her boyfriend, but she’s with the rest of the group as they try to convince him to put it on. He relents after a few minutes of begging. Honey knows that he’ll never wear that shirt again– and she can’t wait to steal it for herself. 

They’re quick to go out to Scruffy’s after that, walking down main street so no one has to drive and waste gas. They’ll sober up at Bea’s afterward anyway, on the off chance that they overdo it. Honey isn’t planning on overdoing it. She might not have to open the store tomorrow, but she doesn’t exactly get to sleep in, and she hates being hungover at Story Time.

Arn’s voice is pretty scratchy today. Honey expects that by the end of the night, they’ll be taking karaoke requests from the black binder of songs that the guys know how to play. She can’t guarantee that she’ll get up on the stage and sing, but she bets Bea will. She wouldn’t be surprised if Cole gets up there too. 

Scruffy’s is a bit more full than it normally is, to Honey’s delight. She gets to show off her shirt. All of her ladies and their husbands are in the building for once. While Honey and Bea haven’t been in Scruffy’s as much this summer because of their new friends, it’s rare to see all the ladies together at the same time unless it’s a Tuesday morning and they have their knitting needles in hand. They like to remind the younger ladies that they too have lives, even though they’re all eligible for the Early Bird Special at the Hardee’s down the road. 

The first order of business is to grab a table. The big booths are taken, unfortunately, but there are a couple of people that look like they’re close to getting up. Bea, Quinn, and Cole decide to stay back and “hover.” Honey is confident in their ability to pressure a group into leaving, just from sheer impatience.

Jack and Trevor task themselves with going to the bar and ordering drinks and food for their future table. Honey doesn’t know how they’re going to carry seven drinks and food, but it’s not her business. She and Luke are going to play pool.

It’s there that Honey experiences the first reaction to their shirts. Tyler, Jessie’s husband and Luca’s father, is in the middle of a game. He goes to greet Honey with a wave, then his eyes catch on her shirt. Then, his eyes go to Luke’s shirt. His expression is priceless– wide eyes and pure confusion, his mouth hinged open and then snapped abruptly shut. It’s funny. 

As the night stretches on, more people notice the T-shirts. When Jack and Trevor deliver drinks to Honey and Luke, there are more glances of confusion and a few laughs from those around them. The boys pay them no mind, jumping in on the pool game and making it into a doubles game. Jack pairs up with Luke and Trevor pairs up with Honey– the game is over quickly after that and Jack’s food buzzer starts to beep, so they head to the bar to pick up all of the things that the ravenous, gluttonous boys ordered. 

The bartender, a middle aged woman whose name is escaping Honey’s mind at this current moment, laughs at their shirts and makes them back up so that she can see them properly. She takes out her phone and takes a picture of the four of them. Honey stands in the middle of the guys, between Jack and Trevor, and they all have their arms around each other. Before the end of the night, she’ll have to ask the bartender to send the picture to her. It would be nice to get it printed and put it in a frame.

They load their arms up with plates and baskets of appetizers and find Bea, Quinn, and Cole sitting at a booth. They succeeded in securing one, evidently, and they get up so that the rest of the group can squeeze into the remaining space. Bea produces a pack of Uno cards from Quinn’s back pocket and they lose track of time, playing and shouting meaningless insults when someone puts down a +4. 

The band plays on and people dance around them, food and drinks from the table slowly disappear and they take turns going to get the next round for whoever feels like drinking more. Quinn has been on a cleanse for a while, since the season is coming up. Honey has a couple of drinks, but she’s pacing herself. The boys are enjoying themselves, knowing that Quinn can drive them home afterward. Bea is enjoying herself because her place is walking distance from Scruffy’s.

When the band starts to do karaoke, just like Honey expected, Bea issues a challenge to Trevor.

“I will give you…” Bea hums, tapping her chin. “Fifty dollars to get on stage and sing Candle In The Wind while showing off your shirt.”

Trevor laughs. “Where are you getting all this cash, Bea? I know Ada doesn’t pay you enough to spend $250 on your friends in one week.”

Bea shrugs with one shoulder, her smile coy as she snuggles into Quinn’s side. She slides a hand over his stomach and looks up at him, fluttering her eyelashes. “Can I borrow fifty dollars?” she requests sweetly, her voice dripping with flirtaciousness. 

Quinn grins and rolls his eyes at Bea, pretending not to fall for her charms. He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “For a dance,” he bargains. “Need you to work for my money a little bit, baby.”

Bea giggles. She scoots from the booth and drags Quinn with her. “As if you even needed to ask, Q.”

They disappear into the middle of the crowd and the boys shuffle around the booth to fill the space they left. Honey catches a glimpse of Bea throwing her arms around Quinn’s neck and tossing her head back in laughter at something he says. His hands are pinching her hips like they did when he followed her up the stairs on their first night together. He’s holding Bea’s lower half close to his and brushing his nose against hers, his mouth moving and yapping away before placing a kiss on her cheek.

Honey wishes at first that Bea wasn’t so stubborn about leaving this in the summer. It’s one of those things that she can’t control, which is sad. Honey is a little jealous of them in this moment after her fleeting tryst of sadness. Quinn and Jack know about her and Trevor now, but there are still two people, Luke and Cole, who don’t know. So she can’t really ask Trevor to dance, but she can hint at it. 

Honey frees herself from the booth and stands at the head of the table. “I want to dance,” she says. “Who’s going to dance with me?” She looks at Trevor pointedly before continuing around the rest of the table.

Jack opens his mouth milliseconds before Trevor does. “I’ll dance,” he offers, grinning. He looks delighted at the idea and Honey remembers how excited he was to dance with Bea the first time they went to Scruffy’s. 

She’ll get to Trevor later, she’s sure. Dancing with Jack isn’t a problem for Honey– it’ll actually be rather fun. It’ll be like when she danced with Jamie.

They find their way next to Bea and Quinn as the band kicks up a fast-paced, fun country song that Honey distantly recognizes as a Toby Keith original. She feels lightheaded with how much she’s laughing and how Jack is spinning her under his arm and dipping her as low as he can– he drops her to the floor at one point and falls to his knees in a fit of giggles, apologizing profusely between his laughter. 

Honey has so much fun that she forgets to ask the bartender for that picture of her and her friends. It’s a night that’ll only live in memory– except for the paragraph that she scrawls in a journal when she gets home at the end of the night, just before Trevor honks his horn to pick her up and bring her back to the rental house to sneak a sleepover.

81:90 – TREVOR

“You would think after so many weeks, I’d have to stop reminding you that my eyes are up here, Trev,” Honey teases. 

When Trevor meets her eyes, tearing his gaze reluctantly from her tits, she’s smiling knowingly with raised eyebrows. Her hair is piled in a bun on top of her head and she’s toying with one of the strands that she always pulls from the front of her updos, curling it around her finger. 

It’s early in the morning, way earlier than Trevor normally wakes up even when he’s spending time with Honey, but she has to sneak out before work and she’d proposed that they take a bath together in Trevor’s ensuite jacuzzi. He certainly wasn’t going to say no to that, so he’s up and out of bed and ogling his girlfriend with sleepy eyes. The warmth of the bath, since Honey likes her water hot, isn’t doing anything to wake him up.

Honey’s being unfair to tell him not to look at her tits, though. She made them all soapy, rubbing suds into her skin and twisting her nipple piercings. When Trevor asked why she was doing that, she said it was so she could clean the skin where the holes are because if she doesn’t, the area around her piercings will get crusty. Trevor thinks she was trying to kill the mood by mentioning crust, but she seems awfully proud of herself after distracting Trevor. 

Trevor leans forward and circles his fingers around Honey’s ankles, tugging her closer to him. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “You have my undivided attention.” He pulls at her ankles until Honey is coming to sit on his thighs and putting her hands on his shoulders. 

“I’m just messing with you,” Honey replies. She gently brushes a kiss over Trevor’s bottom lip. “It’s funny, how much you like my tits.”

“They’re good tits.”

“Mm, my best feature, wouldn’t you say?”

Trevor hums. “I’m not saying that,” he denies. “But they are very beautiful.” His hands come up and cup Honey’s boobs, thumbing over the remaining suds near her nipples. He’s sure to keep his eyes on Honey’s while he does this. “They match the rest of you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Honey groans. 

“I will not,” Trevor declares. He kisses Honey and pulls her closer, her cunt coming into contact with his semi-erect cock. “My beautiful girlfriend. The pretty girl that I love.”

Honey squirms. “Stop it,” she whines. 

Trevor peppers kisses over her face, refusing to stop the onslaught of affection. She’s squealing and turning her face away from his wandering lips, but her hands are gently tracing the planes of his shoulders and keeping him close. 

“Can I make you come?” Trevor asks. “Been a while since I had my dick inside you.”

“Not true,” Honey replies. “We hooked up in the car after my parents’ place.”

Trevor blows a raspberry against Honey’s cheek. “Ugh, you never let me get away with it when I try to be dramatic.”

Honey laughs, a twinkling sound that makes Trevor’s heart swell. He digs his fingernails into the meat of her behind, making it so her pussy is fully aligned with his cock.

“C’mon, I’ll make it quick,” Trevor says. He pecks Honey’s mouth. “You’ll still be able to make it out of the house before the boys wake up.”

“I’m not fucking you in the jacuzzi, it already felt gross enough when I fucked you in the hot tub,” Honey says. “If you want to fuck me, then we’ve got to go somewhere else.”

“Oh, your wish is my command,” Trevor sighs. He squeezes Honey’s behind once before allowing her to get up and off of him.

She cups some water in her hands and lets it run over her body, making sure that all the soap has dissipated before she stands and leaves the tub. 

Trevor’s hands trail over Honey’s thighs, to her knees, and calves as she steps onto the bathroom tile. He admires how long her legs look from this angle and how water droplets roll down her smooth skin.

She takes Trevor’s towel and wraps herself in it, leaving him with the washcloth next to it. He forgot to put out a towel for Honey before they got in the jacuzzi– that’s Trevor’s fault. When they move in together, he’ll be sure to install a towel rod that can fit both of their towels side-by-side. His and hers. H + T.

And when Honey shivers a bit from the change of warm water to cool air conditioning, Trevor vows to make the towel rack heated so that her towel is always hot and fluffy like it just came out of the dryer.

Trevor pulls the stopper from the drain and watches the water ripple as the pipe drinks it up. He sits in the water a moment longer and rushes out of the jacuzzi only once Honey starts to leave the bathroom. He nearly slips on the tile, but he catches her arm and brings her back. He presses her body against the bathroom counter and starts to kiss Honey’s neck. “Tryin’ to dip out on me?”

“No,” Honey giggles. “I was trying to get to your bed, silly boy.”

“We don’t need a bed,” Trevor tells her. “Why don’t I fuck you right here?”

“How romantic.”

“I’ll make it nice for you,” Trevor promises. He pinches Honey’s chin softly and guides her lips to his. “Just relax and I’ll take care of you, my sweet girl.”

“You’re such a smooth talker,” Honey whispers, breathing out a laugh. She touches Trevor’s brow when he pulls away and bites her lower lip, tampering with her smile. 

Trevor frees her lip with his thumb and untucks the towel, spreading the fabric and revealing her body. He hums like she’s the most appetizing thing he’s ever seen, letting his gaze wander down her body. Trevor palms her thighs and slides his hands around to the back, lifting Honey so that she is sitting on the counter. Trevor spreads her knees and licks his lips. 

She’s glistening.

“So wet,” Trevor says, dropping down to kneel on the tile. He shifts around to try and find a position that is comfortable, given the hard ground.

“It’s from the water,” Honey snaps back sassily. “Don’t be fooled.”

Trevor glances up at her, unimpressed, then playfully nips at her skin. He sinks his teeth into the meat of her inner thigh, nibbling.

Honey seizes Trevor’s hair and pulls him off. “Stop that,” she admonishes. “I’m not wearing pants to work because you want to mark me up.”

Trevor sighs, feeling put out. “You never want me to have any fun.” He’s complaining, but he’s complaining with a smile. He lowers his mouth to Honey’s core and dives in.

Honey’s head hits the mirror behind her when she throws it back. There’s a small thud that accompanies the movement, but she waves him off when his eyes flicker up to check on her.

She’s fine, so Trevor closes his eyes and loses himself in the pussy at his lips.

Trevor admits that in his hookups before Honey, he hasn’t been known to munch without being asked. He craves Honey like her slick is her namesake. Maybe that’s cliché, but while Trevor’s tongue is caressing the sweet folds at her core, he can’t be bothered to care. She tastes good and she’s his, and the only way to describe her is in clichés. That’s how much Trevor feels for Honey. 

Sometimes he thinks that he might be living in a dream. He used to dream about moments like this, where Honey would tease him devotedly and make fun of him like they’re sharing a joke instead of like she’s trying to bring him down and purposefully stop him from falling in love with her. Now that it’s happening, he almost wonders if it’s real. Honey is a dream. She’s everything that Trevor has been waiting for without her even trying, without him even realizing that he’d been waiting for Honey. 

Trevor wishes he had found her sooner. He would’ve loved to know Honey when he was younger, before Thomas got to her and before she lost her taste for her big hometown. He thinks about what it would’ve been like to tell Honey about his day while he was playing for the NTDP, how he would have called her on the buses to and from games, how he would’ve brought her to the draft with him and thrown his new jersey on her body to share that his life wasn’t just about him. It would’ve been about them from the beginning and she would’ve been by his side.

At the same time, Trevor knows that it’s not that simple. He can’t rewrite history and include Honey. He probably wouldn’t have loved her as well as he should’ve, if he’d known her in high school. They probably would have broken up in some massive, explosive fight about how Trevor only cared about hockey and not about Honey and they’d never speak again. He wouldn’t be as bad as Thomas, but she’d think of him along similar lines. Trevor will never allow that to happen.

His tongue parts her folds eagerly, ears prickling proudly at the dreamy sigh that escapes Honey’s mouth. He picks up beads of her wetness, feeling them seep into his tastebuds and warm his stomach like he’s full, even though it’s impossible and entirely a placebo effect. Trevor pushes Honey’s thighs farther apart when they threaten to close around his head, keeping his hands on her supple skin and rubbing his thumb over the area because he can. He tenses his tongue into a sort of spear and licks into her entrance, greedy for everything she offers him. His nose bumps against her clit, which he knows Honey likes, so he keeps doing it. He nibbles on her folds and kitten-licks her clit in a mundane routine that always ends with him fucking his tongue into her heat and feeling her clench down in surprise.

Honey is pressing the back of her hand against her mouth to try and keep her sounds inside, but little mewls escape her anyway. It’s only after a drawn out whine leaves her, and Honey’s muscles quiver under Trevor’s palms throughout her climax, that Trevor pulls back and comes up to kiss her again.

“Good?” Trevor asks. “Satisfied, baby?”

“Fuck me,” Honey requests breathlessly, her fingertips digging into Trevor’s lovehandles and dragging him closer. “Fuck me, Trev.”

A self-satisfied smirk comes over Trevor’s face. How things have changed– Honey once said she wouldn’t beg for him, but here she is. She’s touching him impatiently and moving restlessly to try and get closer to Trevor, and frowning up at him when he stalls.

“We should do this every day forever,” Trevor tells Honey. 

“How about we start with today?” Honey answers him, sounding exasperated.

Trevor laughs at her retort and kisses her forehead. His hands weasel underneath her arms and find her backside, palming her cheeks.

Honey shoves her hand between their bodies and aligns his tip with her entrance. As his cockhead makes contact, Trevor helps her out and shifts forward. She melts in his touch as his cock slides inside of her warm and welcoming pussy.

“Fuck,” Trevor murmurs. 

Honey hums in reply, rolling her hips. “Trevor,” she says.

“Shh, I know,” Trevor says. He takes a breath in and pushes further, sinking into Honey until her cunt has enveloped his member. “Hon, you always feel so good.”

“Wanna come on your cock,” Honey keens sweetly, her bottom lip jutting out in a cute pout that Trevor can’t resist kissing. 

“Okay,” Trevor agrees. He moves his hands to the counter beneath Honey, finding leverage by laying his palms flat against the cool granite. He tucks his head against her neck, mouthing at the skin covering her pulse and doing his best not to leave a mark, even though he can’t resist sucking a little bit. She tastes clean and sweet and Trevor knows that he’ll do this for her whenever she wants, wherever, for the rest of time. He’s completely and entirely whipped.

Honey’s hands scramble for purchase on his back and shoulders as Trevor’s hips snap forward, pounding the walls of Honey’s pussy like he’s drunk on pleasure. Her gasps are choked and quiet, though the sounds between their bodies are anything but. Trevor really hopes that none of the guys decided to wake up early for any reason– they certainly had plenty of time to sneak Honey out before they started their bath, but now… Trevor isn’t so sure. He also isn’t shy about wanting to draw this out. Honey just feels so good around him, so tight and hot and eager for more.

“Fuck, baby, I love this pussy,” Trevor groans. He kisses over Honey’s shoulder, lathing his tongue against her collarbone. “Squeezing me so tight, making me feel so good. Love you. Love you.”

“Mm, gonna come, Trev,” Honey replies. Her hand slides to his hair and pets through the curling ends at the base of his neck. She kisses his jawline and Trevor feels her whimper vibrate against his skin.

“Come, Hon. Come for me,” Trevor encourages. He kisses over her body to her mouth, capturing her lips and slipping his tongue inside.

Honey arches into him, her mouth opening against his. Honey breathes into Trevor’s mouth, writhing against his body. “Yes,” she pants. “Oh, Trevor.”

Trevor nearly loses his shit when she inflects his name like that, all needy and whiny. His rhythm stutters and he keens involuntarily, the noise embarrassingly high-pitched. 

He fucks Honey through her orgasm, even as tight as her cunt is around his cock, and her cum drips down his shaft to form a ring of moisture at the base. It’s only once her entrance relaxes and welcomes him back in that Trevor lets go and floods her cunt with his own climax.

Honey likes it, Trevor knows she does, but she’s still playing her game with him. She rolls her head back on her shoulders, then comes back to level and looks down at her dripping pussy. “Gross,” she complains. “After we bathed and everything? How am I supposed to go to work with all of this inside of me?”

“I kind of like the idea of that,” Trevor teases.

Honey glares at him, barely concealing a laugh. “You would. I don’t want to go to Story Time with a bunch of cum inside of me. I would feel so dirty.”

Trevor chuckles. He kisses the underwisde of Honey’s jaw. “Okay, sweetheart. Let’s clean you up.”

He hooks his arm under Honey’s knees, then wraps the other around her waist. He moves her to the edge of the bathtub and grabs the handheld showerhead, which makes Honey laugh out loud. Trevor washes her cunt clean, then overexaggerates to clean her more thoroughly– pushing his fingers through her folds and spreading them to let the water run through until Honey actually pushes him away and wraps herself in his towel again.

Trevor is supposed to drive her home, but they’re running out of time, so he’s going to drive her straight to work. It’s lucky that Honey plans ahead, because she brought a change of clothes with her last night in case something like this happened– and knowing Trevor, it was going to happen. He’s the first to admit that he’s going to try and soak up as much time as he can with Honey.

They manage to sneak out to the car, even though Trevor and Honey can hear Quinn and Luke shuffling around in the kitchen. They creep out of the driveway and when Trevor drops Honey off at The Reading Nook, she says goodbye with a kiss and an “I love you.”

82:90 – HONEY

Bea tugs a baggy Canucks hoodie over her head after they finish closing the Nook for the weekend. The sweatshirt falls over her athletic shorts and makes it look like she’s wearing no shorts at all. She stands behind Honey and frees her hair from the neckline of the hoodie, fluffing it up and then smoothing it down. “You’re sure you don’t want to come to the movies with us tonight?” Bea asks. “I’m sure we can find some movie that you’d like to watch.”

Honey chuckles. She jiggles the doorhandle to make sure the Nook is locked up properly before turning to look at Bea. “Nah, no thanks. I don’t really have an interest in going to see It Ends With Us, nor do I want to hang out with the boys while they watch Deadpool & Wolverine. Trev and I are going to hang out at the rental house.”

“We decided against It Ends With Us,” Bea informs Honey. She shoves her fists into the pocket of the hoodie. “The domestic abuse was a jumpscare when I looked up the synopsis. I should’ve known, considering it was a Colleen Hoover book originally.” She rolls her eyes, sighing. She and Honey share the same opinion about Colleen. They also work in a bookstore and read often, so they have their opinions about what makes a ‘good’ book. “But I like Hugh Jackman. I liked him in The Greatest Showman, anyway.”

Honey shrugs. “I’m sure you’ll have fun. I’ll see you after.”

“Alright,” Bea agrees. “We’ll probably be home around ten-ish. Do you want us to bring you any food after or anything?”

“No, we’ll be okay. Just bring some popcorn back with you.” Honey waves goodbye to Bea, since she parked in the opposite direction of the movie theater. “I’ll see you later.”

“Have fun with Ziggy,” Bea replies. She pulls her phone from the front pocket of the sweatshirt while she’s turning to walk away. 

When Honey gets in the car, she texts Trevor, asking about their plans for the night. He has very few. To be exact, he’s got one in mind: 

Horror movie!! is what Trevor says. 

Honey scoffs out a laugh. You want me to get scared and cuddle with you.

What if I want you to protect me from the monsters?

Honey leaves that one on read. She heads home before going to Trevor’s, changing into something a little more comfortable. She replaces her jean shorts with a pair of Trevor’s Ducks joggers that he insisted she steal– it’s not really stealing if Trevor forces her to take them and leaves them behind every time she gives them back– and her top with that big, faded muscle tee that shows off her sides. Honey doesn’t bother putting a bra on. Trevor will find it a hindrance anyway.

The drive over to the rental house is nice. The sun reached its peak hours ago, so Honey can tell that sunset is coming. There isn’t a cloud in the sky today. She hopes that is a good sign for the town-wide yard sale tomorrow. The town does this every year to encourage an end-of-summer cleaning and it’s never fun to shop around Litchton in the rain. 

Honey arrives at the house, lets herself inside, and finds Trevor in the kitchen. He’s flipping a grilled cheese in a pan, but he sets the spatula down when he sees Honey. “Hey, baby,” Trevor greets, reaching out to Honey to pull her into his orbit. He kisses her before turning back to the stove.

Honey sits at the island, watching the muscles in Trevor’s back as he cooks. He’s shirtless and tan, the epitome of summer, and he’s cooking for Honey. Even though his cooking is a little juvenile, she watches him with fondness. 

“Your sleeve looks like a farmer’s tan,” Honey says. “Did you know that?”

Trevor looks down at his arm, surprise quirking his eyebrows. “You think so?”

“I don’t dislike it,” Honey replies. “I love your tattoos. But it is a little goofy, just because it ends right where your clothes do.”

“I’ll just have to get another,” Trevor says, tossing a smirk over his shoulder at Honey. He plates the second grilled cheese and flexes his bicep, showing off for Honey. He smooths his hand over his shoulder and the bare skin there like it’s a canvas. “I’m thinking that I’ll put your face right here?”

Honey laughs out loud. “Don’t do that, Trevor. I will not let you get a tattoo of my face.”

Trevor places a plate in front of Honey and grabs a peach from the bowl next to the fridge. He rinses it under the faucet and hands it to Honey before coming to join her. Trevor puts a hand on the back of the chair where Honey sits. “Don’t worry. I was just messing with you. Do you want to eat up here or should we start our movie?”

“Did you choose one already?”

Trevor smiles. He tilts his head forward and lets his grin turn more evil and monstrous.  “We’re watching Smile,” Trevor reveals, the grin on his face not budging. “I heard it was very scary. There’s a new one coming out this year and I want to see the first one before it does.”

“I saw the trailer for it before it came out,” Honey says. She picks up her plate and hops up from the chair, wrapping her arm around Trevor’s waist and corraling him towards the basement. “But if I get scared, you’re not allowed to smile at me until at least tomorrow morning.”

“What if you make me laugh?”

“Do it with a frown.”

Trevor snickers under his breath, leading Honey down the basement steps. He plops down on the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table, grabbing the remote from the cushion next to him and going to the search engine that is built into the TV, ready to scour all the apps they have to watch this movie.

Honey falls onto the couch beside Trevor, tucking herself beneath his arm, which was already extended over the back of the couch. She bites into her grilled cheese and tries to consume as much of this “dinner” as she can before the movie starts– she has a feeling that she’s going to lose her appetite at the first sign of horror.

Rightfully so. Honey knows herself well. As soon as the main character Rose’s patient Laura dons that creepy smile and starts to carve into her own face, Honey is no longer hungy. She puts her plate down and pushes it away and grimaces at the screen, knowing she’s in for a tough viewing. 

Trevor doesn’t make things better, with his own little flinches and jumps with each scare and tense moment, but he does do one thing right. After Rose traumatizes her nephew for the rest of his life at his birthday party, Trevor moves on the couch so that he’s sitting with his back against the arm and he pulls Honey’s back to his chest. 

And then he diffuses the tension altogether by putting his hands through the armholes of her muscle tee and using her boobs as his own personal stress balls.

The movie is still scary, but Honey has a real sense of security with Trevor’s hands on her breasts. It’s very grounding, even though it’s the stupidest and most boy thing ever to be mindlessly playing with her boobs to distract himself from the full effect of the scares. Granted, she wore this shirt with the intention of Trevor having easy access to her chest. She just didn’t think he’d take advantage of that fact in this way. 

When Rose arrives at her childhood home, still hallucinating, Honey senses another jumpscare coming and looks away. She studies the whiteboard that still remains in the basement. It used to be covered in Bea’s ranking system, but now the only bits of that that remains is a big circle around Quinn’s name and a yellow crown drawn on the ‘Q.’ The whiteboard has been used for something else now, which Honey hadn’t noticed before. On it are a list of dates in various handwritings, written under an underlined ‘GUESSES’ like a secret code: 12/31/2024, May 2025, 8-24-24, and 8/10. Honey assumes the last one is this year– last week– rather than August 2010. She squints at the whiteboard and tries to piece together the puzzle just based on the answers alone. None of the handwritings look like Bea’s– they’re all boyish chicken scratch, so Honey just assumes it has something to do with a hockey thing.

Her attention is ripped from the whiteboard just before she’s about to ask Trevor if he knows what’s going on with that. She’s jolted by the way Trevor jumps and moans fearfully as Rose’s mother starts to… transform… and follow after her daughter. He buries his face in Honey’s hair for a minute, then seems unable to bear the fact that he’s missing the climax of the film. Trevor alternates between the two and Honey stares at the screen, mouth wide open and heart racing.

Rose defeats the smiling demon, or whatever it is, with a massive fire. Trevor sighs in relief as she drives back to Joel’s house, releasing his grip on Honey’s skin. She turns from his back, now facing Trevor. She throws her legs over his lap and intertwines their hands before turning back to the television screen. The credits won’t be far off now.

How naive Honey is for thinking that the movie would wrap up so simply.

A sense of dread fills her again when Joel, Rose’s one ally in this movie, starts to smile at her in his apartment. When Rose wakes to find it was all an illusion, that the house didn’t burn down, Honey almost buries her face in Trevor’s shoulder and laments aloud for Rose. The poor girl cannot catch a break and the movie is shot so that the viewers are experiencing the twists at the same time Rose is. 

Rose’s mother, appearing as the demon, becomes less and less human. Honey’s skin is crawling and the monster reveals itself as this fleshy, gross… thing with razor sharp teeth. She squeaks when it touches Rose, finally taking hold and–

–screams when the lights in the basement shut off and she and Trevor are plunged into darkness.

She’s not the only one. Trevor is screaming too and getting up from the couch to do something, Honey guesses? But they can’t see anything, so his ‘doing something’ is completely futile. This same monster crawled from their screen like the girl in The Ring and is now infiltrating their lives until they’re completely overtaken by it and killing themselves because of this curse.

The lights come back on and Jack starts to laugh. “I thought that would freak you two out,” he jokes. He walks over to the couch and plops down next to Honey who, reacting completely reasonably, starts to whack Jack with a pillow over and over until he’s wrestling it away from her.

“You– are– such– a– stupid– idiot,” Honey insults between swings of the pillow, then between slaps from her own palms to the same pillow that Jack is now using as a shield. “I hate you!”

Jack keeps on laughing. The movie is ending. It’s not nearly all the way over, as Joel has only just entered the house to see what became of Rose, but Honey is wholly distracted. Even Trevor joins in, berating Jack for his trick and startling them so much. 

“What are you even doing here?” Honey finally accuses. “It’s early. You’re not supposed to be back yet.”

Jack shrugs, tucking the pillow under his arm and throwing his feet up on the table before them. “Didn’t feel like getting ice cream with the group, so I threw a tantrum until Quinn gave in and drove me back here and dropped me off.”

“Is Quinn here?” Trevor asks.

Jack waves him off. “No. He dropped me at the top of the driveway and went back with Bea and them.”

Trevor laughs. “He made you walk from the top of the driveway? That’s funny.”

“I expected it,” Jack replies. “He’s against my tantrums. But, hey, they work. I wanted to leave and he wanted to get rid of me. The walk was good. The stars are out.”

Trevor turns to Honey and tilts his head inquisitively. “Go stargazing later?”

“No thanks, babe,” Jack replies sweetly, jumping in to respond before Honey can. 

“I’m not talking to you, dumbass,” Trevor hisses.

Jack grins, pleased that he’s getting on Trevor’s nerves.

“Maybe later,” Honey says to Trevor about the stargazing. She steals the remote from his hands and clicks through the apps on their TV until she finds Peacock. “Let’s watch something goofy to take the edge off.”

She’s meaning to find New Girl, but Jack steals the remote from her hands and turns on The Office. He must have been watching it earlier in the summer, because he’s in the middle of season four. 

They get through one episode before Jack pauses the television and says something Honey didn’t expect. She should’ve, given how she’s still tucked into Trevor’s side and her legs are once again thrown over his lap. 

“I think you guys should tell everyone,” Jack announces.

Honey draws her eyebrows together and turns to glare at Jack. “Who did you tell?”

Jack lifts his hands in surrender. “I didn’t tell anyone,” he denies, defensive. “I swore I wasn’t going to and I haven’t!”

Honey narrows her eyes at him. “Not even Luke?”

Jack grits his teeth. “I have not told Luke yet, but it is very hard for me to lie to him. I told Trevor this a couple of days ago, Honey– no one cares if you two are dating. We like you. It’s not like anything is going to change for you.”

Honey sighs. Jack… she thinks. 

Trevor voices her thoughts. “Jack,” Trevor says sharply. He shakes his head. “Why–? Why.”

“Why what?” Jack scoffs. “We only have a week left here, Trevor. You and Honey– it’s going to come out anyway. You guys… when we leave Litchton, you’re not going to stay a secret forever.”

Honey swallows around a lump in her throat, lips pinched together tightly.

“We can keep it a secret as long as we’d like,” Trevor snaps. His hand grips Honey’s knee, holding her still on top of him. He squeezes Honey’s leg in a way that she thinks signals comfort, but it doesn’t quite feel that way. She sees what Jack is saying.

He continues. “You know why we came here in the first place, Trevor. It was your idea. I know those girls broke into my lake house, but you were there too. I wasn’t the only one they wanted to see. People aren’t going to just leave you alone, you know that.”

“Girls broke into your house?” Honey asks. The boys might’ve told her that before, but she doesn’t remember it– she feels like she would remember it. 

Trevor sighs heavily. “Yeah, that’s why we came here. Cole and I wanted to get away and we convinced the boys to come with. I couldn’t take another summer of everyone knowing who we were and treating us like that. Even though it’s fun to be known, it’s exhausting when shit like that happens.”

“It’s not going to stop happening,” Jack says. “But, like, me? I’d rather you guys let people know on your own terms. Especially the guys– I think Luke has a feeling already and Cole is a mystery to me, but you don’t want them to find out from other fucking people. I don’t want them to find out from me, but if Luke asks… you know I won’t be able to stop myself.”

“Maybe you should figure that out about yourself–” Trevor starts.

Honey interrupts. “You’re right.”

Trevor snaps his mouth shut and looks at Honey. “He’s right?”

Honey takes a breath. “I think it’s time the boys know. They’re the only two left that don’t know and it’s not really fair to keep things a secret from them anymore. The Thomas thing isn’t really holding me back anymore, so… why not?”

“Are you sure?” Trevor asks. His question is like a prod to Honey’s side, trying to get her attention.

Honey leans her head back on Trevor’s bicep and smiles at him, close-lipped and soft. She nods. “I think it’s time, Trev.” She misses Jack fist pumping behind her, but she does catch the glare that Trevor shoots him. Honey touches his sternum and brings his attention back to her face. 

Trevor surveys every inch of her expression and stares into Honey’s eyes, searching for some trace of doubt. Honey lets none of that shine through. 

The only doubt that she has involves the public, not the guys. Trevor’s fans knowing things about Honey is different than Luke and Cole finally being let in on the secret. A conversation about their private life going public eventually, just due to Trevor’s status, is something that will have to come later. Honey doesn’t want to talk about that right now. She’s already lucky that she doesn’t have Instagram anymore, having deleted it after leaving Charlotte. She’s sure that the second Trevor posts her, or the second she hypothetically posted him, it would be over for them. Their little bubble would pop.

“Okay,” Trevor says simply. “Let’s tell them.”

“Tonight,” Honey states.

“Tonight.”

“Finally.” Jack leans forward and hits play on the remote, starting the next episode. “I thought I was going to have to convince you a lot more.”

“Shut up, Jack,” Trevor tells him. 

Jack flicks his middle finger up at Trevor, and Honey smacks it away. 

When the front door bangs open, Honey’s legs fly off Trevor’s lap and she straightens up. She fixes her shirt out of habit, even though her boobs have been covered by the fabric– Trevor only got to them through the sides of her shirt. They might be telling the rest of the group when they traipse downstairs, but Honey doesn’t think that she should have her body thrown all over Trevor’s while they talk about it. 

Bea comes down the stairs first, hugging a bucket of popcorn to her body with one arm. “Hey,” she greets. She sets the popcorn bucket on the table and settles in the armchair, tossing her legs over the arm of the chair and facing the TV. “Feeling better, Missy Prissy?” She’s giggling at Jack when she spouts the nickname.

“Don’t call me that,” Jack complains. “And yes, I am feeling better.”

Quinn and the boys came down the steps behind Bea. Quinn goes to the armchair and pretends not to see Bea, lowering himself down slowly as if he’s going to sit right on the curve of her body. 

Bea laughs and squeals at Quinn, pushing him away. “Hey, you’re going to squish me!”

Quinn gasps in faux-surprise. “Oh my gosh, I didn’t even see you there!” He lifts Bea and spins them around so he can sit in the chair and bring Bea back into position on the chair with him, just draped over his lap now. 

Luke and Cole head to the ping pong table to play, but Honey calls to them. “Hey, can y’all come sit? I have something to tell you,” she says.

Luke’s eyebrows raise and his eyes go to Jack immediately. 

Honey wants to roll her eyes and shake her head. Of course he looks straight to Jack, she thinks. The boy who can’t lie. What are the odds he already told Luke, even though he swore he didn’t? Honey pushes that thought to the side.

Cole sits on the loveseat and Luke comes to lean against the wall. He doesn’t sit down.

“What’s up, doc?” Cole asks, his voice entirely full of jokes and laughter. “You look awfully serious. Who died, Hon?”

“No one died,” Honey says. 

Bea frowns at Honey. Her fingers drop from the back of Quinn’s head, where they were petting through his hair. “You okay?”

Honey nods. “I’m fine,” she confirms. “I just wanted to tell you guys that Trevor and I are dating.”

“Oh. I already knew that,” Bea states. She turns back to Quinn and twirls a curl between her fingers. 

Luke crosses his arms over his chest and starts to laugh. One of his hands comes up to cover his mouth. “Are you kidding?” 

“What’s funny?” Trevor asks, sounding offended. He puts his arm over Honey’s shoulders.

“That’s your big news?” Luke asks. He mirrors Honey’s nod, crooked smile overtaking his face. “Obviously you’re together. You’re wearing his sweatpants right now. You two have been fucking since Jamie was in town and you were interested in each other way before that.”

Honey gapes at him. Trevor gapes at him. Jack shrugs as if he’s saying ‘I told you so.’

“Huh?” Cole bursts out. “You two have not been fucking that long. Have you?”

“You knew?” Bea asks, half-scoffing and half-laughing.

“It wasn’t my business, I just wanted to give Trevor a hard time every time he lied about being on Raya,” Cole says. “There aren’t any girls on Raya here. I checked! There aren’t any girls on Raya within fifty miles of here.”

“When do you think we started hooking up?” Honey demands. 

“Well, he’d been having sex dreams about you for weeks,” Cole brushes the matter off nonchalantly. “But I figured you guys finally hooked up when we all got high together and he was texting you about eating you out and getting his dick inside you.”

Honey’s jaw drops. “You saw that?”

Cole laughs. “Yeah, dude. My head was laying on your lap. You were holding the phone right in front of me. You’re not slick. Was it really the third week when you started hooking up?”

Trevor looks past Honey to Jack. “You really can’t keep a secret.”

“I didn’t say shit to them!” Jack exclaims.

“Yeah, Jack didn’t say anything,” Luke says with a frown. “Don’t blame this on him. You guys are just obvious. I’m surprised you didn’t hook up immediately after the whipped cream thing. We saw how hard you were when Honey put her fingers in your waistband, Trevor.”

“Yeah!” Cole interjects. “I designed that fucking thing and you guys didn’t even take advantage of it! What’s that about?”

Honey suddenly feels like she’s on trial. “Whatever,” she sneers. “You guys suck.”

Cole throws his head back, laughing. “We suck ‘cause we’ve been trying to get you idiots together since May? Fuck off, Honey.”

Honey glares at him in reply, but it’s hard to keep a straight face. It’s even harder to keep a laugh inside when she looks to Bea for support and finds her with her index finger pressed against the tip of her nose, pushing it back. She looks a bit like she’s got a pig snout and Honey snorts.

Which, in turn, makes Bea laugh.

Then everyone is laughing. 

Honey turns her head into Trevor’s neck, curling into his side, and feigns a scowl at the others in the room. “You guys ruined my big news.”

Luke leaves the wall and goes to the ping pong table. Cole joins him, squeezing Honey’s shoulder when he walks behind her on the couch. “Sorry, Honeybun,” he apologizes without feeling. His smile is still evident on his voice. 

“Whatever,” Honey repeats. She kicks Jack’s thigh. “Just play the stupid show.”

Jack laughs and hits play for a third time on The Office.“If it makes you feel better, I really didn’t know until you told me the other night,” he offers. “I thought I was dreaming when I saw you sleeping together in the hammock.”

Honey groans and covers her face with her hands.

Trevor pulls Honey’s legs back onto his lap and slides his arm through the armhole of her muscle tee, rubbing his hand over her back slowly. They sit like that for the rest of the night.

83:90 – TREVOR

“That’s the ugliest sofa I’ve ever seen in my life,” Cole laughs, pointing at a piece of furniture across Joan’s yard. 

Trevor joins in on the laughter, following the guys over to the part of the yard laden with larger items. He sits down on the tacky couch with Luke, splaying his fingers over the plaid, contrasing colors. The fabric is kind of itchy and coarse, but it seems like it was once soft. Perhaps it’s some sort of velvet, just different than any velvet Trevor has ever seen. 

The couch is mostly green, although it’s overlaid with pinks and oranges and yellows, plus the occasionally blended blue. The edges are dark, smooth wood and Trevor likes that– he runs his fingers over the polished edges and makes himself comfortable.

The girls are shopping around, so they’ll be here for a while. It’s been an all day event, going from house to house in Litchton and finding trinkets. 

Trevor has been tasked with carrying Honey’s things, the ones that don’t fit in her little mesh bag that she uses to bag fruit from the stand on Mondays. He’s got a crocheted shawl over his shoulders and a leather belt looped across his chest like a crossbody bag. He feels like Indiana Jones. He’s also got a pair of driving gloves in his pocket, which are such a bright blue that Honey declared that she had to have them. The boys have been making fun of him all day, but Trevor likes being Honey’s personal coatrack. If that makes him whipped– and he knows he’s whipped– then so be it. Walking around with his arm over Honey’s shoulders, keeping her tight against his body, is more than enough to make up for all the jeers and chirps from his friends.

Quinn’s doing almost the same thing as Trevor, but he’s only got a jewelry box from Sacha’s house– painted and decorated by her young granddaughter, who Bea talked with for about fifteen minutes before paying five dollars more than she should’ve for the box– and a flowery apron that Bea bought from a woman Trevor didn’t know. He hasn’t even put the apron on, which Trevor thinks is a waste. It’s got a cute design. 

Honey and Bea come over to the couches, each of them holding a shoebox. Bea settles on Quinn’s lap and Honey sits on the arm of the couch next to Trevor. He wraps his arm around her and settles his hand on her hip.

Honey runs her fingers over the cushion behind Trevor. “I love this couch,” she says, just to herself and Trevor.

“You do?” he asks. He looks down at the fabric. It’s still ugly and tacky and too much contrast for his eyes.

“Love it,” Honey repeats, nodding in confirmation. “The colors are so fun. I’d put this in my living room and keep it forever.” Her fingers find the price tag and she frowns. “But not for $75. I don’t know how I’d get it to my house anyway… and I already have a couch.” She sighs with her whole body and flicks open the lid of the shoebox, pulling out a stack of pictures and thumbing through them. “I’ll get over it. Maybe Joan will still have the couch next year.”

Before she even finished speaking, Trevor had made up his mind. He’s buying this couch for Honey. He’ll surprise her with it. $75 is nothing to him. He’ll put it in his apartment, front and center, and when she visits him in Anaheim for the first time, it’ll be there waiting for her. She’ll see that he’s been making space for her in his life for as long as they’ve been together. 

“Whatcha got there?” Trevor asks, peeking into the shoebox.

Honey turns the pictures toward Trevor. “Just old Litchton pictures. I like looking at this stuff. They’re like ten cents each. Four for 25¢.”

Trevor hums. He rubs his hand up and down Honey’s side as she flicks through the photos, listening to the boys talk amongst themselves. They’re trying to decide what to do tonight and who’s going to cook dinner. 

Honey and Bea pass pictures back and forth. Quinn files the ones that they want to buy into the empty jewelry box Bea bought.

“Hey.” Trevor pokes Honey’s side. “Where does Joan get her fruit?”

“She’s got a grove out back, but most of the stuff is grown on a farm down the road,” Honey replies. “I bet she’ll show it to you if you ask. She’s over there.” She points toward the driveway of the house.

Trevor spots Joan almost immediately. She’s chatting with a middle-aged man who is holding a porcelain lamp in his hand. Trevor expects that they’re haggling. 

When he stands to go talk with Joan– the perfect opportunity to tell her not to sell this ugly couch until he can come back with a truck or a uHaul– Trevor plants a casual kiss on Honey’s lips before walking away. He gets to do that now. The boys will hum and haw about it each time for at least the next two days, but he gets to lay one on her whenever he wants now. Because everyone knows. It’s the greatest feeling.

Honey dips her head and smiles to herself when Jack whoops, then Luke follows. Trevor tweaks her cheek and walks off.

“You’ll give me fifteen for that lamp, Matthew, it is a bonafide antique,” Joan says with an air of finality as Trevor approaches. 

Matthew grumbles, but he tucks the lamp under his arm and pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. He thumbs through a couple of notes, counting them out before he hands over the cash. Trevor intercepts Joan as soon as Matthew departs.

“Joan, I was wondering,” Trevor says, his hand catching her elbow for a moment to fully gain her attention. “Honey said you’ve got a garden out back. Could I see it?”

Joan smiles. “I’m a bit busy, Trevor. I’ve got to preside over this yard sale, sweetheart. Why don’t you come by tomorrow evening and you can help me pick some goods out for the stand on Monday?”

Manual labor? Trevor questions to himself. He doesn’t expect to be paid for the work, but he can make this work in his favor. “Sure, if you can help me get that couch to the house I rented for the summer,” Trevor offers. He twitches his head toward the ugly couch where his group sits. “Honey wants it, but she won’t buy it for herself. I want to surprise her with it.”

Joan quirks an eyebrow. “Have you got a truck, young man?”

Trevor makes a face. “No. Can I borrow yours?”

“I don’t have a truck,” Joan laughs. “I’ve got a refrigerated van. Where do you think all the fruit goes, Trevor? I can’t fit it all in my refrigerator, even for one night a week.” She’s teasing, but then she turns serious. “And I’m not putting a piece of furniture in my nice van.” She looks past Trevor’s shoulder, her eyes softening as she looks at the group there. Joan looks back at Trevor and continues. “If you come back with a truck, though, you can have the couch for free.”

Trevor agrees in a heartbeat. The only problem now is… how the hell is he going to get a truck on such short notice?

“Hey, Zegras!” Bea shouts, cupping her hands around her mouth. “We’re going to the next location. Are you coming with or are you going to keep flirting with taken women?”

Trevor glares at her. He’s not flirting, which Bea knows, but now everyone at the yard sale is looking at him. She wanted to embarrass him and she has succeeded. Even Honey is laughing, so he lets it go. “I’ll be back tomorrow with a truck,” Trevor tells Joan. “Don’t let anyone else buy that couch before I can pick it up.”

“Darling, nobody wants that couch,” Joan assures Trevor. “I’ve been bringing that out during our yard sales for five years. This is just the first time Honey made her way to my house on a day like today.”

Honestly, Trevor believes her. It’s a terrible couch. It’s comfortable even though it’s slightly itchy, but it’s also ugly and it doesn’t match anything. It’s a piece that you have to build the room around, not that you can throw into an existing room. 

Honey doesn’t care. She loves it. Trevor believes that she’ll be able to fit it seamlessly into her living room if that’s what she wants to do. He is going to get that truck and pick up this sofa for Honey.

He returns to the group, walking behind the girls as they put the shoeboxes of pictures back on the table from which they came. Honey shuffles a couple of dollars into Joan’s hand as they leave, piling into Quinn’s big rental car. Quinn and Bea sit in the front, wrestling Jack away from the shotgun door when he tries to steal it from Bea. Jack and Cole are in the middle seats, then Honey, Luke, and Trevor are in the back.

They pull right into the driveway of the next stop. It’s late in the evening, nearly dinner time, so Trevor is hoping that this will be their last stop. When he sees Vera in the front lawn, Trevor thinks it will be.

A realization hits Trevor. He stares at the truck parked in front of their car, rusty bumper and all. He knows that the truck bed is big enough for a couch– it’s big enough for five boys to fit in the back with plenty of extra space. His head whips toward the front porch of the house– Earl is there, sitting in a rocking chair, asleep.

He will use Earl’s truck tomorrow to pick up Honey’s couch, even if he has to grovel and beg the old man.

They exit the vehicle like a clown-car. Honey tucks her arm behind her back and makes a grabbing motion, knowing that Trevor is behind her. Trevor slips his hand into hers and they walk into the yard sale hand-in-hand.

“Oh, my word!” Vera exclaims when she spots them. “You two finally figured that out, did you?”

Honey blushes. Trevor laughs. “I had a feeling you ladies knew all along,” Honey murmurs, rolling her eyes fondly. “I’m surprised you didn’t let me know exactly how you felt from the first day.”

“Babygirl, I would’ve if you’d have listened to me,” Vera teases. She shakes her head and waves her hand, brushing them off.  “I knew you’d get there eventually. Plus, Earl’s been telling me to butt out of other people’s business since our boy decided to get a divorce.”

“Hm, that sounds like him,” Honey says with a smile. “Is he sleepin’ again?” Her little accent always gets thicker when she talks to the knitting ladies, probably because their Appalachian accents are so heavy and prominent. 

Vera glares at her husband from over her shoulder. “Yes. He’s always sleeping on the job. There ain’t been a yard sale in the past fifteen years that this man hasn’t fallen asleep at, in that same damn rocking chair.”

“Maybe next year, you’ll have to sell the rocking chair,” Trevor jokes good-naturedly. 

Vera loses herself in thought for a second, tapping her chin. “You know, that’s not a bad idea, Trevor. I might just have to do that next year.”

Honey chuckles. “Just don’t tell Earl it was Trevor’s idea. He’ll never forgive him.”

Vera locks her lips and gives them a wink.

“Hon, come look at this,” Bea calls. “It’s perfect for tomorrow.”

Honey’s eyes light up. She releases Trevor’s hand and pushes him away. “Go, go look at something else.”

Trevor makes himself limp against her hands. “I wanna see what you’re so excited about.”

“It’s a secret,” Honey whines. “Let me surprise you.” She kisses Trevor’s jaw, distracting him with the fleeting brush. “Shoo.” She pushes Trevor off with one final shrug. 

Trevor grins, shit-eating and annoying, at Honey. He’s going to take the chance to talk to Earl while Honey is occupied. The boys won’t bother him either– Vera has commandeered Cole to get him to move some boxes and the Hughes brothers are wandering through the aisles of junk and tchotchkes that Earl and Vera are selling.

Trevor climbs the stairs of the porch, crossing the wooden slats with light feet. He sinks into the rocking chair next to Earl as the man opens one eye. 

“What do you want?” Earl grunts. “Waking me up, stomping over here without a care in the world. Being disrespectful to my house, boy.”

Trevor just bites the bullet. “I need to borrow your truck tomorrow night.”

Earl curls his lip and pinches the bridge of his nose. “No.”

“C’mon, man,” Trevor complains. “You let Bea borrow your truck.”

“I’ve known Miss McLean for five years and I rode in the truck with her behind the wheel three times before I let her take it on her own,” Earl replies. “I love my truck and I’m not letting you wreck it.”

So Trevor grovels. “Please,” he sing-songs in a sugary-sweet voice. He clasps his hands together in a praying position and bends forward, entreating Earl. “I’ll take good care of her.”

Earl side-eyes her. “My truck ain’t a boat. It ain’t no ‘she.’”

“I have a clean license and it’s not set to expire for another couple of years,” Trevor says. “I’ve never gotten into a wreck and I swear I won’t let tomorrow be the first time.”

“I said no, Trevor.”

Trevor heaves out a huge sigh. He sits in silence for a second, rocking his chair and gazing out into the yard. 

Earl closes his eyes to go back to sleep.

“It’s for Honey,” Trevor says after a minute. He listened to the wind blow through the chimes hung in the corner of the ceiling of the porch before he spoke. “Joan has the world’s ugliest couch on her lawn and Honey loves it. It’s a horrible mix of colors and it’s kind of velvety and itchy, but she had to convince herself that it wasn’t worth it. She can’t spend $75 on it. She doesn’t have the means to move it.”

Earl gives no sign that he’s listening. Trevor knows that he is.

“I need your truck so I can buy the couch. I can’t decide if I want to swap it with her couch while she’s hanging out with Bea, or if I want to put it in my apartment and surprise her when she comes to visit me for the first time. I think the look on her face would be worth it a few months down the line, once she’s forgotten about it,” Trevor continues. 

He watches Honey dig through a box and pass a bundle of fabric to Bea, nodding. Bea nods and admires it, running her fingers over the fabric before slipping it into a quilted bag that she must have found on another table. 

“The couch won’t fit in my car. So I need to borrow your truck,” Trevor repeats. “I promise I will take care of it and fill it with gas when I’m done.”

Earl squints at Trevor. “When do you need it?”

A blossom of hope blooms in Trevor’s chest. That’s basically a yes. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

Earl makes a noise like a humph. “Come to the hardware store at 4. I’ll drive you. We’ll keep the couch here until you can find some movers to take it to your place. It’ll stay in the apartment above the garage. Finally, it’ll be good for something.”

Earl lays out the plan with such conviction that Trevor knows he can’t say no. This is the most the Earl will budge, simply because Trevor explained that he’s doing it for Honey. So the old man does have a heart– he’s a softie, like Honey says.

“Do you think you can still carry a couch, old man?” Trevor teases.

Earl grabs the newspaper on his lap and rolls it up, swinging at Trevor. He dodges it. “Boy, get off’a my porch before I take my offer back.”

Trevor laughs, but scurries away from Earl like a convict who just dug his way out of jail with a spoon.

84:90 – HONEY

The silk beneath Honey’s fingers is smooth and light, but that doesn’t mean it’s not intimidating. The baby blue color and the cream colored lace around the neckline and the hem of the shorts are beautiful, but not enough to offset Honey’s hesitation. This beautiful, vintage slip with thin spaghetti straps and a lightly cinched waist was purchased yesterday for one specific purpose: to give Trevor something to remember Honey by while he’s gone. 

Of course, they’ll be calling each other and texting all the time during the season, but the principle stands. Honey wants to give Trevor something sexy and, quite frankly… she wants to prove to herself that she does trust him with something as intimate as a series of photos. 

It was an idea Honey had after Trevor went cold on Thomas, but she’d let it go. It resurfaced when they’d hooked up in the car after visiting her parents on Monday, when Trevor had run his hands over the curves of her body and whispered, “I wish there was a way for me to remember this perfectly, forever.” Since then, it’s been weighing on her mind. The idea to take pictures for Trevor has never been far from the forefront of her brain. 

She debated back and forth until yesterday. Honey had told Bea, just to try and talk it out and come to a decision, and then they’d found a box of pretty clothes that Vera had sewn when she was side-hustling as a seamstress. She said that the clothes had never been worn, since she’d never sold them before they opened the hardware store, which made Honey feel better. She was not going to buy lingerie from Vera if it was… used. Honey shudders to think about that. Luckily, Vera assured them that she would not sell that sort of thing. She’s a God-fearing woman, she says, and she will not participate in that type of public indecency. Vera, appartently, has dignity to spare.

It was a bit dramatic, but it made Honey laugh, and she loved this piece. It’s so her. The baby blue contrasts her tanned summer skin and her pierced nipples are going to brush against the silk like how clean bedsheets soothe freshly-shaven legs. 

Still, the hesitation remains. It’s very real to Honey, that she’s taking sexy pictures of herself for the first time since her nudes were leaked when she was 17, but there are a few things to console her. One: she won’t be stripping down. She’ll be wearing this slip, which covers everything but still reveals enough to pique the imagination. Two: the photos will be physical copies rather than electronic. They’ll be taken on Honey’s polaroid camera, the same one that she and Cole used when modeling their matching t-shirts. Three: the person taking the photos is very trustworthy. Bea would sooner bite the bullet by her own hand rather than share Honey’s photos, even if she was mad at Honey and wanted to get back at her, while Thomas was the opposite. Four: Trevor has assured Honey over and over again, and he will continue to reassure Honey as long as he needs to, that he will never treat her the way that Thomas did. Honey believes him and she wants to show him that she believes him and trusts him– so this is what she’s decided to do.

She takes a deep breath and eases her robe off. She just took a shower and styled her hair the way she thinks Trevor will most enjoy. It’s slightly messy, but cascading down her back in curls. About halfway through the photoshoot, Honey expects that she’ll get overstimulated and tie her hair up on top of her head in her classic bun. Trevor likes that too and he’ll enjoy being able to see the planes of her back, whereas they were hidden before.

Honey slides into the baby blue slip carefully. Since it’s old, and spent decades in a box in Vera’s attic, she’s worried about breaking the seams or tugging on the straps too much. By being careful, she’ll keep it in such pristine condition that she can continue to admire it for years to come. It’s a pretty piece of fabric. 

She tilts her head at herself in the mirror. Honey likes how she looks, but her reflection almost seems like a different version of herself. It’s still her, but her reflection just shows how much she’s changed and grown since the beginning of the summer. She smiles at herself.

“You ready?” Bea asks, knocking on the wall of Honey’s bedroom. She’d been banished from the loft while Honey got ready, but she was only banished to the downstairs bathroom to put on her own outfit. 

Bea won’t be starring in many photos today, but she will be doing a couple. Her plan is to demonstrate poses and angles for Honey and if the pictures work out, she’ll hand them off to her boyfriend when he leaves. Part of it is because he won her whiteboard challenge and the reward for winning was a boudoir shoot, but the other part is because Bea actually wants to give Quinn something to look at when he’s in Vancouver and she’s still here. Honey can’t imagine handing a sexy photo to a boyfriend who is going to become an ex by the end of next week, knowing that he’ll keep it and look at it. Bea seems fine with it, always taking every new development in stride while maintaining her decision to break up with Quinn by the end of the summer. 

Honey is trying to be okay with it. Honey’s mom always used to say, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” so Honey is doing her best to stay silent when she disagrees with Bea. There’s nothing she can say to change Bea’s mind. It will just start a fight. She doesn’t want to fight with Bea when she’s already going through enough.

Bea managed to find a pink teddy that fits her aesthetic perfectly. It’s still girlish without being too pretty-princess-pink and innocent. It’s sexy. The flowing dress part that covers Bea’s stomach and falls halfway over her behind is sheer, while the cups of the bra push her cleavage up and make them look absurdly round. 

“Fake tits?” Honey asks.

Bea flashes a smile. “All real.” She puts her hands near her chest, emulating the snap portion of the ‘Bend and Snap,’ and poses. “I’m surprised how good they look in this, to be honest.” Her hands drop to her sides. “It’s literally fate that we both found shit that we like, that actually fits us well. You look cute, babe.”

“Well, I don’t want to look cute,” Honey says. “I want to look sexy.”

“You look sexy too, but you’re a taken lady, so who am I to comment on your bedroom appeal?” Bea laughs. She reaches out and fixes Honey’s strap, which had sllipped from her shoulder. She turns around in front of Honey, looking over her shoulder. “Do my panties match well enough?”

She’s wearing her ‘fuck-me’ panties, the pink pair that she loves. They’ve never done her wrong and, like fate (if Honey is using the same words as Bea), they match the teddy perfectly.

“Dude, they’re perfect,” Honey replies. She hums, the edges of her mouth tilting down into an evaluating frown. “I like them a lot.”

Bea shimmies her shoulders. “Oh, you like them a lot, huh?”

Honey laughs. “Fuck off.”

Bea crosses the room and picks up the polaroid on Honey’s bedside table, turning it on and moving it between her hands to get acquainted with the device again. It’s been a while since she used it. The last time was around Christmas, when they had a miniature photoshoot in the Nook after decorating. Bea points at the bed. “Okay, lay down, pillow princess. Let’s get you comfortable with the camera.”

Bea barks suggestions to Honey as she poses. They only have 24 photos for this, since polaroid film is so expensive and, as much as Honey loves Trevor, he does not need more than 20 photos to get the hint. He doesn’t need more than 15, really. The split that Honey and Bea decided is that she’ll get 16 of the polaroids and Bea will get eight. Honey expects that a couple of the photos will be entirely unusable, so she’ll probably end up with about 12. Bea might get five– but she’s also not that picky when it comes to photos.

The first picture is of Honey laying back against the pillows, one leg up and one leg stretched out. She rests her head on her fist, propping her elbow against the mattress. She turns onto her stomach next, popping her butt up and using the book on her nightstand as a prop, like she’s casually reading in sexy lingerie. Honey probably wouldn’t ever sit around and read in sexy clothing, because it’s not the most comfortable thing in the world, but Trevor Zegras doesn’t know that. He also probably thinks that a woman in lingerie, reading a big book and looking studious, is sexier than Honey without the book.

She transitions up to sit against the headboard, ruffling her hair like she’s stretching with a yawn. Bea snaps a picture of that, then snaps one of Honey settling back and lacing her fingers beneath her bent knee. 

The sexier pictures are more difficult. When Bea tells Honey to sit up on her knees and arch her back, they take two pictures that Honey hates before she tells Bea that she needs to demonstrate for her. 

The pictures turn out much better for Bea, almost like it’s effortless. If Honey didn’t know better, she’d swear that Bea has done this before. Either she’s done a lot of research or she’s a natural at this, spurred on by her confidence. Honey should really try that when it’s her turn.

The photos that she takes of Bea are a good demonstration, which Honey appreciates. She tries to emulate the positions when it’s her turn: kneeling up on the balls of her feet and pushing her chest out, spreading her thighs and W-sitting on the bed and leaning forward so that Bea can capture the V of her chest in the photo as well. Her straps slip down her shoulders again, but Honey doesn’t fix them. With each picture, she feels better and better.

By the end, she and Bea are trading pictures– one for Bea, two for Honey– and giggling as they develop. Bea is pointing at the ones that she thinks Trevor will “blow his load over without even touching himself” while Honey is waving the pictures that emphasize the round globes of Bea’s ass in the girl’s face and swearing that Quinn is going to freak.

Even if Honey wasn’t going to give these pictures away, the process still reclaims and twists her feelings from the past. For the past five years, she’s been uncomfortable in front of the camera unless she’s with Bea. She didn’t love it when there was a picture taken of just her, especially in the first year, fearing that it would be plastered everywhere online and somehow, in some insane way, her nudes would resurface and ruin her life again. 

Although Honey is going to press this stack of photos into Trevor’s hand shortly before he leaves Litchton, she feels like the photos are just for her right now. It’s like when she stared at her reflection– Honey is looking at a different person entirely. In the back of her mind, she knows that it’s herself, but Honey barely recognizes the girl in the photos. This girl is oozing sexual energy. Honey sees why this girl is sexy and believes it when Bea tells her that she looks amazing. She knows that her boyfriend will think the same thing and will probably jump her after he’s done looking through the pictures. 

That’s a different reaction than Thomas, too, but Honey is certain of it. Thomas used to go back to the pictures and videos Honey sent him and was balatant about it. Maybe it’s because he was a stupid 17 year old at the time, but Honey knew how much he liked the photos and asked for them, and she felt pressured to give them to him because she wanted to make him happy and she loved him. He started demanding them much more often when he started partying and abusing drugs and it started to feel like he would treat Honey as his personal OnlyFans model (before OnlyFans even existed). She was right there, but he liked the pictures more, and she still wanted him to like her, so she kept sending them. It backfired in a way that nearly killed her and certainly changed everything about her.

And Honey knows that Trevor’s eyes are going to go wide at the pictures, but he’s going to put them to the side and touch her after he sees them. He’s still going to prioritize her, as a real person, because that’s who Trevor is. He loves Honey, not the things that Honey does for him.

It’s the thing that she least expected when she turned to May on the calendar hanging in the back room of The Reading Nook. Honey wasn’t looking for anything at the beginning of the summer, and now she’s taking sexy pictures for her boyfriend and giggling about it as she looks over them. There’s nothing but giddiness coursing through her veins. Honey doesn’t want this to ever end.