#and i am forever sorry for where this is going

[paxaz535]

DOUBLE (DATE) TROUBLE

nika x reader + pazzi

nika and paige somehow makes it a competition in the cabin

(i’m not sure if this type of stuff makes people uncomfortable so if it does, please don’t read it nor comment negative things about it)

w: nsfw , smut , squirting , competitive sex , fingering (sorry if i missed any)

ꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬꙬ

Nika:

yo

You:

you’re literally sitting next to me.

Paige:

girl hush and read the texts

you disliked this message

Azzi:

don’t worry gorgeous

paige is right next to me too unfortunately

but what is happening rn

Paige:

so me & nika cooked up a little surprise…

Nika:

we’re going on a double date

pack for the weekend pls

You:

you couldn’t just say this out loud?

Nika:

no cause azzi still needed to know

Azzi:

paige could’ve just told me too??

Paige:

okay but like

where’s the drama in that

we booked a cabin btw. for the weekend.

you’re welcome.

Nika:

we’re also going out tonight

so dress hot

pls & thanks

Paige:

especially you, [ ]

You:

why am i catching strays???

Paige:

girl… you stay dressing like it’s laundry day

You:

you cannot be talking paige

Nika:

enough. both of you.

Azzi:

yeah hush 🙄

Nika:

just be ready.

You:

fine i guess

Azzi:

what she said 👆🏽

⸻

You and Azzi had the same idea: get ready together, pre-game, and unpack a little chaos of your own before the real trouble started.

You were packing your overnight bag while Azzi sat on your bed zipping up her makeup case, already dressed in something tight and black and unfair.

“Why do you think they planned all this?” you asked, holding up two swimsuits and deciding to pack both.

Azzi shrugged, sliding a small bottle into her bag. “No idea. But they’re definitely up to something. Paige’s been smiling like a Bond villain all day.”

You raised an eyebrow when you noticed something peeking out of her duffel. “Wait. Is that what I think it is?”

Azzi froze. “Girl,” she said slowly, “you know we don’t do secrets.”

You pulled your bag open. “Then look what Nika wanted me to bring.”

You revealed the wand and Azzi’s jaw dropped.

“That’s literally the perfect one,” she whispered, reaching out instinctively. “Where’d she even find that?”

“She sent me the link like three days ago,” you said, laughing. “Didn’t even ask. Just, ‘buy this.’”

Azzi was still inspecting it when she suddenly smirked. “Since we’re doing show and tell…”

She unzipped a side pocket and revealed hers—smaller, sleeker, pink.

You blinked. “That’s adorable. Is it even real?”

Azzi laughed. “Don’t let the size fool you. Paige used it on me last week and I literally couldn’t walk after.”

You choked. “Oh, you freaks.”

“She’s always horny,” Azzi muttered with a blush, zipping her bag shut again. “Like, I’ll just be trying to eat cereal and she’s over here licking syrup off her thumb.”

You cracked up. “Can’t blame her. She did bag a baddie.”

Azzi smacked your arm, laughing too. “Shut up.”

Just then, your phones lit up at the same time.

⸻

Fantastic Fags (4/4)

Nika:

come outside

like now

Paige:

for real. don’t take forever.

You:

shut the hell up

Azzi:

here we come dumbasses

⸻

You both grabbed your bags and headed downstairs, wheeling them across the lot. You could hear Drake playing from the car even with the windows rolled up.

You knocked on the trunk. It popped open.

You tossed both bags inside, already spotting Paige’s duffel and Nika’s battered gym bag. You and Azzi split, each circling opposite sides of the car.

You climbed in behind Nika. She had on a loose black button-up, baggy jeans, clean Air Forces. Her jaw was tight. Hands steady on the wheel.

Paige was in the passenger seat, one leg up, white jeans and black New Balances. The grin on her face was criminal.

“Finally,” Paige said, turning just enough to check you both out. “Damn. Took y’all long enough.”

“We didn’t even take ten minutes,” Azzi said, closing her door. “Relax.”

“You two look good,” Paige added innocently.

Nika glanced at you through the rearview. “That dress…” she hummed.

You smirked. “You got something to say?”

She didn’t even blink. “You’re something else.”

You smiled, pulling out your phone. “Azzi—get in this selfie.”

She leaned in close, her cheek warm against yours. You snapped a few shots—one soft smile, one sticking out your tongues, one where Paige flipped off the camera from the front seat.

You looked too damn good not to document this.

-

The restaurant was almost too nice.

Dark oak floors. Dim lighting. A private corner booth tucked away behind a partition of sheer curtains. You clocked the vibe the moment you stepped in: they picked this place on purpose.

You slid in beside Nika without question, her hand immediately resting on your thigh. Azzi settled in beside Paige, who was already leaning back like she owned the place.

“You two act like you run this restaurant,” you murmured, scanning the gold-embossed menu.

“We do,” Paige said.

“Basically,” Nika echoed, her thumb tracing slow, thoughtless circles on your skin.

A server dropped off water, menus, and bread. You hadn’t even picked a drink yet and Nika’s hand was sliding higher beneath the table.

“Really?” you whispered, shifting in your seat.

“You wore the dress,” she replied without looking at you. “You knew what this was.”

Across the booth, Azzi shifted a little too quickly in her seat. Paige’s hand was under the table too, resting comfortably on her girl’s bare thigh, from the look of it.

“So… what’s the occasion?” you asked, trying for nonchalance.

“Celebrating us,” Paige said, reaching for a breadstick. “And because y’all been good lately.”

Nika leaned in, her voice low. “Mostly.”

You gave her a side eye, then flicked your gaze to the tablecloth as her fingers dragged higher. “You’re gonna get us kicked out.”

She smirked. “Only if you’re loud.”

Azzi slightly choked on her water, the words catching her off guard. The server returned for orders. You picked salmon. Azzi went with scallops. Nika ordered short ribs, and Paige chose rare steak with zero hesitation. Before they even left, Nika added, “We’ll also take the molten lava cake for dessert.”

“Bold of you,” you said, arching a brow.

“I know what I want early,” she said, her voice smooth as her fingers slid between your legs.

You nearly choked on your water.

Azzi made a sudden sound across the booth, a soft gasp that she barely swallowed down. You glanced at her—her cheeks were flushed, her hand now gripping Paige’s under the table.

Paige tilted her head. “Everything okay over there, baby?”

Azzi nodded quickly, breathing through her nose. “You’re such an asshole,” she whispered, almost fond.

“You’re welcome.”

Nika’s fingers finally found what they were looking for, pushing your panties aside with slow, teasing ease. You clenched your jaw, heart hammering in your chest.

“You’re soaked already,” she murmured. “Damn.”

“You’re crazy for doing this here.”

“You didn’t say stop.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t. Across from you, Azzi’s mouth fell open again, head tipping back for half a second before she caught herself.

You reached under the table and squeezed her knee. You good?

She mouthed, no, bitch, and tried not to laugh.

Nika slid one finger inside you, and you tensed. The pressure, the heat of her touch—it made your head spin. You grabbed the edge of the table to steady yourself, praying your voice didn’t crack if you had to say anything aloud.

“You alright, love?” Paige asked, looking right at Azzi.

Azzi nodded. Her voice was breathy. “Mmhmm. Just… great.”

“I bet.”

The server returned with your food. Nika’s hand vanished like it had never been there. You had to sit back like you weren’t seconds from collapsing. Your salmon looked perfect. You didn’t taste a single bite.

Paige fed Azzi a piece of steak with her fingers, slow and deliberate. “Open.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but obeyed. Her lips closed over Paige’s fingers, eyes fluttering just for a moment.

“Good girl,” Paige whispered.

Nika watched them, then leaned toward you with that smug grin she wore too well. “Think we’ll be louder than them tonight?”

You stared her down. “You’re gonna have to prove it.”

—-

The car ride was quieter now.

Not silent, but charged—like everyone was conserving energy for later. The city lights had faded behind you. Trees took over the view, a blur of shadows in the headlights as the road twisted deeper into nowhere.

Azzi was curled up against the window, legs tucked under her, eyes closed but not asleep. Paige’s hand was resting on her thigh again—innocent if you didn’t know better. If you hadn’t seen what she was capable of with just two fingers and a dare.

You shifted in your seat, trying not to think about how warm your skin still felt under your dress. Nika’s hand was back on the wheel, one arm draped loosely across the top of her seat. You could feel the weight of her glance without even looking.

“You alright over there?” she murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

“Yeah,” you said, staring out the window. “Just thinking.”

“About dinner?”

You gave her a look. “About what’s next.”

Her smile was slow. “Good.”

Paige cut through the quiet, glancing over her shoulder. “There’s a liquor store up here—y’all wanna stop?”

Azzi made a sleepy noise. “Do we need to?”

Nika shrugged. “We brought wine.”

“But do we have tequila?” Paige asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I feel like you just want to watch us suffer,” you muttered.

Paige grinned. “Is it working?”

You leaned forward between the seats. “Fine. Get your stupid tequila. But I’m not doing shots.”

“Liar,” Paige said, already signaling to turn off the road.

—

The cabin came into view half an hour later—three stories tall, tucked back in the woods, windows glowing warm against the dark. You blinked as the driveway curved upward, revealing a full wraparound porch, twinkle lights strung across the railings.

“Okay,” Azzi whispered. “That’s sexy.”

“You’re welcome,” Paige said again.

“You keep saying that like we didn’t agree to this,” you shot back, climbing out as the car came to a stop.

Nika was already grabbing bags. “Just say thank you.”

You rolled your eyes but followed her up the steps, your overnight bag slung over your shoulder. The air smelled like pine and smoke and something a little colder than it had any right to in late spring.

Inside, the cabin was even nicer. High ceilings. Leather couches. Stone fireplace. One long hallway that branched off into bedrooms. You dropped your bag near the entry and turned slowly in place, taking it in.

“Dibs on the room with the balcony,” Azzi said immediately.

“You don’t even know which one that is—” you started.

“She does now,” Paige interrupted, already hauling their bags down the hall. “C’mon, baby.”

Azzi blew you a kiss as she disappeared after her.

Nika was behind you again, close enough that you could feel the heat of her body against your back. “Let them have it,” she murmured. “Ours is downstairs.”

You turned, brows raised. “There’s a downstairs?”

She gestured toward the far corner. A narrow staircase led down into the dark.

You followed her without a word.

—

The basement suite was ridiculous. A king-sized bed, low lighting, even a fireplace in the corner. There was a private bathroom and a walk-in shower you could probably fit all four of you in—though that was not happening.

Nika dropped her bag by the door. You stood in the center of the room, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.

“So… this is where you planned to murder me?” you teased.

She stepped up close. “Murder’s not the plan.”

“Mm. Just death by orgasm?”

“Something like that.”

You didn’t get a chance to laugh—her mouth was already on yours.

The kiss was deep, steady, demanding. Her hands found your hips, pulled you in. Your fingers curled in the front of her shirt. The fabric was soft, but her chest was solid beneath it, and she kissed you like she knew exactly how this night would end.

“I want you naked,” she muttered against your mouth.

“You’re so romantic,” you breathed.

“You’re gonna be loud,” she whispered.

Before you could answer, there was a distant knock—light, fast, unmistakable. Then Azzi’s voice, muffled through the floorboards:

“Shot time, sluts!”

You groaned, pressing your forehead to Nika’s shoulder.

She sighed. “Cockblocked by friendship.”

You grinned. “Story of our lives.”

Nika let you go with one last squeeze. “Come on. Let’s go prove we can hold our liquor better than Paige.”

“Oh, I can,” you said, flipping your hair. “Question is—can you still finger me under the table after three shots?”

Nika just smiled. “Try me.”

-

Upstairs, the girls had already claimed the kitchen.

Paige was behind the counter lining up shot glasses with the precision of a bartender and the chaos of a demon. Azzi was on the barstool closest to her, legs crossed, phone out, taking pictures of the bottles and making a playlist on the fly.

“Where the hell were y’all?” Paige asked, not looking up.

You slipped onto the stool next to Azzi. “We were bonding.”

Azzi snorted. “You were definitely sucking face.”

Nika opened a cabinet, found a bag of chips, and tossed it on the counter. “You jealous?”

“Maybe,” Azzi said, stealing one and crunching loudly. “Depends how long it lasted.”

“Thirty seconds, tops,” you muttered, reaching for a glass. “Y’all are good at timing.”

Paige poured the first round—clear and menacing. “This one’s for arriving. And surviving the restaurant.”

“Barely,” Azzi added, glancing at you with a little shiver.

You raised your glass. “To being the hottest people in the state.”

“Cheers to that,” Paige said, clinking against everyone else’s.

The first shot hit hot and immediate. You grimaced, licked your lip, and grabbed the chips.

Azzi tilted her head toward the living room. “Y’all wanna play something?”

“Truth or dare,” Paige said immediately.

You groaned. “You’re so predictable.”

“I’m so fun,” Paige corrected, already walking toward the couch. “Get your hot asses over here.”

—

Fifteen minutes in, the vibe had shifted.

You were buzzed, warm, draped sideways across the arm of the couch with your legs in Nika’s lap. Azzi was on the floor between Paige’s knees, her head tilted back onto her girlfriend’s thigh. Every dare got a little bolder. Every truth cut a little deeper.

“Alright, alright,” Paige said, pointing at Nika. “Truth or dare.”

Nika cracked her neck. “Dare.”

Paige smirked. “Make her moan.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“She didn’t say how,” Azzi added quickly, already smiling like a menace.

Nika met your eyes, slow and steady. “C’mere.”

Your stomach flipped. You sat up, your whole body on high alert. Nika pulled you gently into her lap, one hand resting on your outer thigh, the other trailing up your spine.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she said quietly, voice for your ears only. “Just trust me.”

You nodded, heart racing.

Her lips brushed your neck—barely there. Then her tongue flicked just under your jaw, and your body lit up.

She didn’t say anything else. Just mapped out every soft spot behind your ear with her mouth, slow and devastating, while her fingers danced higher up your thigh. You exhaled hard—just once—but it came out embarrassingly close to a moan.

“Shit,” you whispered.

“Say it,” Nika breathed, teeth grazing your pulse.

You bit your lip. But it was no use.

“Fuck,” you moaned softly, hand tightening in her shirt.

Across from you, Paige held up both hands. “There it is.”

Azzi clapped like it was a game show. “We have a winner!”

You rolled off Nika with a laugh and a flushed face, flopping back onto the couch.

“Payback’s coming,” you warned.

Paige leaned down to whisper something in Azzi’s ear. Whatever it was, her girlfriend’s face went red instantly.

“I hate you,” Azzi muttered.

“You love me,” Paige corrected. “Now—truth or dare?”

Azzi sighed. “Dare.”

Paige held out her hand. “Panties. Now.”

Azzi blinked. “You’re so annoying.”

“You’re so slow.”

You and Nika exchanged a look as Azzi shifted on the floor, clearly debating. Then, with a frustrated sigh, she reached under her dress, hips tilting up just enough, and slid them down.

Lace. Pale pink.

She smacked them into Paige’s hand. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Paige said, tucking them into her back pocket like a trophy.

You were halfway to calling her a menace when Nika leaned close again. “You wanna tap out?”

You shook your head. “I’m so locked in.”

—

It didn’t last much longer.

Someone—Azzi—yawned. Someone else— Nika suggested you all wrapped it up.

You dragged your bag to the basement, drunk and sore from laughing, adrenaline still buzzing beneath your skin. Nika followed close behind, slower this time, just watching you move.

“I haven’t forgotten that moan,” she teased, locking the door behind you.

You smirked. “You wanna hear the loud version?”

Her eyes darkened. “Bet.”

You didn’t even make it to the bed.

She had you against the wall before your shoes were off—hot mouth, stronger hands, the scent of cedar and wine and want all around you. You were already soaked. She already knew.

And right around the moment she dropped to her knees—right when her tongue slid over you for the first time—

you heard it.

A sound through the ceiling. Faint. Distant. But unmistakable.

A whimper.

Then: Azzi’s voice, high and pleading.

You froze.

Nika pulled back just enough to glance up, then back at you. Her lips were shiny. Her grin was pure evil.

“Round one,” she whispered.

You bit your lip, legs shaking already. “Oh, it’s on.”

Azzi. High-pitched. Fragile. “Please, Paige—”

Nika’s mouth pulled back from between your thighs, her breath warm, tongue glistening. “You hear that?”

You nodded slowly, heart hammering. “She sounds…”

“Destroyed. my twin is putting in work,” Nika finished, a cruel little grin tugging at her lips. “Think I can top it?”

You barely managed to speak. “You can try.”

She reached up, gripped your waist, and flipped you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing.

“On your knees,” she murmured, voice low and warm in your ear. “Ass up. Head down. Let them hear you.”

You moved without thinking—body already aching, slick between your thighs, your hips rising toward her like you were on strings. You felt her behind you, lining up, the fat tip of her strap pressing slow and deep between your folds.

She filled you in one stroke.

You gasped—loudly—gripping the sheets like they could save you from being split in half. She didn’t stop. Her hand slid up your back, palm flat between your shoulder blades, pinning you down as she began to thrust.

Slow at first. Measured. Like she was trying to make you feel every inch.

“God—Nika,” you choked.

She groaned behind you. “Fuck, baby. Listen to yourself.”

You didn’t need to. You could feel yourself. Dripping. Clenching. Squirming.

And she picked up the pace.

Fast. Deep. Merciless.

Her hips slapped yours with every thrust, filthy and rhythmic, the kind of sound that made it obvious to anyone listening what was happening. You heard another cry from upstairs—Azzi again, breathless and high-pitched, like Paige had her on the edge and wasn’t letting go.

Nika leaned over your back, dragging her teeth down your shoulder. “She’s not gonna last much longer.”

You whimpered.

“Will you?” she whispered.

Then her hand moved between your thighs, fingers stroking your clit in tight, practiced circles while she pounded into you from behind. You screamed, biting into the sheets to muffle it, but Nika just laughed.

“No, no, baby. Let them hear how messy you are.”

She shifted her angle and found that spot—deep, devastating, relentless.

Your whole body started to tremble.

“Nika, I—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” she hissed. “Let go. Give it to me.”

Her fingers pressed harder. Her thrusts turned brutal. The sound of her hips slamming against your ass echoed off the walls. And right when you thought your body might snap from the tension—

It happened.

Your orgasm tore through you like a wave, violent and sudden, and you screamed into the mattress as your whole body gushed—wet, messy, unrestrained.

Nika stilled.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

You collapsed forward, shaking uncontrollably, your thighs soaked, the sheets underneath you darkening fast.

“Holy shit,” Nika said again, almost laughing. “Did you just—?”

You turned your face enough to look at her, still breathless, dazed. “Don’t. Say it.”

She leaned over, kissed your spine, grinning like the devil himself. “I win.”

From upstairs came a long, keening moan.

Then silence.

You and Nika stared at the ceiling, both breathless.

Then you laughed—hard.

“Okay,” you wheezed. “You might’ve won.”

She kissed your temple. “We’ll see about tomorrow.”

-

You walked into the kitchen on shaky legs, Nika’s oversized t-shirt barely covering the curve of your thighs, your hair an unapologetic mess.

Azzi was already at the table, hunched over a cup of coffee like it owed her money. Her hoodie was on backwards, her bun was crooked, and she looked like she had seen God.

“Morning,” you said casually, voice just a little hoarse.

Azzi glanced up. Froze. “Oh my god,” she muttered. “Don’t even start.”

You tried to hide your grin. Failed. “Start what?”

She pointed at you accusingly. “You’re walking like someone who squirted on cotton sheets.”

You choked on air. “Azzi—”

“I heard it. The moment it happened. It was like—” she made a dramatic gesture with her hands “—Niagara Falls. Above. My. Fucking. Head.”

Your face burned. “Bitch.”

Paige strolled in then, shirtless, smug, and holding a cold water bottle to the side of her neck. “Sounds like somebody lost the bet.”

Azzi groaned. “I did not lose—”

“You begged like you lost,” Paige said sweetly, leaning down to kiss the top of her girlfriend’s head. “And then you said ‘thank you.’ Like four times.”

Azzi slid lower in her seat, hoodie now practically swallowing her face.

Nika stepped in behind you, fully dressed, smug in a clean black tee and gym shorts like she didn’t absolutely wreck you eight hours ago. She kissed your temple and headed straight for the coffeemaker, completely unfazed.

“You alright, babe?” she asked, pouring you a cup.

“Define alright,” you muttered.

“You sounded amazing,” she said, like she was talking about a podcast episode.

Paige was frying eggs now, flipping them with one hand like she owned the place. “You sounded like you were dying.”

“I was,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “I think I transcended.”

Azzi made a wounded sound. “Same.”

“But we won,” Nika said, sliding a mug in front of you.

“Oh my god, she’s still talking about it,” Paige muttered.

“I made her squirt,” Nika replied, sitting across from her. “She flooded the sheets. We had to sleep with a towel.”

“Nika!” you slapped her thigh under the table.

“Don’t be shy now,” she whispered with a smirk.

Paige rolled her eyes. “That’s cute. But Azzi was sobbing.”

“I was not sobbing,” Azzi said into her mug.

“You begged like someone in a CW season finale,” Paige said said.

Azzi gave her the finger without looking up.

Nika just leaned back in her chair, sipped her coffee, and nodded at the plate Paige was loading. “Extra eggs for the losers?”

“Funny,” Paige said. “I was gonna offer you hashbrowns out of pity.”

The tension was light, teasing, crackling under every movement. Smirks. Side-eyes. Paige licking syrup off her thumb. Nika casually resting her hand on your thigh again under the table.

You glanced at Azzi.

Azzi glanced at you.

Both of you knew: the score wasn’t settled.

You sipped your coffee. “So… what’s on the agenda today?”

Nika tilted her head. “Swim. Hike. Destroy each other again later.”

Paige nodded. “I’m down.”

Azzi sighed. “God help us all.”

You smiled into your mug.

Let the games continue.

[sturniqlo]

JUST ME AND YOU— C.S

pairing: boyfriend!chris x girlfriend!reader

summary: a regular night out with chris and his (not so) insane idea of wanting to run away with you BLURB

cw: cursing, fluff

wc: 825 (not proofread)

an: two days in a row?? who am i

masterlist | join my taglist

------------------------------------------------

"chris— youre insane!" you giggled, the sound breaking the quietness of the city as you walked next to chris. you two had just gotten out of the ice cream shop you had been craving all week. and chris being chris, took you. "what?! i'm serious!" he said, taking a spoonful of his ice cream and eating it. "we could just run away! y'know? disappear for a bit— or forever! just me 'n you."

you playfully rolled your eyes, eating a scoop of your ice cream. but, you couldn't help the smile that spread onto your face. chris always said the most out of pocket, yet sweet shit. and their was one of those. "and where would we go? the middle of nowhere?" you egged on to the idea.

"exactly!" he said a bit to loudly, and you shushed him for being too loud in the quiet neighborhood. "you can pick, i'll go wherever you want. a cabin in the woods, a fucking island! hell— even a farm, i'll turn into a farmer for you, babe. you'd like that, yeah? living on a farm. we could get some chickens, a pony, or a cow. we could get our milk that way." he shrugged like it was nothing.

you looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "and do you know how to milk a cow, my love?" you giggled. he shook his head and finished his ice cream, tossing it in a trash can you two passed by. "nope, i don't. but i'd learn for you." he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and continued walking. "okay, enough about milking cows and running to a farm, i thought i was choosing."

"right, right. i was just giving you an idea. so, where would you like to go?" he rubbed your shoulder. before you said anything, his free hand stole the spoon out of your hand and ate some of your ice cream. "hey— thief!" you said. "sorry, baby. i just wanted some more ice cream. i should've gotten the bigger size." he said, returning the spoon. you rolled your eyes and let out a breathy laugh. "anyways— if it was up to me, i'd probably choose somewhere warm. maybe near a beach. quiet, but not boring. or probably a city, new york sounds nice. i liked it over there when we went."

"new york?" he said, taking another spoon of your ice cream, but you didn't mind it this time. "yeah, what about it?" you pouted. "it's— i was thinking more... montana." he said, kissing your cheek, his lips cold. "montana? the hell is in montana?"

"exactly! nobody does, it makes the perfect place to run away to." you laughed a bit louder this time. "chris, you are not a montana guy." you came down from your laugh. "okay, so what kind of guy am i?" he smiled at you. "you're a 'get lost in brooklyn' type of guy." you teased him with the fact that he lost you two in new york looking for a pizza spot— twice.

he gasped. "hey, that was one time!" he whined. "twice, actually." you corrected him. "okay, fine. twice, but i still found the spot. and it was pretty fucking good." you smiled, looking up at him as you two continued walking. the street lights illuminated his face with a muted white color.

"seriously though." he started. "it would be nice. just us. somewhere new, no noise— maybe, no pressure. just waking up and do whatever we want." you looked ahead. maybe his idea wasn't crazy crazy. you both had been busy lately, very busy. the thought of leaving that behind for a bit sounded nice. "yeah, that would be nice." chris nudged you playfully. "see? not so insane now, is it?" you giggled. "okay, but you're still insane. i love that about you." he grinned.

you walked in a comfortable silence for a while, the sound of your guys' shoes hitting the pavement. chris unwrapped his arm from around your shoulder and laced his fingers with yours, something that came natural to him. "you know," he began. "we don't have to make it a big deal. we can just wake up, pack a bag and leave a message. and just.. leave." he kissing the back of your hand. you looked over at him. "would you really do that? just drop everything?"

"for you? i'd do anything for you, baby. you should know that already." he said without hesitation. you didn't say anything. "are you considering it now?" he teased. you giggled. "maybe, just a bit." he smiled, and kissed your hand again. "good."

and just like that, the idea didn't sound insane anymore. yeah, you wouldn't pack a bag the next morning without actually planning something. but the idea of you two could do something like that— just you two— didn't sound so bad.

as long as you had chris next to you, things didn't sound so crazy.

[neonbonded]

Midnight Promises

♡ ft. love and deepspace men x fem!reader + future children ♡ cw: fluff, domesticity, soft dad behavior, implied past intimacy, extreme husband material, babies everywhere ♡ a/n: Got a lot of asks for more wife/children with the boys so I had too! Love them so much! Also if this one seems a bit off sorry I have been drowning in finals

Caleb

It’s 3:42 AM.

You’re barely awake—draped in Caleb’s old flight hoodie, fuzzy socks mismatched, hair a mess. Your baby’s been fussing for over an hour, and the soft whines from the bassinet are just starting to edge toward a full-blown meltdown.

You don’t even make it out of bed.

Because Caleb’s already there.

You feel the mattress shift, the soft pad of bare feet, the faint rustle of fabric as he leans over the bassinet. Then—

“Shhh, baby,” he whispers, voice so gentle it cracks your heart open. “C’mon, lovebug. You’ll wake Mama.”

He says it like Mama is royalty.

He scoops up the baby with practiced ease—cradles them against his broad chest, one hand patting their back, the other supporting their head with the kind of reverence people usually reserve for ancient artifacts or handwritten love letters.

You watch, half-lidded, as he starts pacing the room barefoot.

He’s wearing soft cotton sleep pants and nothing else. Dog tags glint faintly under the moonlight seeping through the curtains. His hair is messy. His eyes are tired.

But none of that matters when your baby whimpers and he starts humming.

A melody you don’t recognize—slow, a little sad, sweet in the way old lullabies are. He sways as he walks, murmuring words you can’t quite make out.

You think you hear:

“You’ve got Mama’s nose…”

And:

“You’re already perfect. I’ll protect you forever. No matter what.”

Eventually, the baby settles. Caleb’s still moving—slow, endless loops around the room like he’d walk forever if it meant peace for both of you.

And then?

He comes back.

Leans down to kiss your temple first—soft and lingering—then lays the baby carefully between the two of you in the co-sleeper.

You’re half-asleep when you feel the weight of his arm slide around your waist.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispers against your neck. “I’ve got you both.”

And you believe him.

Because he’s Caleb. And he always does.

Xavier

It’s late.

Too late.

The kind of hour where the world feels paused—still, heavy, suspended in moonlight.

You’re curled up on the couch in the quiet dark, cradling your baby against your chest. The nightlight glows dim in the corner, casting soft shadows across the living room. There’s a blanket draped around your shoulders. You’re swaying gently, murmuring something soft and sleepy.

But your eyes are fluttering shut.

You don’t even hear the door open.

Xavier steps in without a sound.

He’s still in his gear—jacket open, blade strapped to his back, boots silent on the floor. His hair’s a mess from wind and mission grime, and his shoulders are tense from too many hours moving through dangerous spaces.

But the moment he sees you?

Everything stills.

He crosses the room in a few strides. Drops to one knee in front of you—like a knight, like a sinner, like a man who can’t stop needing you close even when he’s exhausted.

You blink awake as his hand brushes over yours.

“You should be sleeping,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “She wouldn’t settle.”

His eyes drop to the baby nestled in your arms, now sleeping soundly. His jaw clenches—not in frustration. In awe.

He leans forward—careful, deliberate—and presses a kiss to your forehead. Then another, just above your brow.

“Let me,” he murmurs.

You hesitate. He sees it.

“I washed up outside,” he adds, voice barely above a breath. “I’m clean. I promise.”

You nod, and he lifts the baby from your arms with heartbreaking care—like he’s holding something sacred. His hands are calloused. Steady. Gentle. He cradles her close to his chest, one hand splayed protectively over her tiny back.

And then he just… stands there.

In the living room. Rocking back and forth. Saying nothing.

He doesn’t speak much—not about his love, not about the aching protectiveness in his chest—but his actions are poetry.

His eyes stay on her face like he’s memorizing every blink, every breath. When she stirs, his voice breaks the silence, low and soft:

“It’s alright. I’m here.”

You watch as he walks the room in slow loops, quiet and constant.

When he finally comes back, he lays her down in the bassinet and turns to you.

He doesn't ask if you're okay.

He just gathers you into his arms and pulls you into his lap on the couch—your body curled against his chest, your face tucked under his chin.

“Sleep,” he says.

And you do.

Because when Xavier says he’s here—he means it.

Rafayel

It’s nearly 2:30 in the morning.

The studio’s dim, lit only by the soft flicker of string lights and the distant glow of the moon bleeding through the stained-glass window he swears wasn’t always cracked.

You’re half-asleep on the old velvet couch, wearing one of his oversized button-downs and curled under a blanket that still smells like him—smoke, lavender, paint.

Your toddler is curled up on your chest, drooling peacefully, one chubby fist tangled in your hair.

And Rafayel?

He’s sitting on the floor.

Cross-legged. Shirtless. Covered in gold leaf and paint smudges.

Sketching.

You don’t know how long he’s been at it, but there are at least six versions of you sprawled around the floor, each more unhinged than the last—some romantic, some ridiculous. One with you wearing a crown made of snack wrappers. One where the baby is glowing like a celestial being. One where he’s asleep in your lap, drooling.

(“For realism,” he mumbled when you pointed it out.)

He looks up and catches your gaze before you can pretend to be asleep again.

“Caught you,” he says, voice a little too loud for the hour. “Can’t sleep without me anymore, can you?”

You groan softly, not bothering to deny it.

He grins and sets his sketchpad down. Crawls across the floor like a lazy jungle cat and presses a kiss to your bare knee.

Then another.

Then a third, way too high up your thigh.

“Rafayel,” you warn.

He laughs into your skin.

“Okay, okay,” he says, pushing himself up beside you. “You win. For now.”

He curls around you on the couch, nuzzles his nose into your neck, and gently adjusts the blanket so it covers all three of you—his long arm curling around your waist and your baby like you’re both his personal treasures.

You hear his breath catch when the baby sighs in her sleep and curls instinctively closer.

“Do you think she dreams?” he whispers. “Do you think babies dream of past lives?”

You hum. “Probably not.”

“She’s ours,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “So if she does, she’s dreaming of color. Of brushstrokes. Of the way you laugh when I say I’d paint the moon just to match your skin.”

You roll your eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

He grins. “Neither do you. That’s why I love you.”

You fall asleep in his arms to the feeling of his fingers trailing over your hip, sketching shapes into your skin he’ll try to remember later.

When he finally dozes off, he dreams of nothing but you.

Zayne

It’s just past midnight.

The house is silent except for the faint whir of the baby monitor and the occasional rustle of sheets as you shift beside him.

Zayne’s lying flat on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes wide open—like sleep is something that’s just out of reach. Again.

You roll over, still half-asleep, and reach for him without even opening your eyes.

He exhales softly. That sound that always comes out when he thinks you’ve caught him thinking too much.

“Can’t sleep?” you mumble against his chest.

“I’m fine.”

You don’t believe him for a second.

He never sleeps easily. Not when there are scans to review. Charts to double-check. Or, more often than not, you and your daughter to hover over protectively when you’re both too peaceful to notice.

You shift closer, throwing a leg over his, curling your fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re doing it again,” you murmur. “Thinking too loud.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand just comes up to rest on the small of your back, warm and grounding.

“I keep hearing her cough,” he finally admits. “Twice. It was faint. Could be nothing. Could be—”

“Zayne.”

“I know.”

His fingers tighten slightly against your spine.

“I just… I’ve never had anything like this,” he says. “Not really. A house. A family. Something I could lose.”

You lift your head, blinking at him in the dark. His jaw’s tight. His brows drawn. Even now, he’s holding everything too close to his chest.

You reach up and cup his face.

“You’re not going to lose us,” you say.

“But I don’t know how to stop trying to prevent it. I don’t know how to relax.”

Your daughter lets out a tiny whine over the monitor—just a sleepy noise—but Zayne’s already moving before you can stop him.

You follow him down the hallway.

In the dim nursery, she’s sound asleep again, thumb in her mouth, little fist curled around the corner of her bunny blanket.

Zayne stands there for a long moment, watching her.

And then—surprising even himself—he reaches into the crib and lifts her gently into his arms. Just to feel her close. Just to make sure.

You step up beside him, arms sliding around his waist.

He kisses the top of her head.

Then yours.

When he speaks, it’s barely a whisper:

“She looks like you when she sleeps.”

You smile.

“She snores like you.”

His lip twitches, just barely. “She’s perfect.”

You press your head to his shoulder. “So are you.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But when you’re all curled back in bed—your daughter nestled between you, your leg tangled with his again, his hand wrapped tightly around your fingers—you feel it.

That quiet shift.

Zayne doesn’t sleep much.

But when he does?

It’s only like this.

With you.

Sylus

It’s past 2 a.m.

The house is quiet—but not asleep.

You’re half-asleep on the couch, still in your robe, a half-drunk cup of tea cooling on the side table. The nursery light is off, save for the warm glow of the star projector pulsing gently across the ceiling. Two soft little heartbeats breathe slow and steady in the twin bassinets by the wall.

And Sylus?

He hasn’t moved in over an hour.

Still shirtless, dark sweats low on his hips, he sits in the old armchair by the window—broad shoulders silhouetted in gold, silver hair tied messily back. One twin lies draped against his bare chest, asleep with a hand tangled in the crow pendant Sylus never takes off. The other had fussed, and he calmed her with nothing but his heartbeat and a lullaby you’d never heard him sing before.

He’s holding both of them like the world might try to take them away.

And he’s watching the window like he’d burn that world down first.

You don’t say anything when you approach. You just cross the room quietly and kneel beside him, one hand smoothing along his thigh.

“I thought you’d gone back to bed,” he murmurs without looking.

You shake your head. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He finally turns to you. His expression is unreadable—but you see it in his eyes. The softness. The weight. The disbelief that he has something so precious now.

“She cried,” he adds, glancing down at the baby in his arms. “Then he did. Didn’t want them to wake you.”

“You didn’t have to stay the whole time.”

“I did.”

Simple. Unyielding. Sylus.

You smile and rest your chin on his knee, watching the twins rise and fall with his slow breathing.

He shifts one arm carefully, just enough to curl it around your back and pull you close—right there on the floor. His fingers drift to the nape of your neck. His voice is quieter now.

“You’re not allowed to leave me alone with them like this again,” he whispers. “I’ll get soft.”

You laugh softly, eyes warm. “You already are.”

He hums.

Then, after a pause: “They make me want to be good.”

You look up. “You are good.”

“No. I’m careful. With you. With them.” He looks down at the sleepy weight in his arms. “That’s different.”

You don’t push it. You just nuzzle closer, his warmth sinking into your skin as the stars dance across the nursery walls.

Eventually, the baby in his arms yawns. He watches her like she’s a secret no one else gets to know.

“They’re safe with me,” he says, barely audible.

And somehow, you believe him more than anything you’ve ever known.

[yoiisa]

this is part two of Looks Like the Real Thing!!

Tags: TW for discussions of death and familial arguments where children get involved. AU where Rin is dead. Hurt/comfort, angst with some fluff, sae is trying his best to take accountability, and you are a wonderful wife!

The rest of the week is . . . tense to say the least.

Haru seems to be adverse to Sae like his father's the plague. He interacts with you and Yuki just fine, but the minute Sae enters the room, he falls silent and still. You know it's eating at your husband, even if he does his best to try and hide it.

Finally, the tense atmosphere reaches a breaking point of sorts.

"Sae, please, talk to him," you beg as he gets ready for bed, "He misses you."

"Does he?" Sae asks, turning the sink off and grabbing a sponge to wipe the water away.

"Sae, please. Be anything but sassy right now," you sigh, walking up to his side. You put your hand on his arm gently squeezing his bicep. "He's a little kid, he doesn't know how to deal with his emotions."

Sae stares down at the basin of the sink before turning to you. "Evidently, neither do I."

You shake you head and wrap your arms around his middle, hugging him tight. He's still for a moment, before his hand comes up to rest on the back of your head. Sae turns his face nuzzles into your hair. You turn your head and kiss him deep a slow. It's not enough to heal him and everything he's experienced, but it's enough that he can marginally relax in your arms.

"Hold him," you whisper as you part. "Hug him, rock him, put him to sleep in your arms. It won't fix everything, but it'll be a start at least."

"That's not . . . that's not the problem," Sae groans, stepping back and running a hand through his hair. "I just don't know how to look at him and not see . . . him. Rin."

The name sounds uncomfortable coming from Sae. He says it like his throats a rusty machine that hasn't been oiled in forever, the cogs being forced to run. It takes some energy out of him, you can tell, but it's the most Sae has talked about his late brother in a while, so you consider it a win nonetheless.

"Go," you say more firmly. "He should still be awake reading. Put him to sleep."

Sae sighs and nods, pressing one more kiss to your forehead before disappearing your sight and down the hallways to Haru's bedroom. As he opens the door, he sees Yuki tucking her little brother under the covers of his bed. She startles and Haru's eyes fly open. Both kids freeze under their father's gaze.

"Yuki," Sae's voice is flat as he steps inside, closing the door behind him.

"Mama didn't put Haru to sleep," Yuki explains sheepishly. "I didn't think you would either, so I decided-"

"You're not in trouble," Sae says softly, ruffling his baby girl's hair. He sits on the edge of Haru's bed, and his heart squeezes as the little boy shies away from him. Nevertheless, Sae continues. "I was coming, I just had to do some things first. I- I wanted to talk to you both about something."

Slowly both kids get closer to their father. Haru sits up and scoots closer and Yuki sits across her dad, her hands on his knee.

Sae takes a deep breath before finally speaking. "I'm sorry. I know I probably scared both of you when I got mad, and I'm sorry. I'm extra sorry to you, Haru," Sae's hand rests on his son's head, and he brings Haru closer. His son tucks himself into Sae's side and relaxes a little in his dad's warmth. "I shouldn't have said such horrible things to you. I . . . I can't say how sorry I really am.

"The thing is, recently I've been thinking a lot about my little brother."

"You have a little brother?" Yuki asks, perking up a bit more. Even Haru grows more interested.

Sae's mouth quirks up barely. He nods and explains, "Had. I had a little brother. He's gone now. He died before both of you were born."

Both Itoshi kids are silent before Haru begins to cry. Fat tears roll down his eyes and he shakes his head. Sae shifts Haru so that the little boy is in his lap now. Haru buries his face into Sae's shirt and Yuki just stares at her dad wide eyed.

"How'd he die?" she asks, her voice small and a bit afraid.

Sae takes a deep breath before he whispers, "Sometimes the world is mean to people. As your father, I'll do what I can to protect you from those mean people, but as an older brother . . . I didn't do my part. Sometimes, when the world is too mean, people can die.

"My little brother, Rin, was a victim of a too-mean world, and I was one of the people who was mean. I didn't realize it at the time, but just because I didn't know doesn't mean it wasn't true. Anyways, everything was really bad for Uncle Rin and he," Sae's voice breaks and he pauses, trying to collect himself, "he died."

Both of Sae's kids are silent as Sae talks. "I got married to your mom a year later. We were supposed to get married sooner, but your uncle's death messed me up. I tried to ignore it, but your mother refused to marry me until she said enough time had passed.

"But it wasn't enough time. I don't know if it'll ever be enough time. I never properly dealt with my emotions, the way Mama teaches you two to do. They just kept getting bigger and bigger inside of me, and I just exploded. I'm sorry."

Another tense silence falls over the three of them, before Haru mumbles, "I don't think you're mean daddy."

Yuki nods in agreement. "He's right, you're not!"

Sae squeezes his eyes shut, the sting in them threatening a wave of tears to come flooding out of him. He wraps his arms around both of his children, pulling them tight against him.

"I can be. I can be really mean some times," he whispers, his voice broken and hoarse. "I'm telling you this so you can tell me. Whenever I'm being mean, promise me you'll tell me, okay? Haru, Yuki, please." After both kids give their assent, Sae kisses them both on the head. "I love you both. I'm so sorry Haru, again, for being mean. You know that I don't hate you right? I could never hate you, ever."

Haru nods. "I know Daddy. I know you care about me a lot. Mama and Yuki both say so."

"But do you feel it?"

" . . . sometimes," Haru shrugs.

"Sometimes isn't enough," Sae sighs. He gives his son another squeeze before promising, "I'll make sure you feel it all the time, don't worry. Alright, Haru?"

Haru nods and Yuki smiles at her little brother's behavior. She hugs Haru from behind, sandwiching him with her father.

A couple more minutes pass by before your bedroom door opens. In steps your husband, a kid in each hand. You take Yuki from him and help situate them between the two of you. You hold Sae's hand over their bodies, Haru pressed against Sae and Yuki against you.

Sae stays up for a bit, watching over his family while they sleep, before his eyes finally start to droop. The last thing he hears before he finally gets some proper rest is his baby boy's voice, high pitched and innocent whispering, "Goodnight. I love you, daddy."

If a tear leaks from Sae's eye, well, no ones awake to see.

a/n: currently rewatching aot and i'm on season three and red swan was playing while I was writing this and baby eremika and armin got me in my feels

Taglist!!: @levihanmyotp

[glowettee]

🕶 she ghosted the groupchat & built an empire

hey lovelies!! ✨

so i've been thinking about this a lot lately... like how we're all constantly connected but somehow feeling more drained than ever?? and it hit me that sometimes the most revolutionary thing you can do is just... disappear for a bit??

i literally had to turn my phone off for three days last month because my creative energy was being sucked dry by all these group chats that were going nowhere. like, bestie, why am i reading 87 messages about someone's ex's cousin's new haircut when i could be building my dream life instead??

so here's my unfiltered thoughts on strategic isolation + how it literally changed everything for me...

✧ protecting your energy isn't selfish, it's essential ✧

let's be honest - we're all just walking energy fields. and every notification, every "hey girl, you free?" text, every random zoom call is either feeding your field or draining it. i started tracking my energy levels in this little pink journal (yes, elle woods style but make it productive) and noticed that certain people and activities were literally vampire-draining me.

some hard truths about protecting your time:

• not everyone deserves access to you

• "sorry, i can't" is a complete sentence

• your dreams require your full attention

• boundaries aren't mean, they're necessary

• your future self will thank you for saying no today

i started implementing what i call "ghost protocols" where i literally just... stop responding for periods of time. not forever! just long enough to recalibrate. it feels uncomfortable at first (i literally had anxiety sweats) but then something magical happens - you remember who you are without all the noise.

✧ digital detox rituals that actually work ✧

okay so everyone talks about digital detoxes but they make it sound so basic like "just turn off your phone lol" which... no. here's what actually works:

1. schedule your disappearance (sounds dramatic but it's just good planning) - i block off "ghost time" in my calendar just like i would a meeting

2. create a hyperfocus sanctuary - mine is this corner of my room with no wifi, just candles, my journal, and a vintage alarm clock. no devices allowed within 10 feet.

3. implement the 5/1/3 rule - for every 5 hours of deep work, allow 1 hour of connection, followed by 3 hours of integration time where you process what you've created

4. batch your responses - i only check messages twice daily now (12pm and 6pm) and i use templates for most replies which sounds cold but actually gives me more energy for meaningful conversations later

5. practice saying "that doesn't work for me" without explaining yourself - hardest thing i've ever done but most rewarding

✧ hyperfocus rituals that built my empire ✧

the truth that nobody tells you is that success isn't grinding 24/7... it's protecting your focus like it's the most precious resource on earth (because it literally is).

my non-negotiable focus rituals:

• morning pages but make them strategic - i write 3 pages about my vision every morning before touching my phone

• the 90/30 method - work in complete silence for 90 minutes, then take a luxurious 30 minute break (no exceptions)

• environment switching - i have different spaces for different types of work (creative work happens by the window, admin work at my desk, planning happens on the floor with a giant paper)

• sensory anchors - learned this from a few psychology articles online, stayed w/ it foreverrr -> specific scents, sounds, and tastes that tell my brain "it's empire building time" (for me it's this fancy bergamot candle + instrumental lo-fi + earl grey tea)

i know this all sounds intense but listen... while everyone was busy commenting on instagram posts and overthinking text messages, i built something real. something that matters. something that's mine.

sometimes the most rebellious thing you can do is disconnect in order to connect more deeply with your purpose. and yes, people might get annoyed when you don't respond right away. they might even talk about you in those same group chats you left. but honestly? that's just background noise when you're focused on building something meaningful.

your time is literally the only non-renewable resource you have. protect it fiercely.

xoxo, mindy 🤍

p.s. what's one conversation or obligation you could ghost this week to get closer to your dreams? i promise the world won't end... but your empire might just begin.

⋆ psst. i made a free workbook just for you. it’s soft, dark-academia, and full of real advice. get it here: deprogramming your trauma-coded ambition

[sasahuaa]

I’m very sorry, I know that you have just uploaded Omega Idia’s writing but you have more thoughts about him or Vil? I really would like to know what you think, I adore the omegas and not many people are willing to write for them

Don't feel pressure to respond, it’s fine if you don’t want to. Have a lovely night ✨

i was going to use this as an excuse to post my “omegas dealing with wife plots” bc you know, i am delaying this for six months already and it would be two rabbits with one rock kind of situation, but i thought better i guess, very late response too haha

Omega!Idia is the type of boyfriend who programm websites on special days, he makes those types of websites that ask you questions like “will you be my forever mate?” “go on a date with me?”, but anytime you try to press “no” the button runs away from you.

He will melt if you make a papercraft action figure of a character he likes, literally would place it in a shrine if he had the chance, he can feel all the love in the craft and just that is almost enough to send him into heat.

Omega!Idia is not picky on how you spend time together, he loves quality time, but sometimes his social battery is too exhausted to really interact, he may be tinkling with his projects while you stay in the background, reading most recent updates of books and comics he enjoys, play cozy games together when he feels like not putting too much effort, or more strategic games that require more skill, though he gets embarrassed afterwards if he crashes out too much in front of you.

Since he has an idea on how his future is going to be, he begins to prepare to make space for you. Even when he could hire you into S.T.Y.X through nepotism, he is diligent in teaching you the basics of engineering, however, he could always find another job within the organization for you, if you're not interested in this part of the line of work. Idia also assures you that he is able to be the provider, “let me worry about the rest, you just stay there and be sexy” or so he says.

Omega!Vil prepares little gifts for you, everything he does has a touch of perfection, so nothing better to gift you than something that was made by his hands or had his input during creation. He is most proud of creating scent blockers that are an almost perfect copy of your smell. Vil is not a fan of how open you are with your emotions through your scent, so he insists that you use it in public - he will be offended if you wear it during your private time with him though.

It's pretty hard to choose a gift for him, Vil is picky and anything he wants he can get. He is, however, a great admirer of effort, serve him your heart on a plate and he will forever be trapped around your finger. 

Omega!Vil really wishes to be the last to leave the stage, when he is feeling particularly down for never acquiring his desired roles, he likes to roleplay with you. He will be a prince, and you a loyal knight, he takes hours rambling about worldbuilding and lore. And the final scenes end with both of you living happily ever after, as it should be.

Vil knows the world can't ever remain static, but for you, he wishes that was possible. You are his little world, able to fit in the palm of his hands, enveloped in a little bubble where no one can judge nor intervene, no bad eyes to mouth curses to you. If he could, this would be his forever. At the same time, he has plans to forever be a public figure, where his only obstacle is himself and his ideals, night after night, he thinks how to soften the blow of your relationship going public. It's no matter though, as long as you stay with him, Vil will find a way.

[spideysquake]

death of a bachelorette

drew starkey x costar!reader

masterlist | one | two | three

youruser

liked by y/ny/l/nfanpage, drewstarkey, and others

youruser drew took that photo on my phone while i was paying for his lunch, so please make a note of that

read all 12,573 comments

y/ny/l/nfanpage girl we need the coffee order now !!

⤷ youruser it depends on the day! i loooove a vanilla matcha latte but i also love an extra sweet caramel latte with oat milk but i also love a fruit tea with little bits of fruit.... i'm just a bevvy type girl in every way

⤷ y/ny/l/nfanpage oh the queen responds AND she has taste

huntershafer you're glowing and i love it

rachelzegler the joy on your face... i love you so much

drewstarkey and now you've gotten payback by posting it to your millions and millions of fans

⤷ youruser and i stole your hat... don't get mad

⤷ drewstarkey that's where my hat went?????

⤷ y/nanddrewupdates so is anyone else seeing this???

y/ny/l/nfanpage the fifth picture???? the ninth one??? youruser do you have something to share with the class

deathofabacheloretteupdates

liked by y/ny/l/nupdates, y/nanddrewupdates, and others

deathofabacheloretteupdates the cast of doab is slowly but surely getting announced... here are two of the couples rumored to be getting married throughout the movie

david corenswet as carey lewis, drew's character's brother

supriya ganesh (from the pitt) as talia sharma, carey's fiancee

olivia rodrigo as isa moore, y/n's character's little sister (i think they're supposed to be half sisters, obviously)

kit connor as gabriel hudson, isa's boyfriend turned fiance

you guys this movie is going to be INSANE i am going to see this in theaters seventeen times at the very least

read all 24 comments

user1 i see people asking questions about olivia and y/n being sisters bc they don't look alike... and i respond with WHO CARES THEY'RE BOTH HOT

⤷ y/ny/l/nupdates and god you are so real for this

user2 this casting is sooooo out of left field but who even cares, they're gonna eat

oliviarodrigoupdates ms liv in her scream queen era, well yes!

drewstarkey

liked by youruser, drewstarkeyupdates, and others

drewstarkey having fun, drinking coffee, filming things

read all 19,384 comments

drewstarkeyupdates hey bud where did that lipstick print come from

madelyncline you look like you're having so much fun... but not more fun than on outer banks (this is a threat)

liked by drewstarkey and youruser

youruser you are now in charge of the wine for all our dinner parties bc that red was exceptional

⤷ drewstarkey this is so much responsibility please give me a smaller job

⤷ youruser sorry honey, you're invited every time and you have to bring the wine

⤷ user3 she calls him honey???? my winter soldier persona was just activated

rachelzegler interesting how you're spending time with my bestie girl in the world and yet i have no invite in the mail

⤷ youruser next time babe !! we'll make it a whole thing

productionassistant1

liked by friend1, youruser, and others

productionassistant1 not to brag (because i did technically sign an nda) but i've been working! on a movie! with drew starkey! and y/n y/l/n!!!!!! it has been such a dream, they are literally the kindest and most talented people in the whole world and if this job ever ends, i will have a breakdown. i love you natalie morales, i love you drew starkey, i love you y/n y/l/n!!!!!

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youruser you are the absolute sweetest!!! it's such a joy working with you every day

nataliemorales you are such a darling <3

drewstarkey will forever treasure the one exact time you spilled y/n's entire latte all over her... good times!

⤷ youruser you are a hater of gargantuan proportions and the world needs to know

⤷ drewstarkey give me my hat back and we can call a truce

⤷ productionassistant1 stop flirting in my comments <3

author's note: sorry for the delay my babies !! life got a little messy there, but i'm back !

i'm so excited to bring you more chapters of my bickering angels as they make their movie (and may be fall in love), i hope you guys love them as much as i do. if you have any requests or anything, please feel free to let me know <3 love you guys !!

xoxo, daisy

ps - as a writer outside of the tumblr game, i want to make this into a real screenplay sooooo bad... i already even know who i would kill and where i'd put the hot and steamy scenes !!

[featherfangart]

Nothing Beats Pizza On A Cliff

Right? And some things are said...

Part ONE | Part TWO | Part THREE | Part FOUR | Part FIVE | Part SIX | Part SEVEN | Part EIGHT | Part NINE | Part TEN | Part TWELVE | Part THIRTEEN | Part FOURTEEN

[casscainmainly]

Do you have any ships for Duke Thomas?

Yes!!!! Off the bat I love Dizzy (Duke/Izzy)!! I really love how he warmed up to her before he warmed up to any other WAR member (in WAR #5), and he seeks her out first after he finds his parents in #9:

THEY'RE SO CUTE!! I know people also like Rixo x Duke and I think that's SUPER cute as well, though I love the angst that comes with Riko's one-sided crush so I'm partial to Riko liking Duke but Duke not liking her back. However I'm also open to RikoDukeIzzy poly couple supreme, or WAR polycule (Riko/Dax/Dre/Izzy/Duke). ALSO DRE/DUKE. They have such a fun dynamic and they'd be sniping at each other all the time, the romantic tension is REAL.

But now for more crack ships/people Duke has barely or never interacted with 😭😭. Some Duke fans like Duke/Virgil (Static), which I find really fun!! I personally like the SUPERIOR Birdflash (Duke/Ace West) even if I have no idea if that would work or not 😭. Also, @cer-rata recently put me onto Duke/Bao Pham (Clownhunter), they have intriguing parallels omg I'm spinning them around in my head.

This is all I can think of for now, but I'm always on the hunt for new Duke ships because I think he deserve all the love in the world!! Duke/Izzy is my number 1 for now, they match each other's energies and they have the most moments by virtue of being canon 😭. My pipe dream ship though is Birdflash 💖.

[leverage-ot3]

okay I’ve seen a lot of posts about sterling just being crowley and. guys. the implications just hear me out 😭😭😭

bending lore slightly here BUT let’s say crowley’s body was once inhabited by a human and crowley is possessing the body (maybe he kills the initial inhabitant bc he doesn’t care)

but he still has the guy’s memories. he doesn’t bother keeping up appearances with his ‘ex wife’ because he is too busy building up his hell empire. BUT for some reason he can’t quite identify, he still feels something towards his ‘daughter’. he lets the divorce happen and doesn’t feel the need (or desire) to fight for custody, but he can never quite forget her, to cast her out of his mind for good

some hijinks ensue with the leverage team. it’s mostly because even a grind culture demon wants some off time every once in a while, and for him the insurance investigator stuff is more of a hobby. interacting with the leverage crew is very low stakes for him, and honestly, quite amusing. they aren’t on his level power-wise, but that ford character gives him the mental exercise he hasn’t experienced in, well, he can’t even remember

he can feel their frustration and anger when they learn he has become employed by interpol and feeds off it. it’s great, and relaxing in a way he is never able to achieve while conducting hell-related business

one year he gets wind that olivia is in a really bad situation associated with his ‘ex wife’s’ new husband. he’s selling vital hardware to terrorists, and while that might actually be the kind of chaos he would normally support or be entertained by as the king of hell, something feels wrong about letting olivia stay anywhere near that man

he calls upon the body’s adversaries. he wouldn’t admit it, even under duress, BUT he feels slightly fond of them. nate for the three dimensional chess they play, sophie for her ability to charm and disguise, parker for her chaos and slightly unsettling nature (it’s the autism swag and being bad with human interaction but he doesn’t know that lol), hardison for his unapologetic intelligence and eliot for his hardened violent past and take-no-shit persona (he’s fun to tease)

they perform exactly as he expected, right into his carefully crafted plan. and then olivia is under his care and things get more complicated. he keeps her FAR, FAR away from anything related to the supernatural (heh). no one can find out about her, ESPECIALLY not those imbecile hunter brothers (if for nothing else than the embarrassment in revealing he has a weak spot)

not sure how to work it into this post but I also want to add that somewhere along the way he develops feelings for nate and sophie. the frame up job is near and dear to my heart and you can’t convince me that isn’t fighting as flirting behavior. his interpol persona is more of a side hustle so to speak, but he finds it fun (relaxing, even) to fill that role. there aren’t any obligations of other demons, bothersome hunters, or anything like that. nate and sophie are low stakes, except, they aren’t, really. they make him feel things he can’t ever really remember feeling. his heart beats fast when sophie sat in his lap and cradled his face, his hands sweat when nate gives him that certain smug look. he’s exasperated by the way they can run circles around him like no one else has ever before. they annoy him and get under his skin in a way no one else can and it’s infuriating. but also not, at the same time. maybe he likes it

and then the long goodbye job happens

hear me out and suspend your belief here for a second, because I can’t remember if crowley supernaturally knows when ppl die/are dead or not.

so nate is in interpol custody and the interviewer is obviously out of her depth. (most people are, when it comes to nathan ford.) he walks in and pours the man a drink, but he’s fuming. somewhere along the way he came to care about the team. hell and suffering is literally in his (official) job description, but he can admit (only to himself) that he admires what they do. it’s not for him, not anything close to where his passions and interests lie, but he respects their drive and purpose. he is also aware enough to acknowledge that they are a family, a group of misfits that never belonged quite anywhere except to each other.

and nate fucking blew it up, ruined it, because his vice is being so obsessed with the end game that he is apparently willing to let his team, his family, the people that anchor him to reality, die because the ends supposedly justify the means.

not this time. not to sterling crowley

he is enraged. he can admit within the confines of his mind that he cares for nate, for sophie, even for the other three (though nate and sophie have somehow made it a hierarchy where they are more important to him. which he will dissect later in private. maybe.)

nate let them die, he let sophie die, and for what? the black book? hell below, crowley would have made things easier somehow, if he knew that this was where nate’s sights had lied. he would have prevented this somehow. he wants to have prevented this. he doesn’t want any of them dead and is too afraid to check and verify because that would make it real. the idea of sophie (or any of them) somehow making it to hell instead of heaven would probably break something in him he might not be able to reapir fully.

he yells at nate- he’s angry. hellfire burning in his heart because everything is ruined. the deaths aside (however hard it is to set them aside in his mind), nate will not recover from this, not ever. this will be the start of the end, he is sure. a miserable, guilt-ridden existence where he drinks himself to death and nothing will save him. it plays out in crowley’s mind in a thousand different ways that are beyond painful to conceptualize, even in theory.

the story starts to unravel and there is a game afoot. a solemn, miserable, infuriating game because the con is still in session because parker is alive and in the building- which sets another fire alight in his chest. ‘parker even know you got hardison killed?’ he rages for her grief when she finds out. he knows it will double when she finds out eliot has perished, too, because he isn’t fucking blind.

but nate is a brilliant man, lest he forget too quickly. they are all alive, and somehow still the entire crew slips through his fingers. he’s not even angry (he never would have been- he doesn’t actually try too hard to catch them. it’s about the game, not the consequences). he lets them keep the black book because he’s fucking exhausted and honestly, they more than earned it.

‘now we’re even. tell sophie to drive carefully’. they will never be even, not really. crowley would never admit or agree that being human is the superior state of being, but that have made him feel human in a way he doesn’t actually mind. they keep him on his toes and match him in a way unique to them, they remind him that there are other things than the realm of hell. not necessarily bigger than hell, but maybe just as important in a different sense.

watching the van drive away, something inside him settles. when he walked into the interrogation room that day he thought this was the beginning of the end. it’s not the end at all, not an end to anything. it’s a continuation of their story. maybe, he thinks, a beginning to a new era in it

[piratekane]

(rated m for mature)

Ava’s room is the last sacred space in their apartment. A room that belongs to Ava, and Ava only. The living room is shared space, of course. Their breakfast bar holds both of their tea mugs: Ava’s in the shape of a bulldog holding a bone, her own a dark gray and white plaid pattern. The bathroom has a small stand with both of their toothbrushes and two face cloths on small hooks, one on each side of the sink. The face of the kitchen refrigerator is littered with pictures and ticket stubs and small post-it-note drawings they’ve both accumulated over the last few months.

We exist, Beatrice, Ava likes to tell her. If we died and someone came to pack us up, they would know we both existed here.

It’s a morbid thought, but it rotates in her mind for days afterwards. They exist. They exist together, in this shared space. There’s two of everything - a testament to a life shared between two people who found comfort in each other. Who found a home. Their shoes are by the front door, their bills are on the counter, their sweaters tangle into knots on the couch where they dare cross the line Beatrice has drawn between them.

Ava’s room is a line. She doesn’t cross it. She lets their shared existence fill every corner of the apartment except for Ava’s bedroom. She’s never crossed the threshold. Even on the day Ava moved in, she dutifully passed her boxes from the living room, marveling at the idea that one person who existed in a single dorm room for a handful of months could accumulate so many things.

She’s not sure that Ava even noticed. If she did, she didn’t say anything about it. Because she’s kind and takes Beatrice’s actions into consideration with the sort of care no one else in her life has ever shown.

But that’s par for the course. Ava is unlike anyone else in her life.

It’s why Beatrice is so careful. She’s gotten used to having this unusual, perfect thing in her life. She’s gripping it tightly with two hands, firm enough to keep it in one place but soft enough that it doesn’t break. It took her years to learn that grip and only a month with Ava to master it in a whole new way.

She should know by now, after seven months, that being careful around Ava is never careful enough.

“Blue or green?” she hears Ava call from inside her room.

Beatrice sighs, resting her pencil tip against the page she’s taking notes on. “Ava.”

Ava’s head pops around the doorframe. She’s smiling in a way a younger Beatrice would have called dashing or roguish. It’s charming. Infuriatingly so. Ava knows it—has never forgotten it since the time Camila said it out loud one night when Ava convinced them to try roller skating at some wooden rink nearby. That smile is a weapon, a carefully drawn bow whose range Beatrice can never escape from.

“Blue or green?” she repeats.

“I’m afraid I need a bit of context, Ava.”

Beatrice resists the urge to rub tiredly at the space between her eyes. Finals week is upon them. She’s prepared - has been preparing all semester - but then her Early Christian Women’s professor gave her some last minute feedback to restructure her entire research paper. It’s left her molded to the stool at the breakfast bar for the last three days, the entire top of it covered in color-coded index cards and texts she’s expressly forbid Ava from going anywhere near.

Ava pinky promised that she would listen. Beatrice would have accepted a confident “okay,” but Ava had taken it a step further, tightening her grip on Beatrice’s pinky and pulling her whole hand up to her mouth as Ava kissed her own fist, eyes on Beatrice the whole time.

“There. Now it’s really a promise.”

Beatrice thinks maybe she didn’t have enough friends growing up. Or that she didn’t have enough friends like Ava growing up. Because she’d never heard of this particular kind of promise. Shannon had made a face when Beatrice asked her about it. No, I’m not making fun of you, Shannon assured her. I just mean… Bea. Come on.

Beatrice does not come on, but the next time Ava makes her promise she won’t throw all her sources out the window and develop a list of new ones, she quickly presses her lips to the outside of her own hand, eyes darting to Ava’s face. Just as a test. Just to see if she’s doing this right.

She must have. Ava beamed for hours.

“Blue paint or green paint?” Ava expands.

“For what?”

Ava extends her arm past the doorway into Beatrice’s view. A small bucket of paint, hardly larger than a box of baking soda, dangles from her fingers.

She holds back the long-suffering sigh building in her chest. “Ava.”

“I’m painting my room.”

“You’re-” Beatrice turns, notecard on Thecla abandoned. “You’re painting your room?”

Ava frowns at her like she’s the one who just announced that she’s completing a home makeover project. “I told you this.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” Ava’s arm drops to her side, and she leans a little further around the doorway.

Beatrice shakes her head. “You most certainly did not. Because I would have remembered that.”

“You can’t remember everything I say.”

I do. The thought nearly makes its way to Beatrice’s tongue, but she bites it back. She certainly can’t admit that, though she thinks Ava would, if she was in her position. Ava has always been more free in her words, in her certainty.

“I would have remembered this,” she repeats.

Ava shakes her head. “I definitely told you I was doing this. I asked if you wanted to go pick out-”

Her forehead wrinkles into a frown that Beatrice immediately wants to smooth away. She can feel Ava’s skin under her fingertips, warm and soft. She blinks.

“Huh. Maybe I mentioned it to Mary, now that I think about it.” Her face brightens without Beatrice’s help. “I guess I’m telling you now.”

“You can’t- You can’t paint your room.”

Ava nods like she understands. “I can’t paint it alone, no. I’ll need help. Oh! A paint party!”

“No, I mean-” Beatrice takes a deep breath. “We would lose our security deposit if you paint the walls. It’s in our rental agreement.”

That doesn’t seem to bother Ava. “We can just paint it back when we move out. Or if we never do, then no one will ever know.”

If we never do. The words are like a lightning bolt in her chest. If we never do implies that Ava has thought about living with her indefinitely. That Ava has considered the possibility of a future where they're still in each other’s lives, where they’re still living in this same apartment doing the same things together. Movie nights and take out and reading while Ava watches something on TV, and talking about the few hours they spent apart and deciding where to take weekend trips and what new household decoration Ava is going to talk her into.

Their life in shared spaces, for everyone who visits to see.

Forever roommates.

The thought is too overwhelming for her to breathe properly.

“So, will you help me pick a color?” Ava continues on as if Beatrice isn’t slowly burning from the inside out. “I’m thinking green. Blue seems more like your color. Hey! We can paint your room next.”

Beatrice shakes her head. “Ava, no.”

Ava either doesn’t hear her, or pays her no mind. “I got this cool mint color. It looks like mint chocolate chip ice cream!”

“Mint,” she repeats, voice strangled.

Ava beams. “It looks like our toothpaste.”

Dread washes over her, as cold as ice cream out of the freezer against her tongue. Their toothpaste is a frightfully minty green color that always catches Beatrice off guard no matter how many times a day she’s brushed her teeth, even after the ;five months since Ava started buying it. It’s a sickly green, almost. Certainly not something that should be on a wall, let alone four of them. Ava’s room would glow, practically radioactive.

“No,” she insists. “Not that color.”

“Come see it. Then you’ll understand.”

She moves without meaning to, without giving much thought to it. Ava calls like a siren, and she swims out to meet her. She gets as far as the couch before the water comes up to her chin and she stops again.

“I don’t think you should paint your room.”

Ava waves away her concern. “It’ll be fine. The whole room is just so… white. We need a little color in our lives, Bea. A little bit of… spice.”

“A little bit of spice.”

“You know. Excitement.” Ava is firmly in the doorway now, paint can hanging at her side. “We can’t live with white walls forever.”

Why not? she wants to ask. She grew up with white walls. Pristine ones. Washed down every week by their housekeeper. Sanitized. She pauses. Ava might have a point.

But their landlord would not approve of it. And Beatrice intends to stick by the rules. She opens her mouth to say so, but Ava cuts her off.

“Come here. Just have a look.” She pads forward on bare feet and curls her fingers around Beatrice’s wrist, tugging her forward gently enough that Beatrice could step back, break their connection if she needed to.

She doesn’t. Not yet.

But she gets closer and closer to Ava’s doorway, to the raised threshold that separates her from this last sacred space. Ava is stepping back over it, eyes on Beatrice, and then her toes are bumping against it and she stops. Their arms stretch between them for a moment before Ava catches up and steps forward so they hang loosely again.

Ava waits for her. Always waiting for her. It’s not fair, she thinks. It’s not fair that she’s always waiting for me.

“So, I have something to admit,” Ava says slowly, pulling her out of her head. She’s smiling sheepishly, her head ducked a little as she searches Beatrice’s face. “I might have already painted a few swatches on the wall.”

“Ava.”

“Just a few,” she rushes on. “Small ones. Like, the size of a book. A small one! I’m sorry, I just wanted to see what they looked like.” She strokes her thumb over Beatrice’s wrist. “The mint kind of looks horrible,” she admits.

Beatrice fights that never-ending sigh again. “Of course it does.”

“But the other green looks good! It’s kind of turquoise-y, actually.” Ava’s forehead wrinkles into a frown that lingers for just a second. “Greener than a normal turquoise, though. Almost like the sea. Like - okay, just look.”

Ava’s hand falls away, and she takes a step back into her room. She’s looking at the wall, eyes moving quickly over what Beatrice assumes is the paint swatches she’s done there.

She eases her weight onto the ball of her foot. The floorboard creaks under it. Ava is still looking at the wall, still studying her choices. Beatrice feels a ripple of fear race through her. It’s just a room. Their apartment is made up of rooms. But it’s Ava’s room. Opening this door, crossing this line - she’s not sure she can come back from that.

Ava meets her eyes again and tips her head in that effortlessly endearing way, a soft smile on her face that immediately ebbs the fear away. Ava crooks a finger in her direction, beckoning her forward. It’s like a piece of string loops its way around Beatrice’s wrist and it pulls.

“You’re going to like the turquoise,” Ava says just quietly enough for Beatrice to hear. Another siren’s call.

She’s a strong swimmer. She can survive this. Her toes brush the raised threshold, and then they’re curled over the other side of it as her shoulders breach the doorway. The air shifts. She feels a little lightheaded. The lights seem dimmed, lowered. She holds her breath and waits for God to strike her down, and when nothing happens, she silently exhales a thin stream of air.

She doesn’t go further than that. Her body doesn’t seem to want to move past the invisible line that goes from the ceiling down directly to the floor. Her eyes immediately go to the wall Ava was looking at.

She was correct. The mint looks horrible.

“I know,” Ava says, reading her mind. “It looked a lot better at the store. Maybe it’s the light?”

It takes Beatrice a minute to reply, almost as if the words were a trade for tipping forward into Ava’s room. “I don’t think different lighting is going to help this.”

Ava studies it for another moment before she nods decisively. “You’re right. But what about this green-turquoise?” She moves and touches her finger to the wall. It comes back with a sticky greenish color. She frowns at it. “Huh. Thought it’d dry.”

“I like it,” Beatrice allows. “But Ava-”

“I promise we’ll paint it back. I just…” Ava stops, running a hand through her hair. She leaves behind a smudge of turquoise on her forehead, disappearing into her hair. “It’ll be easy to paint back. Please, Bea?” She clasps her hand in front of her, holding them to her chest. “Pleeeease?”

They both realize she’s going to give in at the same moment. Beatrice didn’t think she had any tells, has always prided herself on being someone fully in control of their actions, emotions, and facial expressions. Lessons learned from her parents that she actually appreciated. Expressive got you in trouble, gave too much away. She spent years tightening up to prevent anyone from knowing too much.

Ava does not carry the same burden. And Ava, it appears, has learned to recognize when Beatrice is on the cusp of expressing too much, of giving in. Maybe she’s giving it away in the quick pull of the corner of her mouth. Maybe there’s something in her eyes, a flicker of acceptance. Maybe she clenches her hand into a fist, a small flex of her muscles. Maybe she shifts her weight. Maybe she blinks too many times.

Whatever it is, Ava sees it in her. And she grins, the light in the room becoming impossibly brighter.

“I want nothing to do with this,” is what she decides to say.

Ava claps her hands together. “You won’t regret this.”

“I’m sure I will.”

It doesn’t dim Ava’s smile. “When I’m done, you’ll see how much it brings this place to life. And then we talk about your room. And the living room! Oh, and wouldn’t the kitchen look so great if we painted it some kind of blue? I saw a swatch at the store that looked exactly like the water in the Blue Grotto. I want to go there one day. I always thought it would look-”

Beatrice steps back. Something that was fizzling inside of her fades, though she didn’t know it was there until she felt its absence. Ava is still going on – the bathroom would look good in pink. With black and white tiles on the floor – but Beatrice feels a sense of calm come over her, and she takes her first deep breath since she crossed the threshold.

Ava stops. “I’m getting ahead of myself,” she says sheepishly.

“It’s okay.” And it is. Beatrice doesn’t mind getting swept up in Ava’s elaborate plans. “But I’m going to go back to my homework.”

Ava flashes her a thumbs up. Her finger is still stained turquoise. “Okay. But you’re not studying for too long. We can’t have a repeat of this weekend.”

Beatrice feels her face flush. “I swore I went to bed.”

“You did. Standing in front of the refrigerator. I thought you were going to fall over.”

“I’m very disciplined.”

Ava grins. “Well, put a cap on studying tonight. When I’m done with the first coat, we’re going to get something to eat.”

She pretends to be annoyed by this, just because she likes the way Ava narrows her eyes playfully and shakes a finger at her. She’s not disappointed when Ava does exactly that before turning back to the stool she stole from the kitchen where she’s stacked two small paint cans, one open and one closed, and a paint roller.

Crossing the room back towards her homework is easier than going the distance from it to Ava’s room. She feels lighter with each step. She sits back down, her intention to focus on this paper she’s supposed to submit in two days (but feels nowhere near completion). Work, then break. As long as she works for the next hour, at least, then she can offer to buy Ava Indian food and ask her to watch a documentary about a filmmaker befriending an octopus. Cedrick, in her Study of Film elective, had suggested it to her. She doesn’t think it’ll be hard; Ava has said more than once that she thinks octopi are cute.

But as thoughts of Ava and octopi float in her head, some of the words Ava just mentioned start to register in Beatrice’ brain. Ava never mentioned the Blue Grotto before. They’re inching closer to the end of the school year and she doesn’t know Ava’s plans yet. Does she want to go backpacking across Europe? Alone? Will Beatrice have to haunt the corners of the apartment waiting for her to come back? Will Ava be different when she comes back? Will she forget about Beatrice?

Will she find a new forever-roommate in another city and leave Beatrice on her own?

Her homework is suddenly the furthest thing from her mind. She can’t focus on Eve or Thecla or their impact on the religious narrative. She can only think about the possibility of spending the summer alone - Mary and Shannon are going on a graduation trip across Spain, and Camila secured a summer internship with a tech startup company, and even Lilith found a program that allows her to travel for the few months before the start of the fall semester.

Beatrice’s big plan is to work at the campus library, splitting her time between shelving books, starting her graduation capstone project, and Ava. The practical side of her knows she should try to make that time an even three-way split, but the more she thinks about the coming months, the more adventures she keeps coming up with in her head. Things she wants to do and try with Ava, because she knows it’s on Ava’s list. They could visit the Prado Museum. Take a long weekend and travel to some seaside town where Ava could practice swimming in the waves. They could find new restaurants and new hiking trails. She’d even let Ava convince her to try roller skating. Again.

Beatrice hasn’t told her yet, but she has the whole summer mapped out. And Ava is embedded into every bullet point of that. It just hadn’t occurred to her that Ava might have her own plans. Ones that didn’t include Beatrice.

“Ow!”

Beatrice’s head snaps up. The sudden noise is followed by a heavy thud, thud and a rattle as something hits the floor. She’s up and moving before she has time to second guess herself, crossing the apartment in long strides until she’s reaching Ava’s room.

She crosses the threshold in a breath, suddenly plunged into the smell of paint and the sight of the bright lights Ava has rigged up in the center of the room. It nearly blinds her and she quickly looks at the ground.

Ava is lying on the thick, plush navy rug at the bottom of the bed, body curled in on itself as she clutches her foot. A small unopened can of paint is rolling slowly away from her towards the corner of the room. Ava groans loudly and turns her face into the rug as her whole body expands with a breath.

Beatrice drops to her knees, ignoring the dull ache that rockets up her thighs into her hips. She grabs Ava’s shoulders, turning her onto her back as her eyes scan Ava’s face for any blood or bruises. Her hands follow the same path, tucking Ava’s hair behind her ear and trailing her thumbs across the flat of Ava’s cheeks.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

Ava’s eyes flutter closed, and Beatrice immediately becomes concerned about a concussion. Her fingers slide to the base of Ava’s head, and she applies a little pressure to tip it back. Ava’s still blinking up at her but as the light reflects against the honeyed color of her irises her pupils shrink. Beatrice heaves a relieved sigh. No concussion.

“Bea,” Ava groans again. She turns her face into Beatrice’s palm. “I think I broke it.”

Beatrice’s hands fall from Ava’s face and skim down her shoulders to her elbows, cupping them gently. “Let me see,” she says softly.

Ava shakes her head. “Just leave me behind.”

A rush of fondness ripples through her. She presses her fingertips into Ava’s bare arms, the sleeves of her This may be cheesy but I feel grate t-shirt brushing against the backs of Beatrice’s knuckles. “Ava,” she urges.

“No, it’s too horrible.” Ava’s grip tightens on her foot and she immediately winces.

Beatrice slides her hands down to Ava’s slowly. She curls her fingers into the spaces between Ava’s and her foot, pushing them back until she has enough room to free Ava’s foot from its self-imposed prison. There’s a bruise already forming at the base of her toes on the top of her foot, blooming across the first three toes. She ghosts her thumb across it and Ava flinches slightly.

Beatrice’s lips purse into a frown. “I’m sorry.”

“S’okay.” Ava rolls completely onto her back, staring up at Beatrice. She’s still blinking rapidly and Beatrice is worried about a delayed concussion now.

“I think you’ve bruised it.” She presses down, gentler this time. Ava draws in a breath but doesn’t flinch away. “I don’t think anything is broken.”

Her hand drifts higher, curling around Ava’s ankle bone. It’s delicate under her fingers, the point rounded. Her other hand, still resting on Ava’s foot, goes to her other shin. There’s nothing but an expanse of smooth and warm skin under her palm.

“Good,” Ava says faintly. Her eyes go to Beatrice’s hand, lingering.

Beatrice’s eyes follow. Oh. She quickly pulls her hands away, cheeks suddenly hot.

“I didn’t mean to-”

“You don’t have to-”

They both pause, staring at each other. The air feels electric, goosebumps running up Beatrice’s arms. Her chest feels tight with unspoken words. She looks away first.

Ava’s hand on her own pulls her eyes back around. She looks at Beatrice for a long moment before she smiles a little. There’s something on her face that Beatrice can’t read, but it settles the rising tide of fear in her chest and she feels it ebb away into nothingness.

It’s not unusual, the sense of calm that comes with a simple look from Ava. It’s a peace that feels second nature now. It’s odd how seven months with Ava has untied almost all the knots her life created. Seven months isn’t very long - a blip on the radar, really. She’s had the same study group for longer than that. But these seven months have felt so monumental that it seems to have lasted years.

But Ava is monumental, so really, it does make sense.

Still. Her hands got ahead of her head. She touched before she thought, and now she’s kneeling on Ava’s floor with her hands hovering between their bodies, and Ava’s eyes are even more honey-colored than usual. The lights reflecting off the white walls makes her feel like she’s under a spotlight on a stage where everyone can see her, here in Ava’s room.

In Ava’s room, across the threshold. Completely across it.

A line she hasn’t crossed, a step she hasn’t taken. The room rushes in on her suddenly. She’s hyper aware of the faint chemical smell of paint, the too-bright lights, the rough fibers of the rug against her bare ankles, the way Ava’s laundry seems to be crawling out of the basket in the corner.

“I’m-”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Bea.”

“I’ll just-”

“Beatrice.”

Beatrice blinks. Ava’s hand has turned over in hers, her palm up. “Yes?”

“Help me up?”

Beatrice blinks again. “Oh. Yes.” She shifts back onto her heels and grabs Ava’s wrist, fingers spread to distribute her grasp so she doesn’t pull Ava’s wrist off her arm, and gently leads her forward. She wobbles as she rises, leaning into Beatrice for support, and Beatrice quickly winds an arm around her waist to steady her as she stands. They’re so close that Beatrice can feel the way Ava is breathing, the push of her ribs against Beatrice’s hand. She helps her to the bed carefully, cautious of the paint around them, and sits her down gently.

There’s more turquoise paint along her forehead, and dried paint on her fingers, and Beatrice wants to find a clean washcloth, wet it, and gently wash it away. She does the next best thing.

She picks up a rag next to the small container of water Ava must be using to clean the brushes and dips the corner into it, wetting it. She hands it to Ava and waits as she rubs furiously at her finger, washing the paint away.

“What happened?”

Ava sighs, eyes narrowing as she looks at the unopened paint can on the ground. It’s rolled across her room away from them. Luckily, the open can remains in place on the stool, the paintbrush hanging precariously on the edge of it.

“I went to reach for the paintbrush and knocked it off. Freaking thing landed on my foot. Obviously.”

Beatrice’s free hand goes to Ava’s foot. Her thumb sweeps across the bruise. Ava’s fingers flex against the back of Beatrice’s forearms. “You are lucky it didn’t break anything.”

Ava shudders. “Manuel, one of the guys on my floor when I lived in the dorms, he broke his foot the first month in. He had to wear a big walking boot for weeks. It was so ugly.”

“It would hardly go with your outfits,” Beatrice agrees.

“How would I even get my jeans on?” Ava frowns thoughtfully. “I’d have to walk around in my underwear all day.”

Beatrice nearly chokes on a cough, but she swallows it back down, uncomfortable in her throat. “I think… I think you could remove it to put your clothes on,” she says, her voice too light to be her own.

Ava’s face flushes unusually. “Oh, right. Of course.” She starts to smile wickedly. “Don’t want me walking around in my underwear, of course.”

Beatrice doesn’t quite hide her blush like she hid her cough. Because she has envisioned Ava walking around in her underwear before, just with one of Beatrice’s big sweaters dusting her thighs and coming down over her hands. She quickly blinks, turning the image to black in her mind. It was a passing thought, just once. She never had it again. It was unfair to Ava to even begin to form that picture in her mind. It flashes in her head like a bang now and she tightens her grip on Ava’s wrist, suddenly aware she’s still holding on.

She goes for a strangled joke. “It would prevent Lilith from coming over.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Ava latches onto it. Her eyes light up. “Consider it done.”

Beatrice immediately concerns herself with something else. Ava’s foot.

“Let me get you some ice,” she says. Her voice doesn’t waver this time. Shannon, if she knew about this, would be proud. She’d praise Beatrice’s restraint, call it admirable.

Shannon would also probably tell her that she should do something that would completely change the trajectory of her friendship with Ava. So maybe the Shannon in her mind should be a little quieter.

“I don’t think I need ice.”

Beatrice looks down at the bruise, darker now, and then gives Ava a pointed look. It has the desired effect. Ava’s cheeks pinken and she smiles sheepishly. Beatrice nods, assured in her success, and carefully extracts her hands from Ava’s foot, standing.

“I’ll be right back,” she promises. “Don’t forget the paint on your forehead”

Ava carefully taps her foot, higher than the bruise. “Not going anywhere.”

Beatrice could argue that Ava could go somewhere. It’s not broken. It’s uncomfortable, of course. She once flexed her foot at the wrong moment and kicked a pine board toes-first. The bruise remained for weeks and the slight limp from accommodating the pain had lasted a little longer than that.

But Ava wipes her forehead carelessly and falls back onto her bed, hands hanging over each side of the bed in a T-shape as her legs dangle off the end. Her shirt rides up her flat stomach revealing a sliver of skin Beatrice wants to run her fingernail over. Ava’s eyes are closed, head tipped back just enough for her chin to lift up, exposing the long unbroken line of her neck.

Beatrice looks away before another thought rushes unbidden into her mind. Her cheeks burn.

“I’ll be right back,” she repeats, unnecessarily. Ava hums on the bed.

She doesn’t linger, striding out of the room and across the apartment. She opens the freezer, welcoming the blast of cold air against her face. She takes a moment, almost forgetting why she’s standing there. But Ava calls her name from the bedroom, and Beatrice remembers quickly. The ice maker hasn’t worked in a few weeks - she makes a mental note to have Mary look at it before she calls her landlord - but Ava only found that as an excuse to buy increasingly ridiculous ice cube trays.

It takes her a minute to decide between ice cube shapes. Ava went a little crazy online, buying shark fin-shaped ones, brain-shaped ones, ones shaped like ice monsters and another set shaped like centipedes. Beatrice decides on ones shaped like rubber ducks, twisting the silicone tray so they pop out. She wraps them in a cloth quickly so her hands don’t get too cold.

Crossing the room feels like a walk she’s made a hundred times before. She knows in her mind that it’s only been twice but now that she’s opened the flood gate, her feet move her without thought. Past the books and notes she’s abandoned, the armchair, the couch. She pauses just before Ava’s bedroom, toes against the threshold.

She crosses it as easily as she exhales.

Ava is still laying on her back, an approximation of a cross as she rests with her eyes closed. Beatrice watches her chest rise and fall as she breathes in and out evenly. There’s a beauty in simplicity, she’s always thought so. Ava only strengthens that.

“Ice,” she says quietly, unsure of why she doesn’t want to say anything at all. She doesn’t want to break this moment, startle Ava and ruin the weightlessness of it.

Ava cracks one eye open, a half-smile on her face. “You’re back.”

Beatrice holds out the ice. Ava crooks a finger at her, beckoning her closer. She hesitates. Ava pushes up, resting on her elbows now.

“I think we’ve established that I don’t bite.” That smile turns wicked again. “Unless you ask nicely.”

Her fingers clench around the ice, and she feels the cold bite at her skin. But she stays still, not giving anything else away.

Ava sits up, foot dangling over the end of the bed. She rests her palms flat against the comforter before she pushes up and stands. She puts her weight down on her foot and her leg buckles almost instantly.

Beatrice doesn’t think, arms looping tightly around Ava’s waist and pulling up her. Her fingers slide into the dips of Ava’s back, the ice trapped between one of her palms and Ava’s skin. Her feet tangle with Ava’s. Their hips are nearly pressed together, almost no space between them. Ava exhales in a noisy rush, lips twisted in a grimace. Beatrice feels the hot air against her collarbone.

“Are you okay?”

Ava tilts her head back slightly. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”

Beatrice’s mouth flickers in a smile. “No.”

“Then we’ll just assume the answer.” Ava’s hands are wrapped tightly around her elbows and her fingers flex against the back of Beatrice’s arms. “Wow. Do you work out?”

“You know that I do.” She keeps her voice light.

Ava’s fingers dance further up her arms, under the hem of her sleeve. She squeezes again, gently. “Yeah, well knowing you do, seeing you do it, and feeling its effects are three very different things.”

Her fingers are maddening, burning hot against Beatrice’s skin. Ava rubs her thumb in a small circle over her bicep.

“Really, Bea. You could probably crush an egg with these things.”

She frowns. “Why would I want to crush an egg?”

“Well, it’d be a way to spice up breakfast.” She presses gently, dimpling the skin. “And a killer party trick.”

Beatrice fights a shiver despite the way her skin feels like it’s burning. “I don’t go to parties.”

But that’s a lie. She does when Ava invites her. She thinks of the party they went to, the spinning disco lights and the way Ava’s body pressed against hers in the hot swell of sweaty, drunken students. She thinks of Ava slumped over on their couch later, saying she’d wait for Beatrice.

That voice that sounds just like Shannon’s whispers that it means exactly what Beatrice hopes it means. She’s never been good at telling Shannon to stop, but this is easy enough to sweep under the mental rug so it remains unknown and unseen.

Truth unknown and unseen is still truth, Shannon has said before. I read that on Pintrest.

Beatrice shakes the memory from her mind and focuses on the facts in front of her: Ava. Ava, close enough to breathe in. Close enough that Beatrice could eliminate the mere inches between them and-

“I bet you’d go to more parties if you had a party trick,” Ava interrupts.

“I doubt it.” But Ava is grinning and Beatrice can’t help but smile back. “But I’m sure you could convince Mary to give it a try.”

“I mean, Mary has decent biceps, but I don’t think she could crack an egg.”

Beatrice shakes her head. “Why an egg? Why not, I don’t know. A walnut.”

“A walnut. These are good goals.” Ava squeezes Beatrice’s bicep once more to emphasize her words. “Let’s start with an egg and work our way to something more advanced.”

The flex of Ava’s fingers against her skin pulls her from her next thought. It’s not that she didn’t notice the lack of space between them, it’s just that it’s rushing in on her now. It’s dizzying, the way Ava is standing so close. Beatrice tries to breathe in, but her chest pushes out until it nearly brushes Ava’s and she’s sucking all the air back into her lungs just as quickly.

Ava notices, eyes dropping down past Beatrice’s chin and neck before they dart up again, crinkling at the corners. She takes a step back, dropping to the bed again, the ice in her hand. She pulls one leg up under her, chin resting on her knee as she puts the ice against her bruising foot.

Beatrice blinks, oddly cool air rushing in where Ava’s body had been despite the humid air of their apartment as the spring pushes towards the hot summer. “You’ll need to ice that for a bit.”

Ava nods, adjusting the ice for a moment before she looks up and says, “So, first time?”

Beatrice frowns. “Administering first aid?”

“First time being in here. Properly, I mean.” Ava looks around, throwing one arm wide. “What do you think?”

Beatrice takes stock of her situation. It’s technically her third time being in here, but Ava is right. She’s in here properly now. Not just over the threshold or charging through barriers because Ava’s been injured. She crossed the line intentionally this time. And she remains, the walls of Ava’s room coming at her from each side without boxing her in.

Ava’s laundry flows from the hamper. Her bed isn’t quite made, but isn’t quite a mess. There are books stacked on the desk in a way that tells Beatrice Ava hasn’t opened them in some time. Hobbes sits next to them. A series of pictures is on the wall opposite her desk, ones of her and Ava and the rest of their friends. Beatrice’s eyes catalog each inch, committing it to memory in a place where she knows she’s going to see it for a very long time.

“You’re missing the best part,” Ava says. Her voice is quiet, like she’s afraid to startle Beatrice. She waits until Beatrice looks before she points upward.

Beatrice’s eyes follow the imaginary thread from Ava’s fingertip to the ceiling. She nearly gasps.

White-green stars dot the ceiling, filling all the space. Spider web-thin lines connect some of them, forming constellations she recognizes from the pictures Ava has shown her and the ones Ava has pointed out on rare nights when she can convince Beatrice to go out to the quad and lay on the grass to watch the night pass by. Some of them she doesn’t and she focuses on those ones, studying their shapes and trying to decide what they look like.

“Apus.” Ava’s finger moves, tracing the lines she’s drawn between the glow-in-the-dark stars. “We call it the Bird of Paradise. Derived from the Greek word apous, which means ‘footless’. There’s a story that birds of paradise were once believed to have been footless.”

“I don’t believe I know what a bird of paradise looks like,” she admits.

“My mom loved them. She’d never seen one in person, but she liked looking at pictures of them. They have these large plumes. They look so soft.” Ava sighs wistfully. “There was a nun, in the orphanage when I was first there, that called me a bird of paradise.” She pauses, eyes darting to Beatrice. “Because I was footless, you know? She reminded me of my mom. She didn’t stay long, but she was nice.”

Beatrice’s heart clenches as it always does when Ava talks about her past. But this is a softer ache, a longing to thank this woman who showed Ava a sliver of mercy.

“And that’s Grus, the crane,” Ava continues. “Originally, it was part of another constellation, Piscis Austrinus. But a Dutch astronomer defined it as its own separate constellation. Its brightest star is Al Na’ir. It’s Arabic for ‘bright one’ which feels a little on the nose.”

Beatrice studies its shape, noting the bigger star that Ava must have defined as Al Na’ir. “Why do you like this one?”

Ava thinks for a moment. “Did you know that cranes have the ability to fly over the Himalayas? They can. They can go as high as 8,000 meters. Imagine being that high up, feeling the wind in your hair.” She blinks, looking off towards the wall littered with paint swatches. “I spent so long tied to one place that the idea of being able to fly over a mountain, to graze the tip of it with a set of wings, sounded like a fairytale.”

Beatrice slides her hand over Ava’s, fingertips resting in the dips between her knuckles. “I think we could hike the Himalayas one day, if you wanted to.”

Ava looks down at their hands and blinks before her eyes meet Beatrice’s. “You think so?”

“I think you could do anything you want to do.”

Ava doesn’t blink this time, doesn’t even look away. “If I can do anything I want to do, I want to…” She pauses, tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip.

Beatrice waits, but the rest of Ava’s sentence doesn’t come. She clears her throat. “What do you-”

“Did you see that one?” Ava asks, interrupting her and pointing up at the ceiling.

Beatrice blinks, startled at the intensity of Ava’s voice. She searches Ava’s face but it’s unreadable, a mix of something Beatrice can’t quite put a name to. So she looks up helplessly, searching for what Ava is pointing at.

“That’s Drago.”

“The dragon,” Beatrice translates. “What’s his story?”

Ava shrugs. “He’s just fucking cool.”

A sharp laugh slips out from between her lips and Ava grins widely back at her.

“So, you like it, then.” Ava looks around her room and nods to herself. “It’s a pretty great room, isn’t it?”

“It’s very… Ava,” Beatrice allows. She’s smiling though, hoping that her words don’t sting.

“Isn’t that all I can hope for?” Ava sighs and turns her hand over so her palm presses against Beatrice’s. “But can I ask another question?”

When she breathes out, “anything”, she means it.

Ava hesitates still. “You never come in here,” she says slowly. “Why not?”

Something tightens in her chest. Words rise in her throat and she swallows them back down, a reflex more than anything else. Ava must notice something pass over her face or feel the way that Beatrice’s hand jumps in hers, because strong and warm fingers stroke up her wrist as they lock around the bone, keeping her anchored to the moment.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Ava rushes on. “I’m just… curious, I guess.” She smiles crookedly. “Does it smell in here?”

Yes. Like something deep and woodsy and so uniquely Ava.

Ava’s nose wrinkles. “Does it? Because if it does, I-”

“It doesn’t.” Beatrice’s voice is too loud. “It doesn’t,” she says, softer now.

Ava’s frown doesn’t smooth out. “Then… why?”

It’s not you, it’s me, her mind supplies. She doesn’t say that. She thinks about how to put it into words, how to unpack all the things she tidied away and put in a cedar chest, locking it tight. Nothing comes from it, just an empty explanation that won’t make sense if she says it out loud.

But Ava is her best friend. And if it doesn’t make sense, if the words don’t come out right, she’ll wait patiently for Beatrice to try again. She’ll sit here, one leg tucked up as ice melts through a washcloth and she’ll wait for Beatrice to find the right words.

I’d wait for you forever, Ava had said, lips loose with party punch. And Beatrice believed her.

Ava makes her brave. Brave enough not to make an offhand joke and turn the conversation back on the open can of paint and the paintbrush quickly drying out.

Instead, she clears her throat and straightens up, the first thing she does when an image of her parents enters her mind. And Ava doesn’t let go of her wrist, moving with her instead, ebbing and flowing with her seamlessly. Beatrice turns to face Ava, watching Ava mirror her, and she exhales out the tension building in her muscles.

“Bea, if you don’t want to-”

“I do.”

She does. Holding onto these things makes her feel heavy. And almost more than anything - but not more than wanting Ava - she wants to be lighter.

Ava shakes her head. “I’m serious.”

Beatrice grips Ava’s other hand, their arms tangled around each other. “I… I have to.”

“Okay,” Ava says softly. Her smile is the same. “Whatever you want to tell me, I want to hear.”

Ava isn’t always sledgehammer, she realizes. She thinks of her as a hammer, crashing into everything and leaving a wake of needed destruction in her wake. But Ava is also a set of picks, quietly and discreetly slipping into the lock around her. For all the stomping around she does, all the things she knocks over in her haste to get from one moment to the next, she’s also deft, hands built with finesse.

Beatrice tries to find the start. Was it Penelope Marshall? Was it the start of boarding school? Was it her parents finding her journal when she was thirteen? Was it all the time she spent with the diplomat’s daughter? Was it her fifth birthday when she cried because her parents bought her the dress with the pink frills instead of the bicycle she wanted?

“My parents…”

“I hate them.”

She doesn’t chide Ava for saying so. A deep, angry part of her hates her parents too. She smiles humorlessly. “They sent me to boarding school, as you know. When I was thirteen. Right at Christmas time. I remember it because it was my present that year. An ‘opportunity to further my education in an environment that would foster appropriate and lifelong lessons’,” she quotes. She can remember the brochure she’d been given unceremoniously, a smiling girl on the front. Even in print, Beatrice could see the hollow light in her eyes.

“Appropriate,” Ava scoffs. “Like anything they did was appropriate.”

Beatrice feels Ava’s pulse thunder under her fingers. “They said it would give me a framework for my life. Lucille Thomason had graduated from there a year before and she was going to Oxford, on her way to inheriting her mother’s social calendar. My mother always fawned over her at dinners. ‘Lucille is following the plans her mother set out for her. Lucille has accomplished so much at such a young age.’”

“Lucille sounds like a loser.”

“Lucille sounded exactly like the daughter my mother wanted.”

Ava frowns softly. “You know that you’re leagues above whoever Lucille is.”

“I didn’t think so,” she admits. “Lucille was someone to admire. Her achievements were something to strive for. She had something I so desperately wanted when I was younger: my mother’s approval. And so, when they presented the option-” She stops herself. “It wasn’t an option. But when they presented their plan, I reconciled myself with it by reminding myself that Lucille was leading a very successful life.”

“There’s more to life than success,” Ava says gently.

Beatrice smiles a little. “To you. To me. But to my parents, there is nothing more.” She takes a deep breath. “And if they were framing it as me taking an opportunity to lead a successful life, then they would forget about… the things they were discovering about me.”

Ava immediately tenses. The Beatrice she is now knows it for what it is: an attempt to contain her anger. The Beatrice she was months ago would have worried. Was Ava afraid of her? Was Ava disgusted by her? The thoughts had swirled that movie night. What if she did admit to a crush on Patricia Velasquez? Would this new person she wanted so badly to be around, without knowing why, suddenly change her mind once she found out the truth?

But Ava hadn’t. Ava won’t. Beatrice knows it with every fiber of her being. There are very few absolute truths in the world, but this is one of them.

“They read my journal, you know,” she continues. The words are coming out easily, this tiny fissure in her chest cracking open as Ava looks at her with wide and trusting eyes. “A new girl started school at the beginning of the term. Her name was Mina. Her father was in banking, I believe. She had the bluest eyes I had ever seen in my life.”

Ava scoffs lightly. “Blue eyes.”

She skims the pad of her thumb over Ava’s wrist. “One day, our hands brushed. It was something simple, innocent. She was passing me a paper, and we miscalculated the distance. I’m sure it meant nothing to her.”

“It meant something to you,” Ava guesses.

“I was thirteen. Everything meant something.” Beatrice sighs, feeling her chest rise and fall heavily. “And anything that meant something to me went into my journal. I just didn’t know that what went into my journal eventually landed in my parents’ hands.”

“So those bastards went through your private journal and read about some girl who touched your hand,” Ava hisses. “I swear, the minute I meet them, it’s fist to face. They don’t call me The Piraya for nothing, you know.”

“No one calls you that.”

“They might call me that, you don’t know. I have a whole superhero persona you don’t know about.” Ava puffs out her chest a little bit.

“The name Piraya implies you’re more of a villain than a superhero.”

“I’m a villain’s villain. How’s that?”

The trickle of despair of dragging this up again fades as Ava’s smile widens. She knows what Ava is doing. But she doesn’t stop her, grateful for the brevity and the way it makes her feel like she’s grounded in something, not floating listlessly and endlessly in her terrible memories.

“I mean it.” Ava’s voice drops, low and serious. “I’ll be their worst nightmare.”

“I’m afraid that role is already taken,” she says quietly. “Though, I don’t think they intended for it to be their daughter.” She sighs. She used to be her mother’s doll. But once she started moving her own parts, she found herself moving in the opposite direction.

“Bea,” Ava whispers. She tightens her grip on Beatrice’s wrist.

“I remember I wrote that touching her hand was as if the heavens opened up and I finally understood what song the angels were singing. We were in the middle of a poetry unit, and I fancied myself quite good at it.” She lets out a dry chuckle. “When I found them in the kitchen one night holding onto my journal I foolishly thought they had found out I was reading Emily Dickenson instead of studying for my science exam.”

Beatrice remembers coming down the stairs, flushed with the late November cold. Mina had invited her for dinner the next night, and she promised to show Beatrice the new video game she got. Beatrice didn’t care about those kinds of things, but no one else had gotten an invitation to Mina’s. Beatrice felt special.

But her parents’ faces had stopped her in her tracks. She didn’t notice her journal at first. It was made to look discreet, not to stand out. It had blended into her mother’s dark skirt, and it wasn’t until her mother raised it into the air that she saw it for what it was.

They asked her to explain herself. She wasn’t sure what they wanted her to explain, not at first. She stumbled through an apology about delaying her studying; she’d do it immediately and ask her teacher for an extra take home lesson. She scrambled through a rushed explanation about having new friends meant more opportunities for networking. With new friends, she could join a new club. It would do well on her list of extracurriculars.

It wasn’t until her mother spit out the name Mina that she had any idea of what she was supposed to be afraid of.

“What did they say?” Ava asks gently.

“They didn’t have to say much. There were questions about who Mina was. My mother had a particular talent of making something that wasn’t a swear sound like it. And she hissed Mina’s name like it was the dirtiest word she could say.”

Beatrice thinks of Mina now. Where was she? What was she doing? Beatrice never heard from her after she left. No letters, no calls. She came and went in her life so quickly, it was as if Beatrice made her up. The only sign that she had been there was the page missing from her journal, returned to her the night before she left for school.

“They demanded to know what she had done to me. What had I done to her? I was so confused. She had touched my hand. I certainly hadn’t…” Beatrice’s chest hitches at the thought. “It was a fleeting moment, but I learned that fleeting moments were the most damaging ones. That,” she says dryly. “And that locks do nothing to keep a determined person out.”

“Locks are meant to keep people out,” Ava all but hisses. She sighs, working her fingers up Beatrice’s arm to her elbow. They rest in the dip of her arm, right over the thin vein under Beatrice’s skin. “God, Bea. I’m so sorry. They were - are - horrible. No one should have had to go through that. Especially not you.”

Especially not you, Ava says. Like Beatrice is better than anyone else. Like she should exist under different rules.

“Of course you’re afraid,” Ava says quietly, speaking to herself. She raises her voice, talking to Beatrice now. “Of course you’re worried about even - Jesus, Bea. Touching a girl’s hand?” She looks down as if she’s suddenly noticing how she’s knotted herself around Beatrice’s arm. She laughs dryly. “What would they say if they saw us now?”

Ava means what if they saw me comforting you? Not what if they saw how I touch you like nothing else matters?

The answer would be the same: her mother would simply set fire to the room.

The chasm is widening now. She’s cracked the seam on these memories, and her mind is cycling through the events that followed: a new suitcase set, pink with her name on an address tag; a set of starched uniforms that felt like coarse wool against her skin; a final meal in her parents’ formal dining room, the chef-of-the-week uncaring of her dislike for persimmons; a single plane ticket pressed into her hand and a dismissive nod as a car pulled away from the airport, leaving her alone.

She tells Ava this in stilted words, as if narrating someone else’s life. But then it starts to sink in, the anger. And it spreads in her belly, burning into a rage. She feels the moment the numbness transitions to an inferno. She hears herself exhale the word alone and something snaps.

“They had no right,” she says. Even through her anger, the words surprise her.

Ava’s voice sounds hoarse, unused. “They didn’t.”

“I was a child. Their child.” Her hand clenches tightly into a fist, Ava’s hand moving with the flex of her forearm muscle. “A ‘problem’ arose and they just…” She stops. “They strung me along until I was no longer of use to them.”

“You are not a problem.” Ava's voice is low, burning hot in the rapidly closing space between them, in a tone she’s never heard before.

Beatrice almost startles, confused. She had nearly forgotten that Ava was here, so consumed in her story. But now she’s noticing her. 

Her eyes flash. The tops of her cheeks pinken slightly. She’s angry. Beatrice has seen her on more than one occasion get angry on her behalf. The mere thought of her parents seems to send her into a flurry, but the anger in her eyes now is nearly staggering.

“You’re not,” she says again, insistent to the point of almost desperation. “Beatrice, you are not a problem.”

And Beatrice, blinking, already falling, dives deeper into love with her.

-

Ava feels her cheeks go hot with a liquid anger that roils in her blood. She’s been angry before - angry at Bea’s parents, even. But this feels like pure molten rage. All of the pieces are slotting together: a young girl who just wanted to make her parents proud; who saw someone - touched someone so innocently - and felt the world shift; who didn’t understand why a cliff rose up between her and the people who were supposed to love her more than anything; who trusted so completely and had it thrown back in her face as if she was the one who somehow failed.

Ava’s fingers tighten until her fingernails cut deep half-moon shapes into her palm. She pulls the words out from between her teeth like nails scratching the floor.

“You are not a problem.”

Bea blinks. The broiling heat in her stomach softens its edge, replaced by the confusion in Bea’s eyes as she blinks again.

“You’re not,” Ava insists. She tugs Bea’s hand, pulling her closer until they’re pressed together, an almost-sweaty slide of the skin of their knees bumping together. Bea blinks a second time, mouth parting slightly. “Beatrice, you are not a problem.”

She needs Bea to believe her. She’s never needed anything more in her whole life. She could live without air. She could make it minutes without oxygen. But she can’t live with another second of Beatrice believing her parents’ poison.

She coaxes Bea another inch closer. “Do you hear me?”

Bea’s mouth parts further, something on the tip of her tongue. Ava squeezes Bea’s hand a little tighter. “Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Bea says faintly.

Ava isn’t satisfied. “You need to believe it. You’re not a problem. You’re-” She softens her grip, thumbs Bea’s wild pulse. “You’re-”

“Don’t say perfect,” Bea whispers, eyes slamming closed. “Please don’t say perfect.”

Ava hesitates. She was going to say perfect. She was going to say frustratingly perfect. But she can pivot. There are a million other things she can call Bea - courageous, intelligent, kind, beautiful. All things she’s told Bea before and all things she’d tell her a million times more.

“Human,” she lands on. Bea’s eyes open slowly. “You’re human, just like every single other person on this big rock orbiting in space. You live like everyone else. You laugh, you cry. You love, just like everyone else. And none of that-  not who you are or who you love, or even the special little rules you have for tea that took me forever to learn - not a single part of you is a problem.”

The space between Bea’s eyes wrinkles in thought. Ava usually holds herself back, usually just wishes to press it flat gently. But the line between them is so thin now that she doesn’t think twice about it, reaching up and resting her thumb between her brows, pushing gently until the skin relaxes.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asks in a whisper. Bea holds so many of her secrets, one more won’t hurt.

Bea nods slowly.

“When I first met you, I was so… intimidated.” Bea’s eyes widen slightly and Ava nods. “I was. You seemed so… cool. Composed. Not at all affected by someone who crashed into your table with the grace of a… what did you call it?”

“A newborn foal,” Bea says lightly.

Ava grins, her smile widening when some of it reflects in Bea’s face. “A newborn foal. That’s a giraffe, right?” She doesn’t wait to be corrected. “I thought, I need to know who this is and I need to know everything about her right now or I’m going to combust.”

Bea rolls her eyes, the motion of her eyes disrupting Ava’s thumb, still on her forehead. She doesn’t drop her hand, being bold and dragging the blunt ends of her fingernails against the smooth skin just above Bea’s eyebrow.

“You’re very dramatic.”

“Did I pretend to be anything else?” Ava shakes her head when Bea opens her mouth. “Don’t answer that. Just know.” She sobers, breathing in and exhaling the most truthful thing she thinks she’s ever said in her life. “The minute I met you, I knew you were something spectacular. I knew you were going to change my life.”

A weight hangs between them now. Bea looks shy under it, her head ducking slightly. Ava’s fingers slip, nearly burying into Bea’s hair. She drops her hand back into her lap but curls it over Bea’s, not quite wanting to let go yet.

“Can I tell you a secret now?” Bea asks, eyes still on the space between them.

Ava nods without being seen. “Anything.”

“I never really felt like that.”

“Like what?” Ava frowns. “Spectacular?”

“Human.” Bea looks up. “I spent so long feeling like… an other. That feeling like a human just didn’t… I couldn’t make sense of that. It took some time.”

Ava smiles gently. “But you got there.”

“After-” Bea stops herself, pulling her lips in as if she’s trying to keep something from erupting out. Ava watches the thin stream of air work its way through her nose, and catches the slight shine of Bea’s eyes, the way they seem to sparkle as unshed tears fill them.

“Hey,” she says softly. “No. No, don’t cry.” She drops Bea’s hands, cupping Bea’s face. Her thumbs brush along the flats of Bea’s cheeks. “I don’t know what to do when pretty girls cry,” she admits.

Bea laughs, choked and watery. “Neither do I. But it never stops me from telling you that Lilith doesn’t actually hate you no matter how much of her fancy vodka you drink.”

“One time,” Ava mutters, lips pulled back in a smile as she pretends to be annoyed.

It works. Bea’s smile seems a little stronger. “Ava,” she says quietly.

Ava strokes down a line of freckles absentmindedly. “Yeah?”

“Can I tell you another secret?”

“You can tell me you’re responsible for bringing down the Vatican, for all I care.”

Bea doesn’t laugh, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth instead. Ava wants to press down against the smooth skin but she stops herself before her thumb drifts that low. That perfect, soft-looking skin, a breath away. She focuses, pulling herself back into the moment.

Bea’s voice is nearly a whisper when she says, “Someone thought I was spectacular once.”

“Just once?”

Another silence. Ava tightens her jaw. Listen, don’t talk. She can do that. She can be still. It’s something Bea has taught her - just be still. Just wait. It will come to you when you stay in one place. So, she’s been waiting, patient against every urge within her to jump up and down and scream.

Sometimes, these feelings for Bea are so big in her chest that she feels like she’s going to explode into a hundred stars. She pictures herself shattering as the unspoken words build in her until they can’t go anywhere but out. But Bea is something to wait for. Bea is someone Ava doesn’t mind standing still for. She knows it’s there. She knows the feelings aren’t just her and that Bea needs to find her way forward. Ava just needs to be the flashlight in the distance, waiting for Bea to find her.

“At least, I thought she thought I was spectacular,” Bea continues, almost as if she didn’t hear Ava. “She said-  well, she said something close enough to it.”

Ava can feel another piece of the puzzle slotting into place. Another brick that makes up Bea’s nearly-impenetrable walls. For every one Ava manages to crack and loosen, another suddenly rises in its place. But she feels like this time, it falls and nothing slots into place.

She doesn’t stop herself from touching a freckle this time, tapping out a song she heard years ago before her hands drop again. “Was she pretty?”

She’s clumsy on a good day. Boisterous on others. But Bea is doing that thing again, learning how to run without knowing how to walk. And Ava is practicing. She’s trying so hard. She stays so still that Bea could almost imagine her gone.

“People are pretty in different ways,” Bea finally says. It’s a very diplomatic answer, something so very Bea that Ava breaks her stillness to smile. “All the other girls wanted to be her. I remember someone saying that her hair was so shiny, she must brush it a hundred times on each side before bed.”

Ava can’t help herself. “Is that why your hair is always so perfect? Are you secretly combing it until your wrist hurts?”

“A brush through wouldn’t kill you, Ava.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Bea’s growing smile flickers out. “I suppose it didn’t matter if she was conventionally pretty. I…” Ava watches the way she shores herself up against an invisible storm. “I thought she was beautiful.”

“What was her name?” she asks quietly.

“Penelope Marshall.” Bea says it like a prayer.

“Penelope.” Ava suddenly creates an image in her mind. A girl with wide brown eyes, bronze skin, a perfect smile of perfect teeth, a button nose, long and shiny hair.

Bea swallows and Ava feels the click of her jaw under her palms. “She was in my year, her room just down the hall from me. We were partners in Latin.”

“I bet she copied all her answers off your test.”

“Maybe once or twice,” she admits. “She certainly did not always do her homework on time. But Sister Magdalene liked her and simply turned a blind eye every so often.”

Bea’s cheeks are warming. Ava can see it in the way they pinken.

“It’s silly, but… I remember the first time she smiled at me. I had conjugated the verb, sum, to be, in the pluperfect subjunctive. She had been trying for the better part of an hour, but the switch from esse to fui for the tenses was always confusing to her.” Bea smiles slightly. “When I gave her the answer, she smiled at me and it felt like…”

“Like the world kind of tilted off its axis?”

Bea looks surprised. “Yes. Exactly that.”

“I’m familiar with the feeling.”

Because she is. So, so, deeply familiar with the feeling. The first time she saw Bea, that first smile she got as she bumbled her way through cleaning up the few drops of tea that spilled, the world went sideways and it hasn’t completely righted itself since.

“It’s peculiar, that feeling. It sticks with you, doesn’t it?” Bea looks down. “I used to dream about it,” she admits.

“That’s normal, Bea,” she says gently.

Bea looks up again. “Is it? Because it didn’t feel normal. It felt… other. Strange. Like a rock in the pit of my stomach. Penelope would touch my arm over our Latin text, and I could see my parents poring over my journal, looking for any otherness that might exist between us.”

“She made you happy, though.”

“I thought I made her happy as well.”

Ava doesn’t need Bea to tell her the rest. She can imagine how it went: touches as they broke down a dead language, sitting with their shoulders brushing at meals, giggling as they studied in what Ava assumes must have been a massive and cold library. She can imagine the small strands of Bea’s hair slipping from her bun across her cheeks and Penelope pushing them back behind her ear with quick fingers.

Ava lets herself be selfish and do that same thing now. Bea’s face turns slightly into her hand. Not enough that she probably even notices.

“When did she kiss you?”

Bea looks surprised again and Ava’s hand falls away. “How did you-”

“A good guess,” she lies. Because she knows that having Bea there and not kissing her is God’s strongest battle. She has been a good soldier.

She’s not sure how much longer she can be good.

“A few months into the semester.” Bea’s voice goes taut. “She invited me to study for her biology test. On the recommendation of our teacher, she told me. I imagined it was a lie; she had the same grades as I did.” Her cheeks pinken. “We were reviewing the different biological features of various aquatic animals and she…”

“She kissed you over the cod?” Ava says, voice a little strangled.

Bea meets her eyes. “It was my first kiss. Everyone I knew had theirs already, but I thought that if this is what I was waiting for, it was worth it.”

“The best things are worth waiting for.”

“I’d read about whirlwind romances in novels. Girls in the dormitories talked about it. Boyfriends they had back home that they saw on holiday weekends. But it was nothing like kissing behind locked doors. It couldn’t be. No one else could be experiencing what I did. It was so uniquely ours. Do you know what I mean?”

She does. It means closed doors. It means secrets. Bea reads it on her face because she can see something close to shame bloom across Bea’s cheeks.

“It was just for us,” Bea confirms. “A secret not even my parents, kilometers away, would learn of.”

Ava has never been one for secrets. She doesn’t like the way they taste in her mouth. You’re keeping your own, a voice like Mary’s reminds her. But that secret isn’t really a secret, is it? Because Mary knows. And Shannon knows because Mary knows. And her favorite barista, Lucy, knows it. JC knows it. The belayer at the rock climbing place and the guy at the one party she dragged Bea to and Lilith and Camila - they all know.

Bea knows too. Ava feels the truth of that in every crevice of her heart. Bea knows. Bea isn’t going to do anything about it - she feels that truth too. But the list of people Ava is hiding this from is shorter than the list of people who know it.

“You loved her.”

Bea’s smile is sad, far away. “First kiss, first love. I was convinced we would graduate and run away together. She would lie in my bed propped up on one arm talking about Paris and Rome and the places we could travel as soon as we got away from school. I’d felt so futureless when I arrived, but now I could imagine a million possibilities.”

Ava thinks of making a joke. Something about Bea jet-setting across all of Europe with a pretty girl, exactly the kind of lifestyle she deserved. But she knows this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

“She told me she loved me. More than anyone she loved in her life. She said we were young, but it doesn’t matter. You just feel love louder, she would tell me. I…” Bea takes a deep breath. “Mina may have been the first girl to touch my hand, but Penelope…”

Bea goes quiet long enough that Ava nudges her hand gently. “She…”

Bea’s eyes clear a little. “She touched me in other places. In other ways.”

Ava guesses the next part of this story too. “You wanted to tell someone and she wanted you guys to stay a secret.”

Bea laughs, short and sharp. “I wish it had been that simple. I wish I had been enough to stay a secret. Instead… She must have learned my parents’ trick. When someone becomes unseemly, when it becomes ugly and unwelcome, you simply… strike it from the record. Forget it ever existed. Send it away to boarding school and hope for the best. Or-or pick a new Latin partner and create an ocean that feels uncrossable.”

“Bea,” Ava says quietly.

“I could have accepted it was all done. An ending. I’m sure I could have. But instead I was…” She shakes her head. “Have you ever had someone you thought you were in love with look at you and tell you that none of it mattered? That it was girls being girls and that whispered promises in the corners of classrooms were never more than just a game? A joke?”

“Bea.”

But Bea has a haunted look in her eyes, like she’s somewhere else than Ava’s bedroom with its overflowing laundry and rumpled comforter and the paint swatches on the wall. Ava imagines she’s back in a girls dormitory standing in front of a pretty girl who is cutting her down to bits.

“She told me that none of it was real. It was wrong. It was just something to do. She wasn’t like that,” Bea says, voice just as haunted. “She promised that she wouldn’t tell, because she didn’t want people to think there was anything wrong with her.” An empty laugh, sardonic and hollow in a way that Ava’s never heard, escapes Bea’s lips. “Don’t worry, she said, I wouldn’t want people to think there was something wrong with you, either. I suppose in some twisted way, she still cared.”

The thing about Ava is that she’s always capable of more than she thinks she is. They said she’d never walked; now she runs across campus after Mary. They said she’d never be smart enough to go to university; now she’s in the front row of all her classes, her scholarship enough to make sure she doesn’t need to worry about her degree. They said she’d never make friends; now she has six of them who make every single day something more than she ever hoped.

They said she’d never fall in love; now she has Bea.

And when she doesn’t think she can go a little further, push a little harder, she thinks of Sister Frances and the way she told Ava that she’d never be capable of anything.

But she’s capable of this: setting everyone on fire who ever hurt Bea.

Her anger unleashes like a wildfire, and it swells in her chest so brightly that for a moment she can’t breathe. She can’t see straight. She’s imagining Penelope again but all of the softness is gone and she’s a cutting monster knocking Bea to the ground. She tightens her hand into a fist so tightly that sharp pinpricks echo in her palm from her fingernails.

She doesn’t realize she’s nearly growling until Bea’s fingers are working hers apart, smoothing them flat.

“Ava, it’s alright.”

“It’s not.” Her voice sounds stretched thin. “She’s not.”

“She’s gone.”

“But she’s still here.” Ava shakes her head insistently. “She’s still stuck in here.” She presses a single finger over Bea’s heart. “She still has all this space to be cruel. And when I meet her - not if. I’m going to find her - I’m going to make her suffer. I’m going to-”

“You can’t go on a one-woman crusade because someone hurt my feelings.”

Ava stares. “Hurt your- Bea, she didn’t hurt your feelings. She broke them.”

Bea straightens up slightly. “I’m not broken.”

Ava softens instantly, like someone turning out a light. “No. No, you’re not Bea. Of course you aren’t. There’s nothing wrong with you.” She ducks her head, catches Bea’s eyes, and smiles a little. “You’re incredible. You are spectacular. I promise you that.”

Bea exhales. “I’m embarrassed to say someone had such a hold on me.”

“That’s not embarrassing. That’s human.” Ava raises a cautious hand to Bea’s cheek again. “That’s wonderfully, perfectly human.”

“She just…” Bea takes a deep breath. Ava’s hand slips to her jawline. “My whole world ended in a single minute. Everything I did after that felt… fraught. I couldn’t trust her, couldn’t trust anything anymore. I was constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering if she was going to change her mind and tell someone how different, how terrible I was. She made me… nervous.”

She made me… nervous, Ava thinks.

Ava feels the soft skin between her eyes wrinkle as she works the words over in her mind. Of course Penelope made Bea nervous. Of course she made Bea doubt everything - every friendship, every interaction. Of course she held so much power over the way Bea engaged in the world. Of course she-

Oh.

Bea, who doesn’t linger too long when she’s looking at Ava. Bea, whose cheeks go pink when Ava dusts a hand down her bare shoulder. Beatrice, who is always the gentleman, always the one to hold back when they seem to be teetering on this invisible line of why aren’t we.

Of course Bea is going to be scared of what their friendship could become. Because she had this happen. She put her whole heart into something only to be told how wrong it was when it was over, how wrong she was, and that none of it was real.

Ava has been wondering why Bea is so afraid of what they could be. She thought if she proved herself, if she stayed when she could have run, then Bea would understand. She thought Bea would look at her and see someone worthy enough of falling in love with. She thought, some nights when the stars on the ceiling just weren’t enough light, that there was something wrong with her. Something that Bea wasn’t telling her because she was too nice to let Ava down so cruelly.

But it’s not her. It’s not Bea. It’s all the ghosts of Bea’s past stacked up against an ‘Enter’ door that are stopping Bea from pulling it open. It’s all these things outside of Ava’s control that’s holding them back.

It all comes together so neatly in her mind. Bea is not going to make the first move. She never was. She’s been leading Ava to this place, but she can’t make the final step. She’s loading the gun but she can’t pull the trigger. She’s putting this in Ava’s hands and hoping that Ava doesn’t break it in two.

Ava’s clumsy on a good day. Boisterous on others. But she’s also been practicing so hard at being still and maybe that was the wrong thing to do. Maybe Bea needs her to move, to run ahead and give in first.

Ava takes a deep breath, feeling it expand in her chest. It’s loud, roaring in her ears. Bea looks at her curiously. Maybe she doesn’t know that Ava has put it all together. Maybe she’s just as confused as Ava was a second ago. But Bea is smart. No, she’s not just smart, she’s Ava-smart. And she can read Ava like one of the dog-eared books littering their breakfast bar.

“Bea.” Her voice is remarkably steady.

Remarkable, because her whole body feels like it’s moving, vibrating at a frequency unable to be heard by the human ear. She catches Bea’s wrist in her fingers, locking them tightly around the delicate bone.

Bea is still, eyes dropping down to where their skin meets. “Yes?”

“Beatrice.”

Her hand is the thing shaking now as it rises up between them and slowly presses to Bea’s cheek, fingernails curling around her jaw. She feels it move as Bea swallows, hears the slight click of it as the silence magnifies. Bea’s eyes widen and she nearly pulls away, Ava’s hand on her face the only thing stopping her.

“Ava, I…”

Ava imagined their first kiss. She’s dreamed of it almost from the moment she met Bea, already wondering what it would be like before she knew who Bea really was - before she knew how good it was going to be. But she read something somewhere about how knowing someone enhanced the experience of loving them. How something steeped in history made the love richer. And the history she has with Bea may be short, but it is rich. Bea knows all her secrets and now she knows all of Bea’s.

So, fucking kiss her, a voice like Mary’s demands.

And isn’t Mary always telling her she has to listen better?

She only closes her eyes just before their lips touch. She wants to see Bea’s face and is rewarded with the fluttering of delicate eyelashes, the slight parting of Bea’s lips, the quiet hitch of her breath and the way her throat bobs as she tries to hold it back. Her hand slips to the back of Bea’s neck, pulling just until her top lip brushes Bea’s bottom one.

Her eyes slip closed as Bea’s bottom lip slips between hers and they’re kissing. They’re kissing. Bea is warm and soft and still. She stays there, intent in the way her mouth clings to Bea’s. I’m here. I’m kissing you. I’m choosing you. And you’re spectacular.

Bea shudders, her whole body coming alive, and she surges forward as Ava starts to pull away. The air goes out of her lungs and she tips backwards a little and she panics, unwilling to break apart now that Bea is kissing her back. But Bea’s hand goes past her, holding her up as she exhales against Ava’s mouth.

They’re so close together, their knees knocking. Bea’s mouth presses hot against hers, closed mouths clinging to each other. She can’t believe it, can’t believe they’re finally kissing and Bea isn’t running - she’s closer as Ava’s shoulders fall back against the bed, Bea’s hand curled around her shoulder as she settles against Ava’s side. Her free hand has found the hem of Ava’s shirt and her knuckles are brushing against the sensitive skin above Ava’s navel, steady and warm.

It’s Bea who takes the hesitant step forward, her lips parting just enough that Ava’s slide, and then Ava can feel Bea breathing as she kisses a little harder, mouths open against each other. It’s Bea who takes a less hesitant step again, the tip of her tongue ghosting along Ava’s bottom lip.

Ava pulled down the last brick, but Bea was a roaring river behind the dam and she kisses like she’s been uncorked. Her fingernails dig into the soft flesh beneath Ava’s shoulder, her knuckles press into Ava’s stomach, and she kisses with reckless abandon.

“Bea,” Ava whispers between kisses. She’s never been one for religion but maybe she’s been worshipping the wrong gods. Maybe this is who she should have been praying to all along.

Bea hums pleasantly against her mouth. She’s bolder now, kisses a little more frenzied. Ava understands. She tightens her hand at the base of Bea’s neck, pulls her closer. Her other hand slides down the flat of Bea’s stomach and curls around her hip bone, thumb stroking over the soft fabric of her sweatpants.

She thought kissing Bea would be amazing but she was wrong. It’s life-altering. She can see everything shifting to accommodate the way Bea’s lips press, hot and open-mouthed, against her own. She’s going to be completely altered after this, her life now in two separate parts: Before Kissing Bea and After Kissing Bea.

Bea’s hum burns into a low moan as Ava’s fingers dig more insistently into the dip of her hip. Ava is addicted now. She kisses harder, body starting to move as she rolls, a leg going over Bea’s until she’s bracketing Bea’s hips. She slides her mouth along Bea’s jaw to just below her ear, following the way Bea pants at the sensation of her teeth against smooth skin.

She needs to be closer. She needs nothing between them. She sits up, holding her weight as she works her fingers in her shirt and lifts it high and off her shoulders. She tosses it onto the corner, adding to the laundry pile, and sits above Bea in her bra with the flamingos on it, her chest heaving in anticipation.

Bea stares up at her, her face flushed and her lips bruised. Hesitant hands go to Ava’s waist, fingers flexing experimentally as they settle just above the hem of her shorts.

“Hi,” Ava whispers.

Bea nods, the line of her throat bobbing. Ava watches as her eyes track down her body, shoulders down to the sliver of skin just above her shorts. It takes her a minute to look back up and meet Ava’s eyes.

“Is this-?”

“Yes,” Bea interrupts. Her fingers feel purposeful now, like she’s burning her fingerprints into Ava’s skin. “I… I want this.”

A niggling thought works its way into Ava’s mind. Just a breath of hesitation. “You’re sure?”

Bea sits up, hands sliding to the small of her back. She blinks, eyes wide but focused. “Ava, I’ve wanted this for…”

“So long,” Ava finishes.

“So long.” Bea’s eyes flutter and she leans forward, mouth brushing over Ava’s collarbone. She feels her eyelashes against her throat. “Are you sure you want me?”

Me, she says unspoken. Me out of everyone else you could have.

Ava puts two strong fingers under Bea’s chin, lifts her face up until their eyes meet. I’ve never wanted anything more sounds too small. But it’s the only way she can think to say it. And when she does, Bea’s smile brightens the room.

Bea presses her lips to the pulse thudding in Ava’s neck, gentle teeth scraping against the skin. Ava breathes in sharply at the feeling of it, of Bea’s fingers working steadily up her back until they’re hesitantly touching the clasp of Ava’s bra. Ava is brave enough for both of them. She reaches back and loosens it, the fabric falling away from her chest. She tosses that away too.

Ava hisses softly when Bea’s fingers skate up her stomach to cup her breast. Her hand is burning, and Ava pushes into it so she can feel herself on fire. It only grows hotter when Bea kisses her collarbone again, teeth a little more insistent as she makes her way down to her own hand.

Ava pulls at the bottom of Bea’s shirt, freeing it from where she’s sitting on it, and pulls gracelessly until it’s over her head and somewhere by the door. She traces the lines of Bea’s navy bra until she finds the clasp and undoes it, flinging it away.

“I’m not going to make a joke about your boobs,” she whispers into Bea’s temple. Her tongue swirls over sensitive skin at Ava’s chest. “But just know that I really want to.”

Bea lifts her head. “I appreciate your restraint.”

“Saint Ava, they call me,” she babbles. “Patron Saint of-”

Her words are swallowed up in a gasp as Bea presses a hand down purposefully down on her waist. It sends a shiver through her and pulls a little bit of a moan from the hollow of her throat, Bea’s eyes widening slightly in surprise.

Ava tucks some of the loose strands framing Bea’s face back behind her ear, cheeks just a little red. “Before we… Before we do anything else, you need to know that I’m not going to be normal about this. Like, at all.”

Bea walks two fingers up her side, using ribs like steps. She moves them across her chest, brushing against her nipple. Ava shivers again. “I don’t know that I’m much interested in normal,” she admits.

Ava arches into her touch. “I’d hope not, considering how much you’re into me.”

She pauses, breath caught in her lungs as she waits for Bea’s reaction. Bea looks up with wide, imploring eyes. She searches for something on Ava’s face, and Ava hopes beyond hope that she finds it.

Not because she needs Bea’s hand to keep doing what it’s doing. Not because she wants to slip her fingers beneath Bea’s waistband. Not because she wants to hover over Bea and nose down the long stretch of what she’s sure is perfect skin from her chest to her belly button.

Because she wants all those things. But she also wants Bea to know she’s safe. That it’s okay to want her. That Ava is going to be someone she can trust, that Ava won’t treat her like something that’s going to break but will hold her gently regardless.

It feels big, to say that. But Bea is right there, a fingertip away, with her lips bruised and her hair starting to tangle around Ava’s fingers, and she thinks: I’m never going to come back from this. I’ll never be the same. What she feels is undeniable and real, the most real thing she has ever known and she would never, ever want to go back, even if she could.

“I am,” Bea finally says, voice a breathless whisper.

“A lot?” Ava asks, a sliver of neediness in her words.

Bea nods, unblinking. “A lot, yes.”

Ava makes a show of breathing a sigh of relief, a relieved smile on her face. “Well, that’s embarrassing for you.”

“Ava.”

Ava buries her reply in a kiss, fingers curling around Bea’s shoulders as she slowly inches her backward onto the bed until Ava is a shadow hovering above her. She wonders what the hollow of Bea’s throat tastes like, and she smiles into the kiss as she realizes she doesn’t need to ask. She breaks away from Bea’s mouth, kissing over the point of her chin and the underside of her jaw and down to the dip of her throat, teeth nipping at sensitive skin as Bea’s breath hitches. She can feel fingers flex at her waist and then tighten more purposefully.

Sensitive neck, she catalogs. She wants to make a list, grow it until she knows all of the places that cause Bea to make that breathless noise.

Bea’s fingers are insistent at her neck, drawing her back up until they’re kissing, harder than they have before. Bea kisses with lips and teeth, her tongue soothing away the nips, while one hand works its way to Ava’s waistband, curling into the thick denim fabric of her jeans.

She would have been satisfied with some heavy making out. Her skin is already burning where Bea’s bare chest is pressed against hers. She can live with this. But Bea doesn’t seem to be able to live with just this. Ava feels the back of her knuckles against her stomach as Bea pops the button of her jeans and works down the zipper. It’s so loud in the silence.

Ava kisses her way down Bea’s throat again then goes lower, tongue leading the way as she flicks the tip of it over a pebbled nipple. There it is again, that breathless noise. The fingers at her waistband freeze, tighten around the denim, and then release. Ava’s hand goes to Bea’s other breast, and she feels it press into her palm as Bea arches her back slightly.

Ava dares to go lower, kissing over the swell of Bea’s breast and down to her navel. She slides back on Bea’s legs, her fingertips light against Bea’s skin above her hip bones.

“Ava,” Bea breathes. She reaches down, hands reaching for Ava’s chin. Ava kisses the center of Bea’s palm as strong fingers curl around her jaw. “Ava.”

She doesn’t know what Bea’s trying to say, but she doesn’t need to. She can feel the heat radiating off Bea, the anticipation. She hooks two fingers in the waistband of Bea’s study-sweatpants, the ones she wears on all-nighters where she’s going to fall asleep sitting up, and starts to work them down a little as Bea’s hips lift off the bed.

She rests her forehead in the dip of Bea’s hip. She’s never believed in a God, but she does believe there’s a higher power out in the cosmos, and they’ve suddenly found her worthy of this gift: Bea stretched out across the sea of her comforter with her eyes closed and her chin tipped into the air as her chest rises and falls with increasingly harder breathes and her hips arching just slightly until Ava feels her against her forehead.

Because shit, this is holy.

A hand snakes its way into her hair, blunt fingernails scratching against her scalp. She can feel them trembling slightly. Ava wants to feel the whole of Bea tremble. She kisses down as she pulls Bea’s sweats down until they’re past the top of her thighs to her knees.

This feels like a moment they can’t come back from. And looking up at Bea, at the way those dark eyes stare into hers and the hand in her hair tightens slightly, she doesn’t want to come back from it. She wants to never, ever come back from this. She only wants what happens on past this moment.

She works Bea’s underwear down until they’re on the floor with her sweatpants in a tangled heap, and she noses her way lower until it’s nothing but heat and something slick against her tongue. Bea keens, hips lifting high off the bed, and Ava presses down hard against them with flat palms, keeping Bea down in one place.

The hand tightens in her hair, Bea’s knees tighten around her shoulders, trapping her in this crystalline moment. She rolls into it, tongue working more steadily as she feels Bea’s hips start to roll in response. She dips lower and soars higher, an unknown melody working into her mind and guiding her as Bea lets a sigh loosen from her throat.

Her hand climbs until she feels Bea’s breast against her palm, and she works her fingers over sensitive skin. Bea’s hand traps hers in place, palm burning. She can feel Bea’s legs start to tremble, and she licks a little more precisely, a little more purposefully.

She swirls, she drives forward and pulls away. She finds a rhythm until Bea’s whole body starts to tighten into an invisible line, pulled taut by an some unseen string. Ava doesn’t stop, even as Bea’s legs tighten around her. Even as that hand in her hair pulls a little harder. Even as Bea’s breathing swells into a hard pant and she lets out a strangled cry of Ava’s name.

She doesn’t stop until Bea’s body melts into loose muscles, until Bea’s hand goes slack in her hair. Everything is hot against her skin. Her tongue eases away, laving up and over Bea’s hip to her navel and charting a slow course to the center of her chest until she’s back at the hollow of Bea’s throat, teeth nipping as she feels Bea’s chest rise and fall rapidly against her own.

Bea draws another ragged breath, a hand up over her red face.

Ava pulls it away and kisses Bea hard, their mouths sliding together. Bea’s fingers curl around her throat, holding her in place when Ava tries to pull away. A tongue dips behind her teeth. Bea inhales sharply, stealing the air from Ava’s lungs.

Bea, still panting softly, hooks a leg under her and twists, rolling until Ava is on her back, and Bea is hovering over her, eyes dark and flashing.

The air punches its way out of Ava’s throat. If she’s cataloging the things that turn her on, this has just gone to the top of the list, right after the way Bea tastes and the feeling of her mouth sliding against hers.

“Bea.” Her voice is strangled and warped between them.

But Bea doesn’t answer her. She works her fingers purposefully down Ava’s front, sliding beneath her waistband without fanfare, without hesitation. Ava’s legs part with a half-breath, the other part of it stuck in her throat.

Then it’s nothing but an overwhelming sensation and the soft sound of Bea panting in her ear as Ava feels the world start to tighten around her. Bea’s breath is replaced by a white static, and there’s a fullness in her that she knows she’s going to be chasing for a while. Her hips lift and fall, a rhythm she knows without having to think about it. She rides it out, settles into it like she’s known it all her life and then-

And then-

Then she’s soaring, hips off the bed and her whole body shaking as she tries to focus on the rhythm again, the whole dance gone from her mind as it’s replaced by fireworks exploding, one after another. She can feel Bea’s hand on her, in her, and nothing else. She’s disconnected from reality except for where Bea is touching her. Floating weightlessly in an in-between where nothing but this feeling and Bea, hot against her side, exist.

She crashes back down, the world slamming back into her head as her legs clench, Bea’s hand between them. Strong fingers slide away and stroke across her thighs before they go up and curl around her side. Her breath comes hard, her pulse pounding in her head. She squeezes her eyes tightly, afraid to open them and see that the whole world has been turned upside down.

She wouldn’t care if it was, is the problem. She wouldn’t care if she suddenly found herself light years away where there was no oxygen in the solar system. As long as Bea is next to her, she doesn’t care.

She opens her eyes slowly and turns her head, finding Bea looking back at her with liquid pools for eyes.

“Hi,” she breathes, the word sticking in her throat.

Bea smiles softly. “Hi.”

“That was…” She inhales raggedly. “It’s never been like that.”

Because I’ve never been in love, she doesn’t say out loud.

Bea is biting on her bottom lip, eyes searching Ava’s face. “Me either,” she finally says.

Ava hums, content and boneless. “We are so doing that again. Soon,” she promises. “When I can feel my legs, it’s over for you.”

Bea laughs a little. “Okay, Ava.”

Ava lets her eyes close again and when she opens them, Bea is still looking at her. It doesn’t unsettle her. She lets Bea drink her in, and she lets her own eyes follow the lithe line of Bea’s body.

“Boobs,” Ava sighs. She curls one hand around Bea’s breast, no intention in the movement.

Bea wiggles around as if it tickles slightly, but she just settles more tightly against Ava’s side.

“I’m going to be insufferable,” she warns.

“So I can expect more jokes about my boobs.” Bea walks two fingers up her side and across her chest, pressing over where her heart is. “What else?”

Ava inhales shakily. “Anything else you want.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” she promises. “Whenever you want. I’ll be a court jester for you, babe.”

Bea’s face pinkens at the name, but she holds Ava’s gaze for another moment before she rests her head between Ava’s shoulder and neck. “I do find you marginally funny,” she admits lightly.

Ava grins, the smile lazy. “See? You need to tell more people how funny I am. Mary doesn’t believe it.”

The blush doesn’t fall from Bea’s face. “Please don’t talk about Mary while we’re naked.”

“Why not? She’ll think it’s hilarious.” But Ava stretches her neck and kisses Bea’s temple. “But okay. Just this time.”

“I appreciate it,” Bea murmurs. It’s familiar, the exasperation, but it’s tinted with this whole new feeling. A new depth. “Ava?”

“Hmmm,” Ava hums, sleep pressing against her body.

“I can tell you later.” Fingers brush hair off her damp forehead. “Close your eyes for a little bit.”

“Just a little,” she agrees. “And then I’m making you stir fry.”

Warm lips press against the hollow of her throat, humming an okay against her skin. Bea settles against her side as a warm and welcome weight.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she knows she goes quietly and calmly, and that Bea is still there, still pressed against her side, molded to her like she was never meant to be anywhere else.

-

She wakes up to the smell of paint. Her eyes take a minute to adjust to the light in the corner but she pushes up on her elbow, the comforter over her sliding down to her waist. She blinks as Bea comes into focus.

“You’re painting?”

Bea turns. She’s barefoot, in her underwear again, and one of Ava’s cropped t-shirts that has a white cat in red shadows and I’m not cute I’m purr evil written on it. It hangs a little higher on her and Ava can see the swell of her breasts through it.

She’s the most beautiful woman Ava has ever seen.

And she’s blushing. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

Ava sits up more fully, stretching her arms above her head. She watches, a slightly smirk on her face, as Bea’s eyes drop to her chest. But she doesn’t push. There’s time to tease Bea about staring at her boobs. All the time in the world, really.

“How long was I asleep?” She looks at the wall. Bea has nearly finished the whole thing.

“Not long.” Bea puts the paint can down on the stool, balancing the paintbrush on the edge of it. “But you looked…”

“Like a dead fish?” She’s aware of the way she sleeps, limbs thrown about and head rolling back. Years of being unable to move makes it so she never stops now, even sleeping.

“Peaceful,” Bea finishes. She’s hesitating, torn between wanting to do something and worrying about doing it.

So, Ava takes the lead, leaning in until she’s kissing Bea. She feels Bea sigh into it and knows it was the right move, that it’s what Bea wanted to do. She wants Bea to know she can do this whenever she wants. Bea kisses back almost instantly, sliding into an already-familiar rhythm.

She pulls away, a smile on her face. “Hi.”

Bea is a little breathless when she says hi back.

“I thought we weren’t painting.”

Bea looks back at the wall, most of it covered already. “You were right. About leaving our mark on this place. Someone needs to know we were here.”

“If we ever move out.”

Bea smiles. “If we ever move out.”

Ava pulls her legs up under her and Bea’s hand into her lap. “The only place I plan on moving is into your room. Or you can move in here, since we’re already decorating.”

“Oh?” Bea says. Her voice seems tight, like she’s holding something back.

A wiggle of doubt worms its way into her mind. “I mean, if you want to. No pressure. I’m more than happy to stay here and we can pretend like-”

“I don’t want to pretend,” Bea interrupts. She seems surprised by the firmness in her words and she sucks in her lips for a second before she shakes her head. “I wasn’t sure if you- I know you just kissed me but maybe that was you letting me down and-”

“Bea.” Ava waits until Bea’s mouth snaps closed. “I don’t want to pretend. I’ve been waiting months to kiss you, and unless you tell me otherwise, I plan on kissing you at least a hundred times a day.”

Some of the tension drains from Bea’s shoulders. “A hundred.”

“Give or take another hundred.” Ava grins. “One kiss for every time I’ve thought about kissing you the last seven months. Spread out, of course. Otherwise we’d probably be stuck in this apartment for days, just kissing.” She narrows her eyes playfully. “That might not be the worst thing to happen, though.”

“I’d miss finals,” Bea points out.

“Do you really need to pass them? Aren’t you teaching the classes at this point?”

Bea rolls her eyes, fond and exasperated. “Ava.”

“Bea.” She rolls her eyes back. “Fine. If you won’t lock yourself away to make out with me for days on end, what else are you willing to offer me?”

Bea is quiet for a long moment, her hand twisting in Ava’s as she thinks of something. Ava can see it pressing against her teeth, can practically feel the tension of whatever Bea wants to say radiating off her and lighting up the whole room. Ava waits it out patiently, knowing that whatever Bea has to say will be worth it.

She stays still. She waits. Bea has a way of bringing out all of the things in her that no one else has bothered to look for before. And after another minute, Bea looks up.

“Me.”

Ava’s heart clenches in her chest. “You.”

“I’m willing to offer me. Just… me. If you’re willing to accept.”

Ava turns Bea’s hand over in hers and presses two fingers to the thudding bundle of nerves at the base of her wrist. Bea looks down at where they meet and her eyes stay locked there for a moment while Ava watches her.

“If you think there’s anything just about you, then you don’t know the Beatrice I know,” Ava finally says. “Because I’ve never thought there was anything just about you. You always leave the light on for me. And you never make me do the dishes alone. And you don’t mind mushrooms on your pizza. You keep soda in the apartment and you always vacuum when I’m not home.”

A funny smile graces Bea’s face. “I think that makes me good for you.”

“The best,” she agrees. Her smile softens. “I’ve never thought there’s anything just about you. You’re incredibly kind, trustworthy. You’re humble - maybe too humble,” she jokes. “And considerate. And insanely intelligent. Hilarious. My best friend.” She pauses. “And I’m pretty sure you’re the love of my life.”

Bea inhales sharply.

“I know that’s, like, a lot. And I don’t need you to say it back, because I’m not trying to pressure you. But saying it all has lifted some kind of weight off my chest. Like, I didn’t know I was suffocating under not saying anything but I guess that I was,” she babbles. “But honestly, you don’t need to-”

“Ava,” Bea says patiently. She waits until Ava snaps her mouth shut and mimes zipping it closed. “My parents…”

“I’ll kill them,” Ava says cheerfully, looking guilty when Bea’s eyes cut to her. She closes her mouth again.

“My parents made me believe that love had to be earned. That if I wanted it, I had to work for it.” She takes a breath, astonishingly steady. “But you’ve never done that. You’ve never made me work for it. You’ve just… given it. It’s who you are.”

Ava’s smile wavers a little. “Because you don’t need to deserve love.”

“I didn’t know that before you.” Bea shakes her head. “I’ve had to unlearn a lot of things since meeting you. Like that. Like how to not be afraid. Like how to eat pizza. All these things that were so ingrained in who I was that I didn’t think I’d ever know anything different.” She reaches up and cups Ava’s cheek. “You changed all of that for me.”

She thinks Bea is saying I love you. She thinks Bea is saying You’re the love of my life, too.

And then Bea, spectacular Bea, looks into her eyes and says exactly that. “I love you. I’ve loved you since you spilled tea on my very important notes, and I’ve fallen in love with you every day since.”

Ava feels relief flood through her like a dam breaking. “That’s good. That’s really, really good. Because it would be embarrassing to be sitting here naked telling you how much I love you if you’re not going to say it back.”

Bea shakes her head but she’s smiling. “Ava.”

“Beatrice.” Ava curls a finger under Bea’s chin and beckons her forehead. She kisses her slowly and sweetly before she pulls back. “Kiss one of a hundred today.”

A blush spreads across Bea’s face. “You’re not really going to count, are you?”

“I’m going to keep a tally, that’s how serious I am.” She kisses Bea again. “Number two.”

Bae rolls her eyes and when Ava kisses her a third time, she opens her mouth, tongue brushing Ava’s bottom lip. It leaves her breathless when Bea pulls back.

“If I knew getting you in my room would have ended up like this, I would have tried a lot harder,” she says, eyes still closed.

Bea’s lips press against her cheek, then under her eye. “I wasn’t ready for that,” Bea whispers against her skin.

Ava doesn’t open her eyes. “I know you weren’t.”

Bea’s forehead rests against hers. “I am now.”

“It’s okay if you’re not. I won’t stop loving you.”

Bea’s breath ghosts across her mouth. “I am. I’ve never been ready for anything more in my life.”

“Not even your finals? Because you’re really ready for those, even if you think you aren’t.” She feels Bea start to argue more than she sees it, eyes still closed. “I’ve never met anyone who studies as much as you study. Seriously, you’re a beast when it comes to notecards and colored highlighters and-”

She does stop this time as Bea’s lips press against her. She hums, sinking into it. “Oh,” she says when Bea ebbs away. She finally opens her eyes.

Bea is smiling, beautiful and wide. “More than my finals. If only because I’m still not convinced of Thecla’s real contribution to modern religions.”

“I don’t know who Thecla is, but she’s never been less relevant to my interests right now.” Ava twists a strand of Bea’s hair, resting on her cheek, around her finger. “She could be Jesus’ mother for all I care.”

“She’s not-”

“I know she’s not.” Ava grins. “But I like the way you look when I say something wrong.” She presses her finger to the space between Bea’s eyes. “Like you’re not sure if you want to lecture me or kiss me. For the record, I’m very much in favor of the second option.”

Bea’s lips pull up in a slight smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ava breathes in deeply, letting the air fill her lungs as she stretches her arms over her head, noting the way Bea’s eyes follow the lift of her chest. She smiles to herself. Maybe Bea is a boob-girl. She’ll have to weaponize that knowledge for later. 

“I think I promised you stir fry.”

Bea opens her mouth to argue.

“And I’m hungry,” Ava says over her. “And can be trusted with a knife. So, I will be making you stir fry, because it’s the one thing I’m good at. And I want to impress you.”

Bea’s smile is fond, and Ava thinks back to the first time she saw it, how it was aimed at Camila and how she wished one day it would be a smile for her. And now here she is, Bea in her shirt and an I love you between them and a smile that is reserved just for her.

“So let me make you stir fry and you can come sit and study some more. In my shirt. Which, by the way, is very sexy.” She winks.

Bea rolls her eyes. “Mine was quite tangled up in the comforter, and this was just the most easily accessible.”

“You have a bedroom about a hundred feet away,” Ava feels the need to point out. Bea’s eyes narrow and Ava grins. “But for the record, I really like seeing you in it.”

Bea blushes a little but stands and opens Ava’s drawer, pulling out a pair of underwear - Ava’s favorite, yellow with pineapples on them - and then a big t-shirt she stole from Mary that has a pug with a pair of aviators on printed across the front. She hands them to Ava.

“No pants?” she asks as she pushes the comforter down and wriggles into her underwear. She pulls the t-shirt on, huffing her hair out of her face.

“No pants,” Bea says simply.

Oh. Okay. She grins and stands up, curling her hands around Bea’s waist and pulling her in. “This is going to be so good. I know it.”

Bea smiles, swaying slightly with her when Ava starts to go back and forth on her feet. “I know it too.” She presses her lips to Ava’s forehead and speaks against it. “Thank you, Ava,” she breathes.

Ava frowns. “For what?”

Bea pulls back and tucks a strand of Ava’s hair back behind her ear. “For waiting for me to be ready.”

“Of course I waited. I love you,” she says easily.

Bea’s smile widens. “I know.”

Ava beams back at her, feeling like everything has slotted into place so neatly. She never wants this moment to break, never wants it to go away. She wants to remain forever in this room with Bea in her arms and the rest of the world somewhere else doing whatever it is they’re doing. All that matters is this moment, these kisses between them, the possibility of what the next moment brings.

She can’t wait.

[angelsdean]

don't know how people multi-fandom. dipped my toe into another one and immediately backed out bc everyone there was insufferable.

[phantompeaches]

You know, four years ago I was so worried that my characters would be seen as Cringe for even just like... being supernatural in any way. Which is so weird to think about when I then remember the first guy I made after distancing myself from the groups that made me feel that way is a normal guy who turns into a horse for fun sometimes.

[virtualbutch]

oh boy reader beweader it's time for indy to vent in their tags!!!!!!!

[the-sky-queen]

The Mind Electric - Animatic

Starline AU belongs to @totaleclipse573

My goodness I'm so nervous to post this but I'm gonna be brave and do it anyway. Inspiration struck me like a lightning bolt yesterday and I rushed to make this as fast as possible. I have visions in my head for how I would do the whole song, but I'd only want to do that if I could use the actual audio. (I couldn't figure out how to just record it off of YT (there was a specific edit of the song I wanted to use) which is why I ended up singing the section of the song I wanted. If I ever figure it out, I may possibly reupload this and/or do the full version. *shrug*)

The editor kinda ate the quality a bit so separate pictures along with the original sketches are under the cut!

[milfbrainrot]

i feel like i type so much more than is reasonable when i do talk to people but i also don't get to socialize a ton so i just have soooo many words in me and if i'm like, tired or short on time, it is so much harder to restrain to the already-pushing-it point i can sometimes manage ;-;