#finished the aq yesterday

[nomohmoss]

navia🤝furina

having the worst time ever in the aq

[violetganache42]

Between AQ Stream lagging and buffering to high hell lately and that fucking cesspool of an episode pissing me off to no end, I was clearly not in the mood to watch yesterday's newest GR!! episode. And yet, it somehow still managed to annoy me.

I had learned through @real-life-pine-tree and tweets from the YGO anime account that Epoch ended up cheating, and quite frankly, even newcomers to a game should know that cheating is wrong. But here is the real kicker: members of the Yugipedia server were talking about the episode and they revealed that everyone except Yuhi was blind to it. Yes, that includes Yuamu and Yudias.

First off, Yuamu has the most amount of braincells in the entire roster of GR!! characters, so she should've been able to notice Epoch cheating without any problem like her brother. Why the fuck didn't the writers let her do that? Second of all, and more importantly, Yudias, you are Epoch's teacher. If your best friend says he saw her blatantly cheating, then fulfill your role as such and educate her on why it is wrong! It's not that difficult, especially for someone as honorable as you who would not let any form of cheating slide! Yet, you clearly did and had the fucking nerve to accuse Yuhi of making false accusations because the show and crew would rather prioritize how close you've gotten with Epoch. Ugh, it didn't take me until ep. 66 to like their bond, but now, this and the ending of the previous episode have made me quickly dislike it.

What the fuck is wrong with GO RUSH!! lately? They've been getting worse in quality since their fifth arc, from cramming in too many plotlines and stuff only for jack shit to get actually accomplished and focusing too much on the SEVENS fanservice to ruining their characters in different ways. Heck, unlike previous YGO shows—sans VRAINS—where they make tournaments integral to the plot/conflict, it feels like the Galaxy Cup is not the main focus of the current arc. In fact, the Epoch and Relic plotlines may be overshadowing it, reiterating how the show is suffering from too many overlapping plotlines and constantly catering to the SEVENS timeskip. I had mentioned that going through the subs of ep. 67 left me feeling like I want to finish watching this just to get it out of the way, but I'm not sure if I should do that or find an appropriate time to stop watching it altogether. I'll probably think about it some more, but for right now, I'm currently ranted out.

[alchemania]

I finished the Archon quest yesterday.

God. GOD.

I really really enjoyed it.

Inazuma had me real worried writing wise, but I appreciate that Sumeru and Fontaine have both taken their time to build up the story, I think it really paid off. And of course, it's not PERFECT, but it's definitely better. It is definitely better.

Good lord, Furina...

So, the funny thing is, I wasn't sure if I was going to like her or not, but I had a feeling she'd be one of those characters I either loved or hated. I can say with my whole chest I absolutely love her, especially after this last quest. My first impressions were she acts like an annoying little sister but yk. A lovable one who just wants your attention and to hang out with you. Yk how little siblings sometimes think their older siblings are the coolest people ever and wanna impress them yeah that's the vibes I got with Furina and MC, haha.

I also appreciated how this AQ felt like an effort of the entire nation as opposed to Traveler being delegated a lot of the responsibility - it was an effort of all the people to save their home, and it was very moving. I think Fontaine is my favorite region now, ngl, and Furina is absolutely my favorite archon. The voice actors all did a FANTASTIC job, I got choked up a few times just from some of the deliveries.

This was definitely a step up from Sumeru for me - I liked the story for it, but I didn't really connect with a lot of the characters on a deeper level (sure, I love Wanderer, but even though he got his Vision in Sumeru, I still don't really see him as one of the cast yk), although I did enjoy their group dynamic. But with Fontaine I liked the story AND the characters.

I'll talk about Furina's SQ in a little while I have many thoughts.

[petitexmagician]

I started Furina's quest today and took bit of a pause because yesterday I did finish the AQ. So yeah I still got more thoughts.

And honestly yeah I think it's fair to view the Traveler twin in a negative spotlight for their hand in what was going on. Don't get me wrong even if Furina told the Traveler twin her true identity and the suffering she underwent waiting for Focalors plan to go through, reveal that she was told to wait and act like a god by her "mirror self", be given those few minutes before Lyney opened the trick box, the whole plan Focalors had wouldn't happen - Focalors was banking on Neuvilette to get his rights back with her gone to save the people her predecessor made. That was her whole design - so while the Traveler twin was hyper focus on what Furina was going to tell them - not the fact that they just had a hand in curbstomping her self confidence and world view to dust to the point where she was numb in front of people that were doubting her efforts.

It hurt even more that Furina saw Neuvilette and the Traveler twin as the only two people she can turn to - forget Paimon they're just a damn mouthpiece - though more over I want to put a bit of the slight salt to the translation staff. The actions of the cutscene betray the line "Wait I need to know what she was going to say!", the Traveler twin ran and reached out to Furina to make sure she wasn't hit by whatever the beam was going to do - because we see Furina sitting there without a scratch, of course they weren't going to make it or rather just take her hand to pull her out of the blast.

The situation was dire, people were going to disappear in the primordial sea, Furina had no choice but to keep quiet because someone higher then the Seven wanted a whole nation wiped again - and thats what the Traveler twin ended up learning from that single tear. They are in the wrong for pushing Furina to the point that they did - and it shows in Furina's Quest they feel guilty when they meet up with her to ask for her help and they should.

Even if everything was stacked where there was no winners, Nevuilette learned the hell Furina went through from talking with Focalors, the Traveler twin witnessed it - they took a drastic card and their emotions pay for it.

[piness011]

Yesterday I bought two packets of maltecers. One for me one for my little brother. Yesterday he finished his, today I wanted to eat mine which were not open. I opened the fridge and sawine opened. I asked him "kenapa makan akak punya" and the mak aq masuk campur. Dia panggil kita batak sbb kita 'gaduh' sbb coklat. It's my chocolate. I marah la sikit sbb dia makan. Maka aq kata kita gemuk. And then dia kata kalau dia nampak lagi chocolate tu dlm rumah kita dia buang nnt.

[isabeladraws]

i renamed hunter to aleksander because if leigh won’t make him asian in the shadow and bone tv series i will shskshsks

listen, ben barnes is perfect though i’ve been thinking about him non stop hbfgjbf but good name choice!!

[ooops-i-arted]

Din's morning routine: finding Yoditos in various inconvenient places while trying to get ready in AM. OR view frim inside of 'fresher door - dozens of tiny hands and "Dads?!" Happiest if Birthdays to you!

Thank you! Please enjoy this outline of Din's morning. And this was also inspired by your request.

-

3:38 AM

Din rolled over to check the chrono, or at least as much as he could with a snoring juvenile varactyl using half of him as a pillow. Twenty-two minutes still until his alarm went off. He lay back down and closed his eyes, hoping for a little bit more sleep.

3:57 AM

A wail started growing louder and Din’s dream of searching for his children in the ruins of Aq Vetina melted away as he sat up, struggling out from underneath Boga Jr. He knew that sound. The babies were awake early this morning.

Quickly he stumbled into the children’s room, finding that fortunately only Yod’ika 99 and Yod’ika 94 had woken each other up in the crib. He scooped them up and held them to his collarbone with one hand, humming softly and soothing them with the vibrations in his throat while he used his free hand to fix a bottle of formula for each of them and set it in the rack Kuiil had constructed to suspend over a matching line of customized infant seats, each labeled with the number of Yod’ika it was sized for. Once his two little ones were sufficiently soothed he set them in their seats and tilted the bottles into their reach, allowing them to drink while he started preparing another batch of breakfast for the others still asleep.

The infants were still being bottle-fed, so he fixed up those first and set them in the racks so they were ready for their recipients. Next were the older kids; the three jars of minced salamander had the closest expiration date so he set up bowls of those and stacked them in the fridge for when the older children woke up. A few servings he put through the food processor and mashed first, for the youngest toddlers who still had difficulty chewing as much.

4:25 AM

IG-11 always entered quietly enough not to wake the children but still with some familiar mechanical whirring of gears. He always claimed Kuiil had forgotten to oil them again, but Din had overheard Cara telling IG-11 not to be so quiet to not startle Din a few weeks ago. Din wasn’t quite to the point where he could thank IG-11 for the effort but he did appreciate it in silence.

“You’re early,” Din commented.

“My morning optimizing subroutines finished early,” the droid said in its flat voice. “I have been running some in the evening as well before shutting down, to be as efficient as possible.”

“These two are awake and fed,” Din said, removing the bottles from the racks and scooping up two of his smallest sons.

“I will engage tummy time routines.”

Din set the two in IG-11’s clawlike hands. “Try and stay quiet.”

IG-11 took the babies. Din could already hear a few more starting to stir, but let IG-11 handle them as he returned to his room. He hadn’t found time to shower yesterday so he definitely had to this morning.

Boga Jr. was awake and already rearranged the bedding into a bigger mess, looking proud of her efforts to reconstruct her “nest” as she usually did. Din scratched her head feathers before pulling out his jumpsuit and fresh underwear - dank ferrik, was he due for another load of laundry already? - and heading for the ’fresher.

4:45

He’d taken care of his bladder and brushed his teeth and was halfway into the shower when a bright voice said “Good morning, Buir!”

Din stared. “Yod’ika 18, what are you doing in the sink?”

“I’m cleaning myself,” said the little one as Din glanced at the definitely-locked door.

“Why?”

Yod’ika 18 looked down guiltily. “I had an accident…”

Din got a towel around his waist before going over to check on Yod’ika 18. “Yeah, looks like you did… you know you can get up in the night to go potty, right?”

Yod’ika 18 frowned and looked down. “It’s just so dark at night…”

“We’ll see about getting a night light in there, okay?” Din helped him out of the dirty clothes and threw them in the hamper before pulling out another tunic that passed the sniff test. “Wear this for a little bit and we’ll get you properly dressed after breakfast.”

“No!” said Yod’ika 18, shying away. “It’s stinky, Buir!”

Din sighed, but he was awake enough by now to remember what a neat freak Yod’ika 18 was. “Okay, okay, come here.”

Din scooped the little one up, making sure his towel stayed secure as he went to the closet and pulled out the first outfit he found. “Here you go.”

“It’s not my favorite color…”

“Yod’ika 18,” Din said sternly, and finally Yod’ika 18 submitted to being dressed in the yellow tunic. “Go see IG-11 and he can get you breakfast,” Din said, shooing the little one along.

“But I want to eat with you, Buir.”

“Then wait a little bit and I’ll join you when I get out of the shower.”

The pattering of oversized gangly varactyl feet was his only warning. Boga Jr. loved snatching up clothes and flinging them around and he just managed to get the closet door shut in time to remember that what she really loved was snatching things directly from him, and he only had one article of “clothing” on him right now.

Din barely grabbed the towel in time. “BOGA JR, NO!”

She tugged playfully on it with all her juvenile varactyl strength, encouraged by Yod’ika 18’s giggles. “Stop it!” Din ordered, barring her from getting closer with his leg; he needed both hands to keep his towel. “Sit, girl!” he said desperately, and luckily she followed the command, her tail thrashing proudly.

“Go tell IG-11 that Boga Jr. needs to be fed,” Din told Yod’ika 18.

He hurried off to perform the special chore, loudly saying, “Of course, Buir, I will help you!”

Boga Jr., knowing food was imminent, hurried after Yod’ika 18. But now Din could hear more stirring, more pattering feet and perking ears and chattering little voices.

He barely made it to the bathroom in time. As soon as he shut and locked the door there were already scratching noises and bustling little bodies and loud little voices. “Good morning Daddy!” “Papa I want to come in.” “Stop pushing me!” “Daddyyyyyyyyyy-” “Come eat breakfast with us Buir!” “Dada, food, I hungwy…”

The doorknob started moving all by itself. Din grabbed it and held fast. “Anyone who opens this door with the Force doesn’t get frogs for a week!” he yelled in desperation.

Suddenly the door stopped vibrating slightly and it was quiet on the other side.

“Go and tell IG-11 you’re awake,” Din said. “I’ll be out soon and I’ll eat with you.”

He listened for acknowledgment and to make sure the horde retreated before finally, finally getting into the shower. Just in time to find out IG-11 had used all the hot water on food prep and dishes.

5:10 AM

Din toweled his hair dry just enough to not make the inside of his helmet gross before leaving the bathroom and going to his bedroom to put it on. He didn’t bother with the rest of the armor yet, but even though IG-11 was the only person - thing, droid, whatever - there not a family member, he still didn’t like breaking the spirit of the Creed’s helmet rule anyway. And there was no telling whenever anyone else might come by.

He knew food had to be out and served since no one was swarming him, and he passed through the kids’ room to see how many were still asleep. Not many - once they were up, the horde usually swarmed like flies on a ronto.

“Dad?” asked a sleepy voice just as Din was about to step out, and he turned to see his eldest sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“Good morning, Yod’ika,” Din said. “You still sleepy or ready for breakfast?”

Yod’ika held out his arms in a plea to be held. “Breakfast.”

Din scooped him up obligingly; every child in his care needed individualized attention but Yod’ika was always extra hungry for it. He snuggled up under Din’s chin and Din smiled, rocking him a little. “Did you sleep well last night?”

“Yeah,” he said. “No bad dreams.”

“Good,” said Din, and he made sure the few remaining Yod’ike were fast asleep before carrying Yod’ika into the kitchen.

Most of the awake Yod’ike were sitting at the table but several were still crawling and toddling on the floor, too restless to eat yet or already finished, and the babies still in their feeding chairs were starting to cry. Din hurried over to get them out first, his helmet’s audio feed automatically adjusting to the volume.

“Buir, come eat with us!”

“Hold on, let me get the babies first,” he said without looking at who had called for him. He felt a stubborn, otherworldly pull on his hands. “No!” he told the babies firmly, and the sensation stopped. Din was glad they were responding better; the last thing he needed was an infant unexpectedly yanking him around. Carefully he extracted the infants from their feeding seats and passed them over into IG-11’s supervision, watching the droid as he carefully put them in the playpen he’d set up for them. Only the very youngest ones could still be counted on to stay where you put them, and Din knew he wasn’t going to have that luxury much longer. Even little Ika’ika was already squirming in protest in the playpen, rolling over repeatedly to try and make himself move.

More Yod’ike toddled in, calling for him, so Din told them good morning and started heating and setting out more bowls of minced salamander.

“I want frog,” whined Yod’ika 27.

“We’re eating the salamander today,” Din said. “We’ll have frog another day.”

“Can we go frog hunting today, Baba?” asked Yod’ika 14, quickly echoed by several of his brothers. “It’s been ages since we got to!” insisted Yod’ika 18.

Din knew “ages” meant “a week” but it was one of the clan’s favorite activities. “I need to look at the schedule and see if there’s a pond that’s been rotated long enough. If we go too soon, there won’t be enough frogs -”

“For us and for the animals,” chimed in multiple Yod’ike.

“Exactly,” said Din. Proudly, “Good job remembering.”

“We hafta take care of the en-vi-en-met,” added Yod’ika 33.

“You’re right,” Din said, finally getting his own bowl of human protein-fortified cereal and sitting down at the table, setting his helmet in his lap where it was safest from sticky hands.

“Can I try some, Buir?” asked Yod’ika 6, reaching out.

“No,” Din said, waving his spoon at his son’s hands. “Eat your own.”

6:00 AM

Everyone was awake - it was rare any of the Yod’ike slept through the din of their brothers - and everyone was fed, so now it was time to get ready for the day.

“You all know the drill,” Din told them. “Old clothes in the laundry, use the potty, IG-11 set out new clothes for you, and then brush your teeth.”

They all chattered agreeably and then the storm of pajamas flying through the air began. At this point Din was used to the commotion, so he pulled off the shirt that landed in his face off and went over to start changing the babies one by one, occasionally pausing to remind the others no laundry fights but otherwise going as fast as he could before -

“Buir, I need help,” said Yod’ika 44’s little voice at his ankle.

“Ask one of your brothers,” Din said, barely remembering to say it instead of automatically helping his son. “Right now I’m changing the babies.”

“But I want you to do it, Buir.”

“Then you need to wait.”

Sometimes it worked, but more often than not Din had a cluster of Yod’ike seeking help (and attention) sitting at his feet. Today Yod’ika 44 sat right on his foot, clutching his new outfit and underwear.

Din felt something wet on his foot and his stomach turned. “Did you wipe?”

“Oops!” Yod’ika 44 ran back to the bathroom.

Din didn’t look down. He just quickly grabbed a wipe and cleaned his foot very thoroughly before anyone else came over.

By the time he was working on Ika’ika - a delicate task, changing the smallest diaper in the galaxy and stuffing the squirming infant into the smallest custom mudhorn-patterned onesie Cara had brought back from her last trip into the Core - a whole cluster of children were at his feet, arguing who was first for help and shouting at Yod’ika for trying to force them to accept his help, Yod’ika the loudest as he yelled back that he was the oldest and his help was just as good as Dad’s.

Din knew if he let go of Ika’ika, even for a second, all his hard work making the wiggly baby get dressed would be undone, so he ignored the fuss until finally he could hand Ika’ika over to IG-11, who deposited him back into the playpen with his littlest brothers. “Okay,” Din said. “Who needs help?”

With at least thirty kids clamoring “Me! Me! Me!” it was impossible to tell who had really been first. Din had found the most success by making it into a game and randomizing it, so he said everyone with a blue outfit had to go see IG-11, everyone with a mythosaur on their clothes had to go ask Yod’ika for assistance, and anyone with a mudhorn should wait for him. They were used to the game so there wasn’t a lot of protest, and now Din had only five children waiting. He pulled on shirts and shorts, gently folded ears through a hat, and tucked Yod’ika 29’s malformed feet into their supportive shoes.

“Are we all ready?” Din asked his brood, all eagerly staring up at him.

“You’re not ready, Dad,” pointed out Yod’ika, and the others all nodded in agreement.

Din looked down. The flightsuit was on, and already stained by food and slobber from when he’d helped his sons eat and from when Boga Jr. had rested her head in his lap, trying to steal scraps. He suppressed a sigh. “No, I guess I’m not.”

7:02 AM

His armor was on, even polished a bit thanks to Yod’ika 3 sneaking into his room for some quiet time in Din’s room. (“But I was being an Armorer,” he’d said so sweetly, and he’d used the right polish, so he got out of any consequences.) He’d remade the bed so it wasn’t currently a varactyl’s nest. The kids were all awake, fed, and dressed, and ready to take on the day. And now, so was he.

“Dad, come on, let’s play!”

“I’m coming.” Din put his helmet on, and stepped outside, ready for anything the galaxy had to throw at him today.

[s0nia246]

So i randomly just got this idea for Day Dream. I kinds want to make a platonic yandere for her. So here a kinda prologue.

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

It was a normal day in Ponyville. Aquamarine was walking to school. She hummed quietly to herself.

"Hey!"

Aquamarine turned her head behind, seeing the "pony" that saved her yesterday run up to her left side . "Hello! How are you doing this morning? " Aquamarine asked, turning her head up to face Day.

"I'm good. I was just checking on you to see if you were okay from yesterday? " Day asked.

Aquamarine nodded her head.

"I'm okay. Oh! Do you want to walk to school together, Day." Aquamarine asked cheerfully.

Day's eyebrows turned , her head turned slightly to side. She was confused by Aquamarine. "School? What's a School?"

Aquamarine was suprised by Day's question. She paused for moment. "School? I thought everyone know about school." Aquamarine shakes her head. "Well...school is a place were you learn things." Aquamarine tried her best to explain.

"Really! What kinds of things? " Day asked excitedly.

On the rest of the walk Aquamarine tried her best to explain the concept of school to Day.

"And here we are." Aquamarine motioned her head towards the red schoolhouse.

Day's stare with wonder and amazement.

"Come on. Let's see if Ms. Cheerilee can help" Aquamarine said, as the two started walking towards the building.

"Good morning Aq-Oh! Who is this Aquamarine." Ms. Cheerilee asked, looking towards Day.

"You remember the attack with the timbers wolves right? Well, Day saved me from them." Aquamarine replied.

Before Ms.Cheerilee could asked other question. The class inside voice started rising. "Well let's finish the conversation later girls. Come on in. " Ms. Cheerilee lead the two in the classroom.

" Settle down everypony." Ms. Cheerilee said, bring her voice up slightly. She waited to start talking as her students' quickly stop. Aquamarine quickly got into her sit. "Now class...today we have a special guest. Come introduce yourself, dear."

Day was slightly starled by Ms. Cheerilee' request but quickly walked over to Ms.Cheerilee' side. "O-Oh...um. Hello everyone my name is Day Dream." Day said shyly.

Ms. Cheerilee lead Day to one of the empty desk and started teaching the class.

"Goodbye Ms. Cheerilee!" All the the students shouted as the left the schoolhouse for the day. Either heading home or off the hang out with their friends. It was only Day and Ms. Cheerilee left in the schoolhouse. Ms. Cheerilee pulls up a chair to Day's desk. " Day when did you and parents move to Ponyville?" Ms. Cheerilee asked.

Day doesn't look up from her drawing. "I've always lived here. Well I'd lived in the woods that is. I mostly live on my own."

Ms. Cheerilee's eyes widen with horror. "R-really now?" She said trying her best not to worry Day.

"Oh. Ms. Cheerilee, what does this mean again?" Day said, using her paw to circle a question on the worksheet that she was doodling on earlier.

"How about I help you with later Day. Should go outside and play with Aquamarine and the rest." Ms. Cheerilee, getting up from her chair and walking over to the door.

"Oh. Okay!" Day smiled and headed over to where Ms Cheerilee was.

"We can work together,alone after school okay. " Ms. Cheerilee smiled back as she watched Day head over to play with Aquamarine.

(Here's Day's diary page. Sorry if if bad XD)

[onlythegentle-survive]

Omg I have so many questions about The Mandalorian! I started watching it yesterday afternoon & I just finished it-

My heart is so confused???? Am I sad???? Happy??? Wtf I don’t know but I’m also so confused:

1.) is Din not from Mandalore(?) Bc they made it seem like he was at times and then not at others.

2.)who the f(uck) was that hoe at the very end??? The horrible deep fake looking homie of Mark Hamil???? Is he a clone like Boba???

3.)Is it over???! Like over-over?!?!

4.)why is Din insanely attractive & like not even physically??? Like is that legal??? To be that damn hot?????

5.) will I ever recover???

Thank you for listening. I’ve come to you bc you literally have a blog dedicated to Pedro/Din & so I figure you have the answers I seek. Ignore spelling mistakes, I’m small brain.

Help me obi wan-

Hello! Thank you for all your questions. 

1) Din is not from Mandalore, which they explained in Chapter 8: Redemption that Mandalorian isn’t a race, but a creed. I don’t think you have to be from Mandalore to claim the throne (his home planet was confirmed... somewhere that I can’t remember, as being  Aq Vetina)

2) The deepfake was a bit distracting to some people, yes. But I’d rather have a weird-looking Mark Hamill than somebody else playing the role. From what I understand, they had a body double that they superimposed Mark Hamill’s face onto in post-production. Not quite as impressive as when they had a young Nick Fury played by Samuel L. Jackson in Captain Marvel, but it’s cool still having it be Mark Hamill.

3) It is not over! The Book of Boba Fett is a spin-off, and they’re starting to film season 3 of The Mandalorian at the beginning of April once they’ve wrapped on Boba Fett. They set up so many storylines in season 2: Din being a Child of the Watch, him being the new heir to Mandalore, what Din’s going to do without Grogu (who I think will come back once his training is over), and so many other things that I’m sure we haven’t even considered! Giancarlo Esposito who plays Moff Gideon has mentioned a fourth and possibly fifth season, so Chapter 16 was far from being the end of it. We’ve still got so many stories with our favourite Mandalorian. 

4) I ask myself that question daily.

5) It took me a couple of days (hell, I still can’t watch or talk about the final scene without getting emotional), but I did recover emotionally. 

Thank you again for your questions! I hope I answered them well enough. 💜 @dindjarindiaries is a really great source as well for any questions that need answering

[artificialqueens]

Daybreak over Manhattan (Scyvie) - Phryne

A/N: Long time, no see AQ! I’m finally back after putting DOPS on a slight hiatus to work on Ficmas and this fic right here. It’s a coffee shop au with some cute fluffy bits, a little angst, and that classic DOPS humor (I hope) we all love. 

Also thank you to @scarletenvynyc for being incredible throughout the whole writing process and encouraging me to see this fic through, and to @artificialmeggie for being the most incredible beta. 

Enjoy!

Word Count: 13K

***

Yvonne Bridges tugged at the collar of her tan trench coat in vain, trying to shield her neck from the mounting October wind. It was cooler in the mornings, though she didn’t mind it. In fact she quite enjoyed it. It was the time of year when the sun was just peeking over the horizon as she flew down the steps of the subway stop a few blocks from her apartment, and was fully bright, making her reflection golden and stretching in the skyscraper windows she passed, when she arrived at her first stop before work: the Starbucks. 

It was part of her morning routine, which she followed religiously. She arrived at the same time nearly every morning, buttoned the bottom two buttons of her pantsuit jacket while waiting at the register, placed the same order, checked her emails in silence while standing at the counter, waiting about about the same amount of time—it was a fairly empty store around six a.m.—and then left, heading on her way to work, fully prepared to handle her caseload, no matter what her boss would throw at her. 

It was comforting to see her usual barista Brooke and follow through the same thoughtless exchange. She only learned her name when she broke away from routine a couple months ago to study the barista. Brooke wore her hair wound up in a tight bun near the nape of her neck, her hair perpetually shiny and well placed. She wrote her name on her tag in all capital letters. It was severe. It was pointed. So was she. 

Brooke began each conversation with ‘hello’ and a nod. Yvonne replied ‘tall triple latte, blueberry muffin’ and pulled up the Starbucks app, her phone raising to a blinding brightness as she brought up her card. Brooke pressed a few buttons and said ‘seven seventy-four.’ Yvonne scanned her phone. Brooke nodded and therefore Yvonne moved to the side. They said a total of nine words to one another, each day the same nine words. It had been long enough that she shouldn’t have to explain her daily order to Brooke, but they weren’t feigning the closeness of friendship over ordering coffee, so they continued on with their nine word exchange, over and over until Brooke wasn’t there anymore. 

And on that October day, when Yvonne came in from the whipping wind, smoothing down her collar and adjusting her grip on her well-worn leather briefcase, the sunlight pouring in from the windows behind her, brushing against the back of her exposed neck, warming her so deliciously, so palpably, she was taken aback. 

“Welcome to Starbucks! What can I do you for this mornin’?” 

The voice was warm, like a well blended whisky settling in her belly, though it felt grating after what had to be years of Brooke’s cool, monotone voice. This voice belonged to a woman with brunette hair clipped back haphazardly, shorter strands escaping to graze across her sharp cheekbones, full from the smile she spoke with. 

The first thing Yvonne thought was that she couldn’t be from here, that was for sure. If the voice didn’t give it away, the exasperated joy at six a.m. did, the way she went about beaming at strangers like she had no good reason to save a grin that wide for a more special occasion did. She had to be new to the city—new enough to believe in the magic of Manhattan and all the people in it. 

Yvonne would scoff, but it would be quite difficult to scoff at the sun itself, and she thought that assumption applied here. She didn’t think she was bitter enough to scoff at joy incarnate appearing in front of her, wearing a leopard print cardigan and a soft pink t-shirt under her apron. 

“Where’s Brooke?” she asked, diverting the new barista’s question. “She’s always here in the morning.”

The barista finally broke from her incessant grinning, looking almost softer, more real, though Yvonne could now see the harshness of her jaw, the delicate point of her nose. She looked like a sculpture. She let out a weighted sigh. 

“Brooke got cast in some dance thing.” The barista drummed her fingers on the counter, pondering. “Like a group thing. I think she’s got some kind of team?” 

Yvonne put her phone down, the words still sounding off. More off than the prospect of Brooke not taking her order anymore. “A team?” 

“No, I guess that makes it sound like sports, huh?” The barista exhaled a light laugh, nothing more than an airy, thin laugh. “Like a ballet team. A posse? A gang?” She rambled on, somehow still holding Yvonne’s attention with each iteration of team, as though her words had a grip on Yvonne. 

“I don’t know,” she ended decisively. “But she got cast.” A little snort. Definitely a little miffed, which seemed understandable. 

The barista blew some hair out of her face before snapping back into her original sunny disposition. “Brooke quit yesterday, so now I have the opening shift,” she said. “I’m Scarlet.” And then she pointed to her name tag, her index finger highlighting how she wrote Scarlet in cursive, wide, looping letters, with little stars drawn around them. Yvonne couldn’t help but notice the stark difference between Scarlet and Brooke’s tags. And the difference seemed quite fitting. 

So Yvonne nodded, hoping to let that information pass, maybe even establish the same routine with this Scarlet, though it seemed unlikely with all the talking they had done already, which had to have passed her and Brooke’s nine word conversations. 

“Okay. Tall triple latte, blueberry muffin.” Yvonne said, watching her rapidly input on the register, tacking on “please,” as though it were necessary to be more polite to her—she didn’t know Yvonne’s routine yet. 

“Oh that sounds so good,” Scarlet replied. “I would kill to have a triple tall latte right now.” 

Yvonne couldn’t let what had to be Scarlet’s standard reply to an order hang limply between them. It all happened without her knowledge, the words firing from her brain and out her mouth, landing between them before she even knew it. 

“You’re telling me you haven’t had any coffee yet? And you’re like this?” Yvonne gestured lightly, now gripping her phone. “I’ve had no coffee and I’m like this.” She gestured down herself. Her exhausted self really — though exhaustion was a constant enough state that she learned how to look like it wasn’t. 

Scarlet laughed. And yes, it was a laugh directed at Yvonne’s thoughtless reply. It wasn’t even a joke. But nonetheless the laugh registered as authentic for a barista laugh. There was an appropriate lightness to it, enough to note it as actually funny but too much. Not enough to let Yvie know she was so unfunny that she warranted fake laughter from this poor barista. 

“You’re funny, even for this early,” Scarlet reassured. She uncapped her Sharpie and took up the cup. “What’s the name for the order, funny lady?” 

Her throat was tight. “Yvonne.” 

Scarlet nodded and wrote on the cup, setting it aside, ringing Yvonne up, and holding up the scanner for her phone. She stepped to the side, expecting the transaction to be finished. She didn’t expect Scarlet to tell her to “have a good morning” after the fact, and the elongated pleasantries left her floundering. She checked her emails, hoping to bring about a sense of normalcy. 

“Yvie. Latte and blueberry muffin for Yvie,” another barista called out. He glanced around, noting only Yvonne and an older man in a windbreaker and running tights in the store. 

Yvonne continued sorting through emails, adding Silky’s ‘daily meme’ email to her spam folder.

“Order for Yvie.” The barista pointed at the muffin in the bag. The older man shook his head. 

“Yvonne,” Scarlet called over to her, now standing where the other barista stood, holding the same latte and muffin. “It’s your order, Yvie.” 

She should have been irritated by the nickname. Never in her adult life had she been called by a nickname — really, she didn’t think something as cutesy as Yvie could suit her. It sounded like a name for a well groomed Pomeranian, not a grown woman. 

But she nonetheless accepted her latte and muffin, finding herself glancing down at the way Scarlet wrote ‘Yvie’ in sprawling handwriting, the dot of the ‘i’ trailing off in her haste. It was endearing. 

Scarlet was quite endearing, and something she could get used to every day, she decided, walking past the window on her way to work, stealing another glance at Scarlet, only to find her waving goodbye, her fingers fluttering away. 

***

“Tall triple latte, blueberry muffin,” Yvie said, still buried in her phone. “Please.” 

Please had quickly become a part of her routine with Scarlet, as much as Yvie didn’t enjoy setting new routines. Through it didn’t feel correct to carry over the same practices with Brooke to Scarlet, especially when Scarlet always beamed back at her, especially when the October sunrise seemed to chase through the front windows to meet up with Scarlet, making her perpetual flush look warmer and the little frizzy hairs along her hairline look nearly blonde. It made the please deeply necessary, and therefore routine.

Scarlet pulled out a cup and wrote out Yvie’s name, chirping back, “the usual, got it,” before getting Yvie’s muffin from the case. 

Yvie continued typing away at her phone, feeling her face tighten and her brows thread together with no way of easing them. She scanned over the email from Silky, her coworker, with whom she was handling the Davenport case—a complex web of familial relations, undissolvable trusts, and heaps of old money. It was nearly all wrapped up, but Silky was now flip-flopping on their analysis for their client, A’keria. 

“What the fuck does this mean?” Yvie exhaled steam, rapidly typing back to Silky. 

Scarlet returned with the muffin, sliding it across the counter. “It’ll be $7.74.” 

Yvie groaned, swiping through Silky’s attachments from her last email. The message only said “please advise.” Yvie did not want to advise on what she’d already advised on for the past three months. 

“Capitalism, right?” Scarlet threw her hands up with a shrug. “But you still gotta pay, Yvie.” 

“Oh sorry.” Yvie pulled away, glancing up at Scarlet, looking more and more like a court jester with her puffy-sleeved shirt and exaggerated expression, as though she were on the set of I Love Lucy rather than behind the counter at Starbucks. She pulled up her app and Scarlet scanned her card. 

“What’s going on?” Scarlet printed the receipt, tore it off, and immediately threw it away. “You seem all tense today.” 

Today. Scarlet really did joke. “I’m a lawyer,” Yvie replied dryly, her voice gritting. Just thinking about Silky’s email made her grimace. “I’m always tense, Scarlet.” 

“Nuh uh,” Scarlet tutted back, clearly waging her bets and pressing further. She was a woman of nerve, that’s for sure, pressing at Yvie when she was in one of her moods. “You look more stressed than usual. I can see it in your face.” She held up her thumbs and index fingers perpendicular in front of her, making a frame for Yvie’s face, as though she were capturing a shot of the stress. 

Yvie gave in easily, turning her phone over on the counter, ignoring the email. She sighed. “Well, I have to go argue a big case. Like a big money case today. And my partner’s reconsidering our arguments like we haven’t been preparing our arguments for fucking months.” She let out a long exhale, meeting Scarlet’s intent gaze. “But whatever. I don’t want to just bitch to you about it.” 

Scarlet laughed, brushing her off with a flick of her hand. “Please. No one else is here.” She looked around at the nearly barren store, the lack of line behind Yvie, prompting Yvie to notice the same. “Bitch away, honey.” 

She walked on over to the espresso machine, released a hot spurt of steam from the wand, and grabbed a jug of milk from under the counter, then pointed at the stools that lined the counter opposite her. “Sit down and spill it.” 

And for no godly reason, by no logical means, Yvie felt compelled to do exactly that.  

“Also, Silky keeps this shit on her desk that I hate.” Yvie brushed her hair back. “Like she’s got this calendar of these hot firemen and their dalmations. And like, not to be gay, but I don’t get men and their dogs.” 

Scarlet peered up at Yvie while pouring the steamed milk over the espresso. Yvie broke her gaze, suddenly much more interested in flipping her phone over in her hands. 

“I’m more of a cat lady myself,” Scarlet replied easily, returning her attention to putting a lid on Yvie’s drink, scribbling something else on the side of it and sliding it over to her. Scarlet placed her elbows on the counter, leaning in on her hands, coming in closer. 

“Same.” Yvie took her drink, sticking a latte saver in it. “And she’s got a picture of Mr. Fuzznut on her desk—” 

“Who’s Mr. Fuzznut?” Scarlet could barely get it out without laughing. 

“Her dog. He’s a weiner dog. In the picture he’s wearing a wizard’s hat.” Yvie pulled up the picture and slid her phone over.

“Ugh.” Scarlet pushed it right back. She let her index finger rest against her cheek. “Why is she that way?”

“Beats me. I just listen to her talk about that dog and her men all—”

“Excuse me, miss?” A man in a suit called over from the register, the vein in his neck clearly throbbing from having to wait more than five minutes. He shouldn’t have even bothered with excuse me. “Can you take my order?” 

Scarlet tilted her head, staring blankly before snapping back into her usual cheer. 

“I gotta go anyway.” Yvie hitched her purse up her shoulder, readjusting the tuck of her silk button down into her gray trousers. “Big case and all,” she said, trailing off. 

“Of course. I’m sure it’ll—” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Yvie patted the counter before taking off, leaving Scarlet to tend to this customer, who did not care for waiting now six minutes to order his coffee and told Scarlet just as much as Yvie left, in what had to be a demeaningly measured tone. 

Yvie noticed a touch of feathering Sharpie poking out from under the coffee sleeve, which was peculiar, as Scarlet wrote ‘Yvie’ on the cup and checked all the proper boxes like usual, but this marking seemed new. Maybe she did something different to her coffee and had to check a different box, like adding or replacing something would help Yvie’s constant state of exhaustion and stress, like Scarlet the barista knew best. Usually knowing best referred to her ability to select muffins, as she picked through the muffins with her tongs to find Yvie what she assured was the ‘best muffin.’ ”It’s the one with the most blueberries, of course,” Scarlet once explained with a cartoonish wink as she stuck it into a bakery bag. 

Yvie took a swig of the now cooled coffee. Perfect, as always. 

She slid the sleeve down and her lips tugged into a smile. It said good luck!! In her same loopy handwriting. And she connected the exclamation points to make a smiley face. Under the sleeve just for her. 

Yvie took pause, considering that Scarlet really thought to put it under the sleeve instead of out in the open where she could easily see it. Maybe she did that because she knew Yvie would see it anyway. But then she would have just said something, no? Maybe it was under the sleeve so it wouldn’t look weird in court, this coffee cup with messages. She knew if Silky saw it, she’d have a field day — even though Yvie’s girlfriend literally worked feet away from them — spinning some story about Yvie’s secret barista admirer. Maybe Scarlet was just smart. 

It was possible that Scarlet the barista knew best. 

***

It was the morning of Halloween and Yvie’s thoughts were rampant and ecstatic. Namely, she was contemplating whether or not she should waste her good witch costume on Silky’s party and how rude it would be if she claimed food poisoning at the last minute, just to stay in and gobble fun-sized Snickers while watching Carrie. 

As she approached the counter, she saw Scarlet all giddy, her little clip-on witch’s hat flopping its pom-pom tip, her cream sweater adorned with sequined black cats catching the light as she shimmied around. 

“Happy Halloween, Yvie,” Scarlet said with a little clap before pressing down on the counter, sharing as though it were a well worn secret. “It’s my favorite holiday. I love it.” 

It surprised her a bit, hearing that Scarlet loved Halloween, though she seemed just as adamant as she did about the holiday, and looked far more festive than Yvie, who could only muster the festivity of an all black pantsuit. She didn’t look like one to enjoy the spooky season — Yvie could more easily picture her in a soft, pale pink sweater and jeans, stomping her boots around in leaves and enjoying spiced cider from an earthenware mug than reveling in the blood and gore of a slasher flick. 

Though it was a good surprise, a new image of Scarlet in the fall time for her to comb over at her leisure. 

“It’s mine too,” Yvie replied. “Do you have any plans for Halloween?” 

Scarlet broke into a smirk, hand over her heart, laying in the slight twang of her accent. “Oh Yvie, what are you asking me?”

Yvie stopped dead, blood lying still in her body. She fiddled with her jacket. “I… I wasn’t…” 

“I’m just teasing, silly.” She brushed it off. “I gotta get my costume together and then my roommate, Pearl and I, we throw this big party. So we’ll have people over. I’m going as a devil.” She stuck two pointed fingers behind her head and giggled. 

Yvie laughed right back. It was a little absurd, thinking of Scarlet, with all her gentleness and joy, posing as the devil, in some sleek red thing, probably trying her absolute hardest to look cold and mean, though couldn’t possibly have a cold, mean bone in her body. 

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Scarlet startled her out of her thoughts, leaning in closer, Yvie following her lead. “Don’t tell my manager, but I invented a new Halloween drink.” 

“Oh?” Yvie didn’t know if she was more taken aback by the proposition of a new drink order, her willingness to accept it, or Scarlet’s closeness and how the fine hairs of her body stood at attention with every word. 

“Do you want to try it? It’s super cute.”

Of course it was super cute.

“It’s also a little unauthorized.” She quoted with her fingers. “Not as unauthorized as the first drink I tried to make, but still.”

Yvie pulled away slightly, her face willing itself to twist, but finding that she couldn’t, not with Scarlet already reaching for a cold cup from the stack next to her. And Yvie was not a fan of cold coffee, no not really, especially in late October, especially when it was barely over 30 degrees outside and she was in the same jacket she’d been wearing since the much warmer beginning of fall. Not with Scarlet already uncapping her Sharpie, preemptively doodling a pumpkin on the side of the cup, finishing it off with a curly stem sprouting from the top, just waiting to write ‘Yvie’ and seal the deal. 

So Yvie nodded and Scarlet rang her up for $5.04 and Yvie scanned her app and stepped off to the side, watching Scarlet take off, throwing one last glance over her shoulder at the back room before pumping some liquid into the cup and adding a bit of milk, pouring the mixture into the blender pitcher, and adding thick orange sauce to it. 

Yvie did not know or particularly like the idea of the blender. Or the thick orange sauce. She didn’t know how she was supposed to walk into the office with some kind of blended drink and be respected as an orator and a woman of law. Nonetheless, she trusted the decision, gaze trained on Scarlet, who added some more liquid and a scoop of ice and maybe something else into the blender, allowing it to pulverize the ice while she coated the side of the cup in a dripping, deep brown sauce, which pooled at the bottom. 

She was concentrated and swift, almost holding her breath as she poured the orange slush into the cup, careful not to mess up her design, smile tense as she topped it with whipped cream and a smattering of chocolate shavings that she found under the counter. 

“Here it is!” Scarlet placed the drink in front of her, using her elegant fingers to highlight each component, as though she were selling the drink to her on a home shopping network. “It’s a pumpkin spice frap with mocha sauce on the sides of the cup, whip, and chocolate shavings.” 

Yvie studied it for a moment. It was a very cute drink. 

Scarlet must have noticed Yvie’s quizzical look. “It’s Halloween because it’s orange and black and also it has pumpkin.” 

Yvie nodded, as though that answered some questions she had yet to form about the drink. 

“Try it.” Scarlet inched the drink forward. “I wanna see if you love it.” 

So she took a sip, the thick slurry like lead paint on her tongue. The pumpkin was combative with the chocolate, if she were putting it nicely. She swallowed, still finding the aftertaste of spice in the corners of her mouth, between her teeth. It was horrific—definitely a Halloween drink. 

But Scarlet was leaning on the counter, looking at her expectantly with her head resting in her balled fists, little witch hat flopping as she stirred while waiting for Yvie’s response. Usually, Yvie would have no problem bursting someone’s bubble; really, she did it for a living, and humility aside, she was quite good at it. But Scarlet looked so proud of herself and was so clearly excited over the drink, as much of a monstrosity it was. 

“It’s the cutest drink.” Yvie settled on, immediately rewarded by Scarlet bouncing around the prep area behind her, doing some kind of little dance that looked partially like a shimmy and partially like a medical emergency before coming back to the counter. 

“See? Aren’t you glad I convinced you to get it?” It wasn’t a question, it was just Scarlet excited to receive the compliment, and Yvie was happy to give it. 

“I am,” Yvie reassured her, slipping a sleeve over the drink to keep her hands warm from the frozen drink. And she was. She couldn’t bring herself to miss her latte, not when Scarlet was so pleased like this. She certainly couldn’t bring herself to remember her daily muffin, now absent from her hands.

And with that she left the store, absently taking another sip, immediately regretting the all-out assault she brought upon her taste buds for the second time that morning. She passed countless trash cans on the way into work, but on principle, couldn’t throw out Scarlet’s unauthorized special Halloween drink, even if it definitely qualified as a war crime, in her legal opinion. It would be far worse to throw out this piece of Scarlet’s joy. 

***

“Good morning, Yvie.” Scarlet began putting in her usual order—now that Halloween was over and Scarlet hadn’t had the time to come up with a comparably cute Thanksgiving drink—upon seeing Yvie enter the store.

However cheery Scarlet was, which was very, as per usual, she was incorrect in her assessment. It was not a good morning, and it likely would not be for a while, no matter how convincing Scarlet’s wholesome, toothy smile and strawberry red sweater were. She was not going to have a good morning and that was final.

“Actually, no muffin today.”

 Scarlet stood stiff as a board, grasping a muffin between her tongs, looking Yvie up and down. She was probably scanning over her to see if she was hurt, dying, hit her head — anything that would account for this sudden change in routine. All Scarlet could find would be a sad, brokenhearted lawyer requesting only a triple tall latte.

Scarlet finally stuck the muffin back into the case, her face still all screwed up like a lemon in a juicer, probably deep in contemplation.

 “Why don’t you want the muffin?” She returned to the register, making no moves to take it off the tab. “You’ve wanted a muffin every day for like a month and a half.”

 It was likely closer to two months, if Yvie really thought it through, thought back to when she started seeing Scarlet in the morning, when she thought back to the shock of her honeyed voice and her leopard print cardigan. It was exactly nine months and four days if she thought back to when she started getting a muffin every day.

“Well, I don’t want it anymore.” She could feel herself growing tighter, unable to fathom her stomach becoming any more tightly wound, any smaller than it had been since last night. 

Scarlet frowned. Fair. Yvie knew she was being harsh. “I’ll give it to you for free if you’d like.”

“No.” Yvie sighed, and allowed her thoughts to form sentences, gifting them to Scarlet, hoping to ease her tension.

“The muffin was for my girlfriend.”  Yvie shuffled her feet, back and forth over either side of the grout between the tiles. She stared at her hands. “And now I don’t have one of those, so I’m not going to get a muffin.”

She finally looked up again, only to find Scarlet’s flat lipped smile contrasting with her classic red lipstick. Only to find Scarlet’s downcast eyes, all blue and murky. Only to find Scarlet’s outstretched hand, laying on the counter, palm upwards, waiting for Yvie’s to join it, which she so thoughtlessly did.

Her palm was warm, so obviously softened by some kind of lotion, punctuated only by a few thin, plain stacked rings on her fourth finger. She curled her fingers around Yvie’s half smoothly, abruptly, and they just crested over the edge, Scarlet’s pale fingers with their short, blunt nails. And her thumb. How it rubbed the back of her hand. How it washed over her knuckles as though it could pull tension out of her. It could. Scarlet could. 

They stood this way for a moment, maybe more, with Yvie transfixed on their joined hands. And though she did not look up at Scarlet, though she could not tear herself away from the gentle palm under her own, she was sure Scarlet was looking at her the whole time, hoping against hope that she’d look up to meet her gaze. Yvie slipped her hand away.

 Scarlet nodded, the slightest dip of her sharp chin, and rang her up again.

 “I’m sorry.” It was weighted. It lay between them. Yvie didn’t want to pick it up. “That has to really hurt.”

 It did. And it was the best way Scarlet could have said it really. It did hurt. It was a dull ache between her ribs, something wet and scalding in her throat. It hurt. So, she nodded.

 “Would you like something from the bakery case? No extra charge.” Her voice was much lower now, as though they were words that needed to be spoken in the dark rather than a proposition about scheming her workplace out of one baked good.

 “Just the coffee.”

 But Scarlet was adamant. She already stood in front of the case with tongs in her hand again.

 “No really. On the house. Pick whatever you want,” she reassured, waving the tongs about to highlight the selection of pastries.

“Scar—”

“—And on God, you are not going to get a blueberry muffin.” She now pointed at Yvie, clamping her tongs a couple times, like a lobster snapping its claws. “That’s like the sad, drunk texting your ex of baked good selection and I can’t let you do that.”

Yvie laughed. She felt it warming her throat as Scarlet’s silly assertiveness made way for a return to her usual joy. That little smile, the crinkling of her eyes; she had to be pleased with herself. 

“No, really, I’ll pay for it.” She ceded all too easily, and upon further thought, far more willfully than she typically would, and for no apparent reason. She could analyze over and over, trying to figure out what did her in, if it was something about the joke Scarlet made, the tongs, the soft lights above both of them, breaking through the continual darkness outside, or maybe it was about Scarlet’s hand in hers and how her fingers ached for that touch again.

“Nope,” Scarlet said with a pop. “Just pick something.”

“Okay, a slice of that lemon cake.” Scarlet had the makings of a smirk spreading across her lips as she reached for a bag. “But Scarlet, please let me pay for it. I want to pay for it.” 

Scarlet placed the bag on the counter, quickly uncapping her Sharpie and writing “Yvie” on the bag, making a smiley face out of the curve of the “Y”

“Yvonne,” Scarlet admonished, setting her Sharpie down, catching her attention, refusing to allow her to draw away. “I’m not taking your sad, just dumped money. You’re just gonna take this free lemon cake.” She slid the bag over, practically pushing it against her hand.

So Yvie paid for her coffee, and as Scarlet turned away to place her cup on the line, Yvie reached into her purse, pulled out a fist full of crumpled ones and stuffed them in the tip jar. And as Scarlet caught her red-handed, Yvie pointed down at the jar and then at Scarlet, with a chuckle, and Scarlet rolled her eyes.

She wasn’t just going to accept a completely free slice of lemon cake without Scarlet getting something out of it. She didn’t need lemon cake charity, though she’d be lying if she said Scarlet’s insistence on cheering her up with the free lemon cake wasn’t highly endearing and somewhat helpful.

Yvie stepped to the side with her bag, watching as Scarlet made a little drawing on the side of her cup before sliding a sleeve over her Sharpie work and making the drink as usual, which intrigued her. 

Upon receiving her drink, the typical “Yvie” with the smiley face, all the proper boxes checked, she slid the sleeve down only to find a little drawing of two crocodiles standing upright with their splayed out feet and dragging tails. The first had a little speech bubble, complementing the other’s purse, while the other held up its purse and said “Thanks, it’s my ex!” It was stupid, a stupid joke with the cute little drawings, all crosshatched to show scales. But today, Yvie laughed at those dumb little crocodiles in such a hearty way, it almost felt as though she was clearing out her throat, finally unclenching her jaw. 

“Wow.” She drew Scarlet’s attention, even as she was making another customer’s drink. “That’s actually really good.” 

“Thanks,” she called over her shoulder. “Maybe if I can’t catch my big break in acting, I’ll try to make it in latte jokes.”

Of course that’s what Scarlet was after in life. Surely she could feign cheeriness at any sight, could have known that reaching out to her and taking her hand this morning was the right thing to do. And yet none of it seemed artificial of her. There was nothing method about it, surely. 

Yvie stopped herself from thinking about Scarlet becoming a star, accepting a Golden Globe in some shimmering, heavenly draped gown. 

She shrugged. “I think you could.” 

“Well, if my audition for corpse on SVU falls through, I’ll really consider it.”

The chuckle chased Yvie as she left the store, enjoying the little cartoon on her cup. Scarlet would continue with the jokes and drawings for weeks, until Yvie found herself struck with a new joy, walking the last couple blocks to work, watching the day break over Manhattan, sure this was exactly what Scarlet saw in this place.

***

Yvie now ordered “the usual,” as Scarlet had begun referring to her triple tall latte without blueberry muffin she purchased every day for $5.08 as “the usual.” And Scarlet paired this phrase, and Yvie’s growing affinity for this phrase, her affinity for having someone who consistently knew what she wanted, with her usual, all encompassing grin, from the moment she spotted Yvie entering the store, her head shooting up at the opening of the door at six a.m. This grin, which had a brightness rivaling only the sunlight bouncing off the reflective skyline and filtering through the storefront windows—which she deeply missed and would trade the late November haze for any day, continued as Scarlet picked through the bagels, rearranging them with her tongs.

Yvie was quite enjoying this new routine with Scarlet. 

Today, Yvie sat off to the side of the counter, perched on a metal stool, phone abandoned due to the miraculous sight of Scarlet’s concentrated face as she made Yvie’s latte. The bridge of her nose formed a couple wrinkles, three little canyons on its pointed form. Her eyebrows, unruly as ever, were tightly pulled together as her eyes became slivers. And her lips. Her bottom lip, bare and pink, chapped from the cold, crushed between her teeth. All this was shadowed by the little pieces of hair that fell free from her ponytail and now hung limply in front of her face. She held the cup up, inches from the counter while her left hand worked up and down, wavering the pitcher in slight, rapid movements, pouring out the milk with care. 

“Here, look Yvie.” Scarlet pushed the cup forward. “Isn’t it beautiful.”

Scarlet marveled at her own work and Yvie felt prompted to pull away and do the same. It was quite beautiful, this rounded thing that almost looked ribbed with the precise movements Scarlet made to produce it. It also almost looked like a vagina, though she wasn’t going to say that. She only nodded because it did look beautiful. 

“It’s a tulip,” Scarlet explained. “Or at least that’s what it’s called.” 

Okay, so same difference.

Scarlet scrubbed a hand through her piecey hair, letting the strands fall back in front of her face, not bothering to secure them in her gold scrunchie. 

But before those hairs fell forward again, Yvie noticed a teasing smear of brown across Scarlet’s forehead, glistening and decadent, far darker than the golden brown of her hair, especially in this light.

“Yvie?” Scarlet tried again, her look puzzled, and rightfully so—Yvie knew she was staring, though for how long, she wasn’t sure. 

“Oh, uh…” Her voice staggered before she straightened up, regaining composure. “You have a bit of… a little something on your face.” She pointed up at Scarlet’s forehead, circling her finger around the general area as Scarlet’s eyes went wide.

“Oops, thanks.” She swiped her arm across her forehead, only smearing it further. She raised her brows, peering up at Yvie. “Did I get it?” 

It was now only a thin film, it’s edge beading over her right eyebrow. She shook her head adamantly, endeared by Scarlet’s pout in response, and pulled a napkin from the dispenser. 

“Here.” She edged closer to Scarlet, motioning with her hand for Scarlet to follow her lead, drawing her closer. “Let me get it.” 

She didn’t know what made her say it, but whatever it was, it made her feel like her veins were filled with champagne, popping feverishly at every movement, circulating evenly within her. She glanced down at the napkin, looking up only to find Scarlet closer than before, held up by her left hand splayed on the counter, her arm straight, locked, and her eyes soft, unquestioning. And now that she said it and she was this close and she had the napkin in her hand, she willed herself not to tremble as she brushed Scarlet’s stray hairs from her forehead, holding them back with her overextended pinky, swiping the napkin across the liquid—what looked like chocolate sauce—resting her wrist against the curve of her full, perpetually pink cheek. 

She patted the napkin gently, though she knew it wasn’t clearing off more of the syrup, if for nothing but an arguably weak justification for why she was studying Scarlet like this. She dabbed and noticed the smattering of freckles across Scarlet’s nose, lingering, wandering off across her cheeks. The stray hairs under the arch of her brow, just dark at their tips, not visible at any further distance. 

She’d been staring too long. She knew this, though Scarlet made no move to indicate this. In fact, her eyes were closed and she somehow forced herself forward, as though she needed to be closer than before. So, she folded the napkin to a clean edge and gave it one last pull across her forehead before setting it on the counter. 

“It’s all gone,” Yvie whispered. She couldn’t muster anything louder. Especially not with how Scarlet’s eyes finally opened again at Yvie’s voice. 

Scarlet glanced down at her hands for a moment, her giggle like pennies splashing into a wishing-well breaking the cozy silence, before looking back up at Yvie. 

“Thanks.” It was warm and sincere, broken only by Scarlet noticing Yvie’s coffee, still without a lid, the tulip wilting into mere spirals of faint white. 

“That’s a hazard,” she muttered, pressing a lid over her creation and pushing it back to Yvie.

She was close enough that Yvie could smell a faint floral perfume on Scarlet’s neck and wrists, close enough that Yvie couldn’t bear to think about how fitting it was, how it all made sense with the green wrap shirt she wore, all sage and vital, dotted with splays of white flowers, without the burgeoning warmth in her core showing itself across her cheeks. 

Scarlet frowned a bit before pushing back against the counter. “Well, there you go, Yvie.”

Yvie nodded, slipping a sleeve on the coffee and heading out, gripping the cup tightly as she left the store and headed toward the office. Today, she was thankful for the chilling morning air, ensuring she’d be free of this excessive warmth by the time she arrived at work.

***

The store was crowded for the first time Yvie could remember. As she stood in line, she tried to figure out how there could possibly be a crowd, just today, when at six a.m., it was usually only her and Scarlet, occasionally some other business person or man who just finished an early morning run. She could count on one hand the times there were more than five people in the store when she was there.

But today there were far more than five. Yvie tried not to let this bother her, though if she had to rationalize two people in front of her in line, she also had to rationalize that while she could see Scarlet at the register, her hair held back by a red bandana, her voice strident, bringing forth a mounting warmth in Yvie’s core from a what felt like mile away, she wouldn’t really get time to talk to Scarlet. But it was silly to ponder such things, especially when her only real goal was to get her latte. 

Maybe there was a convention or some larger company was having a conference. She fidgeted with the belt on her black wool coat before stuffing her hands into its pockets, trying to warm them. It had to be something the store was planning for, as Scarlet was only taking orders while two other baristas filled those orders behind the counter. 

It didn’t matter. She was here to get her latte and head to work. 

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what she’d miss by not having time with Scarlet this morning, if Scarlet would have to save some new wild story or additional details about shopping for the perfect Christmas present for her roommate, Pearl, who was the type of person who went on about how she didn’t need anything, though Scarlet knew she’d be upset if she didn’t receive a nice gift, so Scarlet took to prodding her over what she wanted, which wasn’t terribly fruitful, ending with the realization that the best gift she could get Pearl was tickets to Atlanta to visit her girlfriend, Violet, though she knew she couldn’t afford them. And then she added that she knew Pearl got her this beautiful, buttery soft red leather wallet she’d been eyeing from Coach for months, which she only knew about because she was ‘a bit of a rascal’ and ‘spotted the bag under Pearl’s bed while looking for her other winter boot because Pearl never returns shoes when she borrows them.’ 

Which is to say that Yvie would be very disappointed not having something like flights from JFK to ATL to look up during her lunch break. 

Not that it mattered or she had to be particularly concerned about Scarlet’s musings about maybe getting Pearl a pair of her own snow boots or possibly just some money stuffed into a festive card if she really couldn’t figure out something good. 

“You didn’t mark that right,” the man in front of her said bitingly,  pressed up against the counter, pointing directly at Scarlet, finger inches away from her chest. 

Scarlet stood paralyzed before spinning the cup around, gripping it a tad too tightly. She read it off, though she waivered, her voice staggered as she looked over her markings. “Grande three pumps vanilla, three pumps caramel soy latte?”

“Two,” he gritted out fiercely. “Two pumps of caramel.” 

“Okay.” Scarlet nodded and rang him up. “$6.05 please.” She stared down at the register, drawing in open-mouthed breaths. 

“Write it down because you’re not going to remember it.” His voice was scorching. Highly unnecessary. Yvie found her fists tight in her coat pockets. Attentive. Vigilant. 

“I’ll remember, sir,” Scarlet muttered, voice small. Body small. She still held the cup and her Sharpie in her hand, frozen. 

“I’ll write it myself. Fucking incompetent,” he fumed, a furious whisper he thought could only be heard by him and Scarlet, reaching over the counter to grab the cup. 

Yvie saw the mounting fury building behind her eyes, scorching her chest. And before properly surveying the man lunging forward, the line growing impatient over this man’s fit, she saw Scarlet flinch, swore she heard her breath hitch, cutting through the din of the store, and roughly drew the man’s arm back, grasping at a fist full of his jacket. 

“How dare you believe you have the right to insult her, let alone touch her” Yvie spoke fiercely, pulling the man roughly to face her, to meet her gaze as she looked down on him, at least an inch taller than the man in her heels. “Do you believe it’s in your right to attempt assault upon her?” 

The man looked shaken, making no moves to free his arm from Yvie’s grasp. “Well, I was—” 

“That’s not an answer,” she whipped back, feeling the store fall silent, save for the click of Scarlet’s Sharpie hitting the tiled floor. 

“I was just going to write it. It’s not assault to—” 

“You were going to grab something from her hands after an escalating exchange of language on your part. Assault is defined as an intentional act by one person that creates an apprehension in another of an imminent harmful or offensive contact. That is what you attempted.” She saw the smirk wash from his face as she recited the textbook definition of attempted assault. Practiced. Authoritative. Highly believable, and really she should be, having used it nearly daily. “Now, you are going to apologize to her for your attempted assault and hope she’s kind enough to make your ridiculous coffee. Do you understand me?” 

The man nodded, still making no move to face Scarlet, his eyes blank, still wide. 

“Use your words.” 

“Yes.” 

She came up close, lowered her voice to just above a breath, ghost quiet. “You’re just a little bitch yelling at a barista over a little bitch drink. Do you understand me?”

He nodded and Yvie released him and gave him a shove to face forward, allowing him to deliver his apology.

Scarlet still stood still, staring off past the man, mechanically accepting his cash and sliding his cup off to the side, surely still terrified. She preened over her piecey hair, tucking it and letting it fall, tucking it again as she waited for him to move away from the register to wait for his drink.  What she wouldn’t do to comfort her, to bring her in close, to wrap herself around Scarlet. 

As Yvie came up to the counter, she noticed Scarlet’s flush deepened as she stole glances at Yvie before pulling her focus back to tugging a tall cup from the stack. 

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you or something,” Yvie said, pulling up her app to pay. “It just wasn’t right how he was treating you.” Yvie took a deep breath, willing her blood to quit its boiling at the thought of that man in his suit and gray coat. 

“No it’s…” Scarlet trailed off, rubbing her fingers with her thumb, steadying her breaths, trailing her eyes upward, over Yvie. “Fine.” 

Yvie let it go, not wanting to press her further. Scarlet rang Yvie up for her usual order, chewing at her lip, accidentally knocking the empty cup over with her frantic movements. And whenever she caught Yvie’s gaze for a split second, she drew away like a wounded animal, looking down at her hands. 

Yvie could take one, hold it in hers as Scarlet had done for her weeks ago, though she might be far too stimulated for touch. Instead she simply paid and added a hefty tip for Scarlet, if for nothing but to make up for that man’s behaviors. 

As she moved off to the side to wait for her drink, she caught Scarlet following her moments, having to snap back into focus to help her next customer. 

Yvie stood next to that man, who stood shuffling his feet, stiffening at her presence. Good, Yvie thought. If he makes one more move, I’ll have his balls rolling around in my Michael Kors. On Scarlet’s behalf, of course. 

***

“Yvie Yvie Yvie Yvie Yvie.” Scarlet bounced a bit in her spot, calling out her name incessantly from the moment Yvie exited the slowly falling flurries outside and entered the warmth of the store. She repeated her name, pulling her ever closer with only words before Yvie could bother to shed her scarf, so that the warmth of the store wouldn’t overwhelm her senses.

“Well, good morning, Scarlet.” Yvie chuckled at the woman’s excitement, placing her phone on the counter, unbuttoning her coat and unwinding her scarf. Somehow it was always a good morning for Scarlet, and though Yvie knew correlation did not necessitate causation, it generally meant she had a better morning as well.

“We got the holiday cups. Look.” She gestured toward them exaggeratedly, throwing her whole body into the movement, nearly knocking herself over. And Yvie was going to look, of course, though she wasn’t typically one to get excited over holiday Starbucks cups. 

Silky usually got excited over the cups and would get angry when she got a repeat within the first week or so. She ranted on and on for almost an hour in 2015 when they only had the plain red cups, as they ‘removed all festivity from Christmas, which could be considered culturally unsafe as defined within human rights law,’ which was not even the slightest bit true and made Yvie spend a bit of every day that December combing through all the choices that brought her to this desk in this law firm in New York. 

“I always like to rank the cups when we get them in,” Scarlet explained. “That way when people are rude or have children who are rude and shout about the amount of whipped cream they get, as though a cup can fit infinite amounts of whipped cream, I can give them the bad cup.”  

Yvie tilted her head at Scarlet cloyingly. 

“Yes, I have been yelled at by children. And, no, I do not like it.” 

“Right…” Yvie drew out as Scarlet’s frustration washed from her face, replaced with that same smile Yvie saw nearly every day, consistently took comfort in. The comfort of the toothy smile and the way her lips pulled back and her high, full cheeks, all pillowy over her sharpened cheek bones. She could run through the litany of Scarlet’s features by memory by now and she was sure they would never cease to bring her comfort. 

She held up the one with thin green and white stripes, pulling it close to try to make out the letters between the stripes before holding it out for Yvie to analyze. She gave it a passing glance. 

“It’s fine.” Yvie shrugged. She wasn’t one for games. But she was one for judging things, which made her a fan of Scarlet’s idea of a game. 

Scarlet put it at the end of the counter. “You’re right, like okay, still artful but not explicitly holiday-y.” 

She pulled another green and white striped cup out before retrieving a new design. This one was red and white striped, like a candy cane with ‘Starbucks’ written all over it. Again, she concentrated on the print, squeezing the cup a bit, as though to test the give of the coated paper, as though all the cups weren’t the same material. 

“6.5” 

“Okay, but how holiday-y is it?” Yvie retorted. “Is that not a pivotal measure of holiday cup goodness?” 

Scarlet lowered herself to a whisper, inching the cup closer to Yvie’s face, right until it was nearly touching her still frosty nose, a hair’s width from its tip. She leaned over the counter. “I don’t want to say this Yvie, but…” She poked Yvie with the rim of the cup, sparking something warm and electric inside her. “Is it possibly too festive? And therefore too festive to be holiday-y?” 

Yvie drew back with a gasp, clutching her chest. “Miss Scarlet!” 

“I know.” She pouted, playing into the idea that her language was vile, septically disgusting. 

“The blasphemy!” 

“I know!” 

It was silly, a silly game. And Yvie couldn’t remember the last time she played a purposeless game like this. Maybe when the M train was all backed up from god only knows what a month ago and she passed the time playing sudoku on her phone. But even that was numbers and patterns and some kind of mental gymnastics. Here, it was just saying whether the two liked the colors and patterns. It almost felt like playing as children. 

And as much as she could rationalize Scarlet needing this kind of fun in her menial job, especially with how she explained to Yvie that it was ‘so typical New York of her to make coffee until she got cast’ and how she likes to pass the time behind the counter making up characters to go with the people she waited on. Yvie probably needed this kind of fun too. 

“I see we’re doing this Merry Coffee thing, which is fun…” Scarlet trailed off, squinting at it. “Not that I’ve got important say here but I remember Brooke telling me about the time when they had just the plain red cups and oof.” Scarlet let out grunt with a quirk to her lips.

“It was apparently a hell shift. It was my first day and we were unpacking the holiday cups and she was on edge about them being Christmas enough for ‘Mothers of two-point-five kids and their husbands to not throw hot coffee at her’ like they did the year before. And then I was like ‘are they gonna throw coffee at me?’ and she looked me up and down and said absolutely.” 

Scarlet threw her hair over her shoulder. “And they have.” 

Yvie nodded, running through the math in her head, the idea of Scarlet covered in scalding coffee occupying only a second. If Scarlet started after that whole red cup, war on Christmas thing, then she had been here for years. Literal years. Yvie couldn’t figure what she had to be doing all these years to have never seen her, never taken note of her. She was sure if Scarlet was there the whole time, for years, Yvie would have noticed, no? 

Especially with how notable Yvie found her. Yes, that was what she would stick with. Her little cropped fuzzy sweater and her high waisted jeans, the ponytail and pink speckled acrylic hoop earrings. Notable. 

“I used to work nights only,” Scarlet added, turning the coffee cup about, as though she could read Yvie’s mind. “Actually, nights and weekends.”

“Oh.” Yvie felt completely slack, heat prickling at her cheeks though Scarlet was still studying the cup. Like she’d been found out. Like Scarlet had some kind of intuition for when she was on someone’s mind. Like Yvie had to be careful of something. “I’m always just here at six.”

“I’ve noticed.” A lilting exhale. 

“I’m not sure how to make coffee merry…” She trailed off, placing the cup to the side and deciding that she’d “try her damndest to make all coffee merry.”

She paused as the spotted the last one, with green polka dots on the red background, mouth open in a little O as she held it up to Yvie, the side of her hand brushed against the collar of her silk blouse, the touch perfect and chaste and yet Yvie found herself dumbfounded by the closeness of Scarlet’s to her chest, even with so many degrees between them. “Oh this one is perfect. It’s the exact same color.” 

Yvie glanced down, fully unaware of what she was wearing. She usually just got up and threw something together from her closet, sure she didn’t indulge in enough variation for anything to clash with anything else. 

But it was a perfect match between the red of her blouse and the red of the cup. 

“Huh.” Yvie couldn’t pull enough words together, especially with how Scarlet lingered, though they already matched up the reds.

But she didn’t move and Scarlet didn’t move, so they lingered on like this for a moment, up until Scarlet tore herself away to dig through tall cups to find this exact design. 

“I just think it’d be perfect for you to have everything all matchy.” Scarlet finally retrieved it and rang her up. “Like, it’ll be a fashion moment, for sure.” 

Yvie didn’t bother fighting against Scarlet’s excitement anymore. Instead she watched on as she marked up the cup and got to making the latte, pressing her hip against the counter, feeling the padding of her winter coat sink inward, finding herself staring at Scarlet and her meticulous movements, but not bothering to correct her gaze.

“You know, usually I hate when people order extra shots in their lattes.” 

“Oh, really.” Yvie’s lips curled at their ends. “You hate it?” 

“Well…” Scarlet pondered. “I surely don’t like it.” 

“Scarlet, is this your way of trying to get me to try some new Christmas drink you’ve come up with?” 

“No.” She steamed the milk before ceding to Yvie’s suspicions. “That’s still in its prototype stages. It’s just so hard to make things really green, you know?” 

Yvie could only imagine what kind of flavor combination was giving Scarlet such difficulty with making it green, shuttering at the returning thought of Scarlet’s Halloween drink, the thought alone turning her stomach. 

“Yes, I do know.” 

“See, Pearl told me that it needs more food coloring and less peppermint and caramel, but I’m just starting to think ‘making things green is hard’ might just be a fact of life.” 

“Well, when it’s here and green, I’ll try it.” Yvie said, somewhat hoping it would never become green enough for her to try, somewhat hoping it would, just so she could see Scarlet that excited again. It was cute how much someone loved the holidays, enough to make a drink for their own workplace. “You know, to save you from making all those extra shots.” 

Scarlet waved her off before pouring the milk, wavering just so, espresso rippling to create a leaf. 

“Wow,” Scarlet whispered to herself, setting the pitcher down. “God, I’m good.” 

Yvie came in closer to look at it. And it was exquisite. It looked effortless. Scarlet covered it with a lid. 

“I’m not supposed to tell you this, but this is my favorite latte leaf in my favorite cup and you’re my favorite customer.” Scarlet pushed the coffee across the counter before tending to another customer, now waiting at the register. 

She took the latte into her hands, relishing the warmth still so apparent through the cardboard sleeve, so cozy in her hands as she prepared to face the elements one more, though as she glanced back out the window, the snow seemed to have slowed down in the time she was talking with Scarlet. 

She turned over the conversation once more, staring off, half interestedly watching some city workers wrap the scraggly little trees that lined the sidewalk, shooting up from their gravel filled grates, in Christmas lights. 

Scarlet had been here a long time. At least three years. Three years of her menial coffee job. Three years of children yelling about whipped cream and making extra shots and business men with no manners and watching coworkers like Brooke finally get their big break, a break she’d been waiting her whole life for, hoping endlessly that she’d get called back for some minor role and that she could spin it into a career. 

Yvie craned her head back toward Scarlet, who counted change at her register, handing the man a few loose bills and a handful of coins.

It had been years, and that woman still had the nerve to get excited about cups and holidays. She had the nerve to have favorite latte leafs and customers, and tell them about it. The nerve to believe they cared as much about her as she did about them. 

And Yvie did. She was sure of it now. There was no way not to care about a woman with such a divine combination of grit and tenderness.

As Yvie left the store, she caught Scarlet mouthing to her “not my favorite” while giving a snappy tilt of the head to the man who just paid for his coffee, her grin snarky.

Yvie was sure Scarlet was her favorite barista. 

***

“Did you know that the mermaid on the latte stick is called Melusina. Well, it’s the mermaid that’s everywhere, but it’s also on the latte stick, you know?”

Yvie, now sat on the edge of the counter—after Scarlet assured her over and over that it was fine, no one was going to see her, and if her manager did see and yelled about it, Scarlet would wipe off exactly where her butt was, should her butt not be clean enough for Starbucks standards—stopped fiddling with the Christmas mug filled with those little green sticks. 

“No, I…” Yvie pulled one out and studied it, rubbing her thumb over the plastic embossing. “How do you know that?” 

Scarlet shrugged, pouring an espresso shot into Yvie’s cup, which this time was a green one, as Yvie insisted she didn’t need Scarlet wasting cups looking for one that matched Yvie’s ‘vibe,’ before Scarlet reasoned the green one did in fact match her vibe if she closed one eye and looked at her at a forty-five degree angle. Yvie supposed this was how vibes were checked nowadays. 

“I don’t. I was totally just lying to you.” Scarlet glanced up at Yvie, flashing that mischievous look at her before adding another shot. “If you say anything with enough confidence, you can make anyone believe you. Even a lawyer extraordinaire like yourself.” 

Yvie chuckled, shifting around on the counter, accidentally kicking her briefcase resting on the ground over on its side. “Gosh, I must be losing my touch.” 

“I sure hope not, or else you’re never gonna be a woman of the law in this here town again.” Scarlet leaned forward across the counter, slipping into a thick southern accent with ease, words dripping like molasses. Yvie played with the splash stick, staring down at her lap to hide how the heat prickled in her chest. Scarlet was very talented. 

“Nope, I must be losing it. If one little Lettie can lie to me and get away with it, imagine how many bad guys can?” Yvie faked a sniffle and a quivering lip. “If my firm finds out, I’m surely done for. They’d fire me on the spot, surely.” 

Scarlet scoffed. “I hope not. I got a feeling I’d like you less when you’re not in that whole lawyer-pantsuit-heels getup you got going on.” 

Yvie then felt very conscious of her clothing, of every pinstripe on her charcoal gray pants, of the white, silky blouse, of Scarlet’s eyes clearly scanning her clothing at the same time she was. She wrung her hands together. 

“I’m kidding. Gosh.” Scarlet shoved at her shoulder. “I’d like you in anything, nothing, all the inbetween.” 

Before Yvie could process, Scarlet ran into her next sentence. “Besides, not that I know how to make it as an actress, but I wouldn’t give up my lawyer job to follow that spastic lip quiver, wherever you think it’s going.” 

She slapped a lid on the cup and haphazardly pushed it across the way to Yvie, then moving to fix her hair. “Here’s your latte, Yvie, Ms. Lawyer Extraordinaire.” 

“Please, I’m sure you know enough about how to make it as an actress.” Yvie accepted the drink, fiddling with the sleeve on her cup. She made no move to lift herself from the counter, pick up her briefcase, and go about her day. “I know you have it in you. I’m so sure everyone’s gonna see it soon enough. I believe it.” 

And she did. Yvie didn’t expend energy lying, gassing people up, stumbling around fragile feelings. She never had the time for it and knew she probably never would. They were new words to her, assuring someone that their superficially outlandish dreams weren’t actually outlandish, but they felt correct to say. They felt like the most honest sentence she could say to Scarlet as the barista fiddled with her hair, trying to fit it into a suitable bun with a pout struck across her lips. 

Scarlet huffed. “You believed me when I said the mermaid was called Melusina and then you believed me when I said I was lying.”

“What does that have to do with anything, Scarlet?” 

Scarlet took the splash stick from her hands as Yvie looked up, following her touch, only to find Scarlet with her hair down and draped over her shoulders, those brown curls haloed by a golden friz, resting against the deep plum of her knit sweater. She cursed her body for acting as though she never saw a woman’s hair before, for picturing how it would feel as she grazed it, how Scarlet could just melt at Yvie’s fingers against her scalp. 

She would curse her mouth later for how it opened, how her lips parted at the thought. 

“I’m just saying, you’ll believe anything I say, even if it’s just me being delusional and really thinking I’m going to make it.” Scarlet gave the splash stick back. “Also it really is called Melusina and you should actually believe that.” 

She placed her latte back down on the counter. “Scarlet, I really do think—” 

But she was cut off by her fumbling hands as she tried to stick the splash stick into her latte without holding the cup firmly, tipping it over with her course movements, scrambling to stand it upright as the latte spilled out. 

“Fuck,” Yvie groaned, trying to pull a fistful of napkins out of the dispenser. 

“Hey, it’s fine” Scarlet reached over to steady her hand. She took a cloth to the mess. “I’ll just make you another.” 

“No really, you don’t have to. I spilled it and there’s probably still a lot left and I don’t want to trouble you.”

Yvie tried to take the cup but Scarlet was quicker.

“No really. I want to.” Scarlet walked back over to the register and pulled out another cup. “And besides, if I don’t remake it, I’m gonna spend all day thinking about you how you don’t have your latte and I’m gonna be sad over it.” 

Yvie couldn’t argue for Scarlet being sad all day, especially if what could prevent that sadness was her getting to remake the latte. So she nodded, though she considered if Scarlet did think about her before deciding not to bother herself any longer with following such a silly train of thought. 

Scarlet handed her the new latte after sticking a splash stick in herself. “Because now I know you can’t handle the Melusina splash stick,” she teased. 

“I’m gonna handle the Melusina splash stick tomorrow.” 

“Yeah you sure are. And I’m gonna get cast.” Scarlet rolled her eyes and flicked a strand of hair over her shoulder. 

Yvie picked up her briefcase and turned to leave, tossing “You’ll see. It’ll happen.” over her shoulder as she walked out, surely not referring to the silly little splash stick. 

Upon taking a good look at Melusina, she now saw Scarlet wrote Yvie’s name with what had to be a heart. She could spend all day convincing herself otherwise, but that was a heart and the end of her name, small and filled in with black Sharpie. And she was very sure she was going to spend all day thinking about that. 

***

It was all wet. The clouds broke ever more, leaving the street slick and oily under lamps and strung up lights outside little bistros, against the roving reds and purples filtering through the window of the nightclub Yvie passed before crossing the street, shouldering people aside, hoping to get inside somewhere, hoping to charge her phone, call a cab, and forget this whole night had even happened. 

She pulled her trench coat tighter, cursing the flimsy fabric in the January chill. She hadn’t thought to dress warmer, walking down a now well worn path in her unsensible heels and smart black dress, feeling her feet soaking through as she dodged sidewalk grates. 

She was only thankful for the crowds and the downpour to hide her tears, to smear her makeup further, to allow her night—or what should have been her night of getting dinner with that girl from finance, maybe a few drinks afterward — blur into the collective night of Manhattan, filtering out of anyone’s care or consciousness but her own. 

She came past those same mirrored windows, tearing her gaze away when she saw her hair stuck to her forehead, how she shivered and looked so small in her coat. She kept walking until she landed on the Starbucks, the one she knew so thoroughly, knowing that it was a tad past closing time, but, God, she hoped the doors would open at her needy tug. 

They didn’t. It was locked. Barely past 10 p.m. and it was already locked.

Fuck. God fuck. She just wanted to charge her phone a bit, hail a cab, and maybe get in from the cold for a moment. But she shouldn’t have bothered in the first place. Or at the very least, she shouldn’t have waited for hours for her to show up, sipping water from a sweating tulip glass, obsessively checking her phone for a text, a call, anything, deleting old emails to pass the time between unanswered, frantic calls, until she was asked to give up her table, battery hovering around five percent, swallowing to keep her lip from quivering, unable to swallow back her hot tears the minute she left the restaurant. Fucking stupid.

“Yvie?” 

She looked up, meeting Scarlet’s concerned face, head tilted as she fiddled with the key to the door, unlocking it, pushing it open, and pulling Yvie inside by the arm. 

“What happened? You—” Scarlet looked her up and down from an arm’s length. Yes, it had to be bad.

“I just gotta charge… Can I charge my phone here?” Yvie paused. “Since when do you work nights?”

Scarlet didn’t answer. Instead, she wrapped an arm around her waist and lead Yvie over to the couch — this well worn cognac leather thing with a couple rips down the side, sat in front of the window — and lowered her down, resting her hands on Yvie’s shoulders, fiddling with the lapel of her coat before smoothing her shoulders. 

“You stay here and I’ll be right back, okay?” She waited for Yvie to nod before she scurried off behind the counter. 

“Can I charge my phone?” Yvie called back, feeling her voice waiver. It was even more apparent in the empty store, nothing more than two people and the sound of hot liquid hitting a paper cup, lifting her head to see Scarlet tearing open a tea bag and shoving it down into the water with a wooden stick.

Scarlet jogged on back to the sofa, swearing every time the water sloshed over the edge of the cup, and placed it down on the table before sitting next to Yvie on the couch. “Sorry, yeah I work closing on Saturdays and yeah of course you can. I have a charger somewhere, I just thought you’d like something to warm you up first. I didn’t know how you took your tea though so I—. 

As Scarlet rambled, Yvie found herself growing all the more worked up, as though her throat were swelling and her chest had this raging, prickling burn until she spilled over again, until she felt fat, hot tears running down her face, until she heard Scarlet mutter “oh no, Yves,” until she felt the soft, warm, faded cotton of Scarlet’s striped long sleeve shirt against her cheek and Scarlet’s arms wrapped around her waist, fingers interwoven and resting on her back, anchoring her down. 

She let out a heaving sob, but tried to pull away. It was pathetic. She was acting pathetic. But Scarlet wouldn’t let her go, just pulled her in again, shushing her as she cried. 

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” Scarlet’s voice was smooth, soft, with the texture of a cello’s vibrato. “What’s wrong, Yvie?” 

“She didn’t show up.” Yvie mumbled against Scarlet’s shirt, sniffling. She was probably staining Scarlet’s shirt with her damn mascara. “She was supposed to show up and she didn’t.” 

“What happened?” Scarlet pressed her cheek against Yvie’s wet face, nearly speaking into her hair. “Who didn’t show up?”

“My date. She worked in finance. She was a friend of Silky’s friend. She just…” Yvie pulled herself back, tearing the heels of her hands across her eyes. “I waited hours and she never showed up and she never said why and I…” Yvie felt smaller now, sinking into her coat. She felt like a smashed porcelain doll, all shards where her body should have been. 

“Why didn’t she show up?” Yvie asked, much quieter now, like the words were cursed. They did haunt her though. Why didn’t she show up? “I just want to know why.” 

“Hey,” Scarlet soothed and took Yvie’s hands, now clenched, and smoothed them out, holding them in her own, resting their clasped hands in her lap. 

“Well, Yvie,” Scarlet began as Yvie looked down at her lap. “It could have been traffic. Or maybe a rogue taxi driver took her to Long Island by what had to have been a mistake or maybe some evil plot because, like, it’s Long Island. Or maybe her cat died? Does she even have a cat? Maybe she got stuck at work late? Does she work Saturdays? Or maybe her phone died too.” Scarlet gave her hands a squeeze. “You know, two people can have a dead phone at the same time. My phone’s probably dead right now.” 

Yvie giggled lowly. 

“But probably she got stuck in Long Island and she’s suffering double right now because she missed a date with you, and you know…it’s Long Island.” She laughed to herself and Yvie couldn’t help but join in, falling forward, shoulders shaking. 

“It’s the Florida of New York,” Yvie added meekly. 

“Please, it’s the Tampa, Florida of New York.” Scarlet laughed again at her own joke. “I don’t know if that’s worse. I don’t know a lot about Florida, but it sounds worse. I feel like shit happens in Tampa.”

Yvie couldn’t help but join her, couldn’t help but look up to capture the image of Scarlet’s joy in her mind’s eye, let it wash over her, let it wash over her thoughts, only allowing the pressing, increasingly present thought of Scarlet and how she wouldn’t have wanted to be here with anyone else, how thankful she was that she answered the door, how she couldn’t picture enjoying her date more than she enjoyed Scarlet.

And she was staring at her lips, Scarlet’s lips, with their ChapSticked sheen, as she spoke. And her hands were in Scarlet’s. Oh, how she did that thing with her thumb, as though she could ease all of Yvie’s pain with a gentle massage to the knuckle, as though that was where the hurt was, just like she did when she’d just been dumped, months ago. She couldn’t have remembered how it calmed her, that metronomic, even touch, how it eased her hurt with its ceaselessness. And yet, if anyone would remember, it was Scarlet. 

It was always Scarlet, wasn’t it? Why was she fucking around with some other date, some woman who worked in finance, when the best part of her day was sitting right in front of her, holding her hands, rambling on about how Florida alligators probably got to Long Island via underground sewer channels that spanned the entire east coast.

“Scarlet?” Yvie pulled a hand out of Scarlet’s grasp to rest it on her leg, taking Scarlet out of her speech. 

She snapped down to stare at her hand before meeting Yvie’s gaze again, failing miserably to hide the blush that had spread across her cheeks, right up to the tip of her sculpted nose, illuminated by the string lighted trees and their honeyed light filtering through the window and the flush of the lamps flanking the couch. 

“Yeah?” 

Yvie swallowed. “May I…” She shook her head a tad. “Fuck, I—” 

“Hey, it’s fine,” Scarlet said, rubbing Yvie’s shoulder, water still beading on the sleeve of her jacket. She rested her hand on her forearm. “We don’t have to talk about tonight anymore. It’s all fine, Yvie.” 

“No, it’s just.” Yvie pushed her hair away, leaving her fingers caught in her still dripping hair, heavy sigh escaping her parted lips. She locked eyes with Scarlet. “You make every day better. You make all my days better. Every morning I start with you is better and every day after is better. Even rotten, horrible days are better. And just… I just want more of that. I want more of you.” 

“Scarlet.” She pulled her hand out of her hair and placed it over her and Scarlet’s interlocked hands, wrapping herself around them. “Can I kiss you?” 

Scarlet pressed her lips together, closing her eyes and exhaling into a smile. She nodded eagerly, so Yvie brought her hand to cradle Scarlet’s face, fingers grazing her jaw, thumb swiping across her cheek. Scarlet’s eyes roamed, first to their hands, still connected, still in Scarlet’s lap, then around the store and through the window, then back to Yvie. Yvie was sure she was looking directly at her now. 

“What are you looking at?” Yvie ended with a hum, leaning in closer. Their legs brushed together. 

Scarlet’s free hand shifted from Yvie’s arm to rest on her hip, teasing at the knit fabric of her dress. “I’m just taking it all in, is all.” She halted her movement, tilting her head back down to look at her lap. “Just… I’ve been here before, wanting you to kiss me for a while. And now it’s real.” 

Yvie now rubbed over Scarlet’s knuckles with her thumb, watching her chin tilt up to release a breathy giggle, like rings of smoke floating into the air. “It’s real, Scar.” 

With that, she captured Scaret’s open lips with hers, feeling Scarlet’s hand inch upward to rest on her waist as she deepened the kiss, feeling Scarlet’s hair brush against her neck, feeling her nose against her own, feeling Scarlet’s fingers stretch in their interlocked hands before gripping tighter in an attempt to pull her closer, like she was hers. And she was. 

They parted, foreheads still touching, fingers still intertwined. Yvie pressed her lips against Scarlet’s once more. 

“I—” Scarlet began, eyes still closed for a moment, breathing still deep and calm, fingers pressed so ardently into Yvie’s waist. 

“I want to be with you,” Yvie cut her off, letting her hand fall from Scarlet’s cheek to play with a tendril of Scarlet’s hair, fitting it between her thumb and index finger. 

Scarlet mashed her lips together before responding softly, her voice plush and full. “I want that too. I want to be with you too.” 

Upon hearing that, upon processing that Scarlet wanted her as well, that she was wanted, the severe elation of being wanted after being so aggressively unwanted moments ago, how her slick coat and soaked hair reminded her as much, she broke their hands apart and grabbed Scarlet roughly by her hips, pulling her into her lap and kissed her again and again and again, kissed until it all felt well-worn and new in the same breath, until all Yvie wanted to do was fit her chin on Scarlet’s shoulder and revel in the closeness she’d wanted for so long in the exact spot she’d wanted it. 

They sat together, the hours passing, thin as gossamer, fractured only by their words and the smattering of rainfall outside, far too intimate in the empty room to be anything but whispered, if for nothing but the reassurance that they were theirs and only theirs, openly, finally, and ceaselessly.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The BLM's Burning Man environmental impact statement is terrible, calls for drug searches, dumpsters, and a 19,000,000lb concrete wall

The Burning Man event is seeking a renewal of its 10-year permit to use the federally owned Black Rock Desert site managed by the Bureau of Land Management; the BLM has responded with a bizarre, overreaching Environmental Impact Statement that ignores the lavishly documented record of Burning Man's excellent safety and stewardship record.

For example, the new Environmental Impact Statement calls for Burning Man to hire an outside security force to replace its all-volunteer, community-based Black Rock Rangers, and to have these rent-a-cops search all belongings of all attendees: 80,000 people in 30,000 cars, in a high-wind, low-visibility environment where, in addition to the threat to privacy there is also a massive risk of huge amounts of personal belongings being whipped away by the wind and blown all over the desert.

The EIS also ignores Burning Man's status as the world's largest, best-managed "leave no trace" event, where every piece of waste down to individual sequins and metal shavings are picked up and packed out by attendees. Instead, the BLM wants Burning Man to install several football-fields' worth of dumpsters at the event's exit, with parking for 30,000 vehicles to pull up to them. In addition to eroding the norm of stewardship and waste-management that is intrinsic to the festival, this would also deprive the nearby Pyramid Lake Paiute dump sites of the millions they take in from burners who pay to have their waste legally disposed of.

The EIS also calls for the creation of a 19,000,000 lb concrete jersey barrier to encircle the site, replacing the trash fence (a wildlife-friendly fence that catches blown waste) and the perimeter patrols (which are hugely effective at catching people sneaking into the event). The concrete barrier would do untold habitat damage and cause scarring on the playa, as well as disrupting wildlife.

There's lots more -- including a mandate for the festival to conduct anti-drug surveillance of attendees, volunteers and staff, which is simply out of scope of the National Environmental Policy Act.

The Burning Man Organization has published an extensive backgrounder on the EIS's deficiencies and a guide to submitting comments to the public docket.

Here's my comment, submitted yesterday:

To whom it may concern:

I am a Burning Man attendee who has attended every year since 2011, and I'm part of the Liminal Labs theme camp, which celebrated its 20th consecutive year this year. I am a research fellow at the MIT Media Lab and a Visiting Professor of Practice of Library Science at the University of North Carolina, as well as a Visiting Professor of Computer Science at the UK's Open University. I am also a New York Times bestselling novelist whose 2013 book, "Homeland," features extensive action at the Burning Man festival.

I object to several of the recommendations in the Draft EIS, for reasons set out below:

* Mitigation NAT-2

Burning Man is the world's largest and most successful Leave No Trace event. Our camp -- and every other attendee, almost without exception -- packs out *all* its waste. Every year finishes with a multi-hour scouring of our site with rakes and garbage picking tools to ensure that not so much as a single metal shaving or zip-tie remains on site. We take extensive measures -- tasking someone to travel to a paid dumpsite in a designated rental vehicle, then taking that vehicle to a car wash to make it presentable for return -- to ensure that our waste is properly disposed of.

For the few bad actors who practice illegal dumping after the event, Black Rock City’s Highway Cleanup Team conducts exhaustive trash sweeps of not only of Routes 447, 446 and 34 (as required by existing permits), and also RT 445 and Jungo Road (which are not required, but whose cleanup is undertaken in the spirit of good citizenship). Our camp makes use of paid dumpsites on Pyramid Lake Paiute Tribal lands, infusing much-needed cash into one of America's poorest counties. Dumpsters would end this practice.

Moreover the BLM's draft EIS does not contemplate the environmental impact of maintaining the dumpsters and providing space to service 30,000 vehicles to use them.

The factual record -- which is publicly documented in a detailed annual report from the Burning Man Organization -- does not support the need for this requirement. As an expert agency, the BLM is not permitted by law to make policy without evidentiary support.

==

* Mitigation PHS-1

Every year Black Rock City is one of the lowest-crime jurisdiction in all of the state of Nevada. There is no evidence to support the need for separate, private security forces onsite. Indeed, the Black Rock Rangers -- a experienced, community-based, all-volunteer force -- are among the most commendable and exemplary aspects of the city's management. Several of my campmates are volunteer Rangers, and I have seen firsthand how seriously they take these duties and how well they perform them.

The environmental impact of gate-searches is significant: unpacking and repacking full cars in a high-wind, unsheltered, dust-storm environment will produce an unquantifiable -- but substantial -- amount of inadvertent litter, and expose people not suspected of any crime to substantial damage to their personal property, to say nothing of the privacy dimensions of these searches, which will force attendees to expose sensitive medical equipment, personal journals, literary and religious artifacts, and other private, sensitive and constitutionally protected materials to third parties.

Without evidence of crimes or risks that justify these high financial, privacy, personal, and environmental costs represented by this measure, this recommendation should be dead on arrival.

==

* Mitigation PHS-3

There is no evidence to support the need for jersey barriers, which will blight the land, impose a massive carbon footprint on the event, pose unquantifiable environmental risks, and burden the festival with unjustifiable and substantial financial costs. The existing trash fence, combined with Black Rock Ranger patrols and other longstanding measures have a very long track record of keeping trash in and unpaid attendees out.

Without any evidence, the BLM should not ask the festival to spend $3m to install 19,000,000 lbs of concrete barriers in a sensitive desert habitat.

==

* Mitigation PHS-6

Again, there is no evidence that existing ambulance and EMS services are insufficient to handle the existing rate of injury at the festival -- and ample evidence that existing measures are sufficient (per capita mortality and morbidity from all causes at Black Rock City are among the lowest in all of Nevada). I am certified in first aid and wilderness first aid and on two occasions I have used my training to help injured people at Burning Man, tending them while waiting for trained EMTs to arrive; in both cases, EMTs arrived in under 15 minutes.

==

* Mitigation AQ-1

With the exception of wind-storms, the only dust I have seen at the festival that was present at sufficient concentrations to pose a health and safety risk was kicked up by law enforcement vehicles operated by local LEOs and BLM officers, who routinely flout BRC's 5m/h speed limit. If BLM is concerned about Black Rock City's air quality, they should train their officers to obey the law.

==

* Monitoring Measure PHS-1

The National Environmental Policy Act cannot be lawfully stretched to cover surveillance of this sort. It is grossly improper for BLM to request it.

==

Concluding remarks:

The BLM's Draft EIS reads like a farcical wish-list concocted in an evidentiary vacuum. Burning Man is a superb steward of public lands, a model for how other events should conduct themselves. Administrative agencies are not permitted to act without evidence. The festival's organizers and volunteers have painstakingly compiled and published detailed, longitudinal studies of the festival's *actual* environmental impact. This Draft EIS seemingly considers none of that factual record.

https://boingboing.net/2019/04/07/jersey-barriers-r-us.html

[kpopfanfictrash]

Row AQ

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / Yoongi (Suga)

Genre: Fluff / Humor

Prompt: “If I die, I’m going to haunt your ass.” + Library!AU

Rating: PG

Word Count: 2,955

Someone wrote in the book.

Slamming the cover shut, you glare at the deadened library before you. The place is empty, nothing but vacant tables and books as far as the eye can see.

Plopping down in your chair, you sullenly scroll through your laptop and sigh. The book is Kerouac – On the Road, which is an ostentatiously male read. This is the main reason you assume the defacer is male, although the handwriting alone might be enough to identify that fact. Bold scribbles in the margins, notes about the book and life in general. Which would be fine, if this were his book, but it is not.

Rather sadly, you brush the book’s spine. Without thinking, you flip the book open to page 114. This is where the writer apparently lost steam, for the notes end here. It’s the beginning of Part II, where Sal and Dean are discussing a dream Sal had. They converse briefly on the idea of longing for death. Written in the margin is:

It’s interesting... they say they want nothing to do with death, and yet their lifestyle is a contradiction of this. Bright and burning, ferocious and reckless. Is living like this an attempt to keep death at bay, or draw it closer? After all, what’s more alive than to look death in the face and know you’re not?

Lowering the book, you stare into space for a moment. 

Perhaps the most annoying part of the whole situation is how intriguing the vandal’s comments are; how thoughtful and intelligent he seems to be. Second most annoying is that the notes are penned in a jarring shade of blue ink. The color lends further to the insult and, gritting your teeth, you push the book aside.

It’s the guy’s audacity which really irks you. The fact that he assumed everyone would want to read his thoughts. 

What’s even more annoying is he didn’t even check the book out. When you looked up the last owner, you saw Rosie Garcell. She checked the book out four months ago, despite On the Road being found out of place yesterday.

It’s not only On the Road, either – you found similar notes in Hamlet and The Importance of Being Earnest; big, giant HA’s written across the pages of the latter. At least the guy finds Cecily as annoying as you do, although you suppose that’s kind of the point. The guy flat out screams in the margins in one spot, which made you laugh. Only briefly, before you caught yourself.

Rosie Garcell never checked out The Importance of Being Earnest though, which means the vandal isn’t her. It’s someone else removing the books from their shelves, marking them in bright blue ink and putting them back. You just need to find out who and make them stop.

At least, now you know what book the vandal is on. Staring at On the Road, you contemplate whether or not to act. On the one hand, you really want to let them know you’re onto them. On the other hand, if you do what you’re thinking, it’d make you complicit in their public destruction.

Exhaling deeply, you set the book down on the table. Flipping to page 114 and staring at the last note, you cast a quick glance around the room and lower your pen.

Honestly. What are you doing, defacing library books? Buy your own copy if you want to wax poetic.

You frown at the words, re-reading and wondering if they’re threatening enough. Or possibly they’re too threatening. This is your first conversation, after all. Shaking your head, you decide you’re over-thinking things again. 

Before you can stop myself though, you add:

Thanks, and hope you have a nice day.

Placing your pen back in your pocket, you glance at the empty library. Walking quickly to row AQ, where On the Road was found, you shove the book back into place and wipe your now-sweaty palms on your pants. Hopefully, the vandal won’t take long to reply.

They don’t.

The very next night, you check Row AQ for an update before sitting down at your desk. On the Road is visible, its red jacket prominent and your heart starts to pound, walking down the aisle. You didn’t shelve it sticking out so far. Grabbing its spine, you gasp when you see an earmarked page. 

Page 196, and beside the page marker is a note.

Hello, either A) righteous library worker or B) concerned citizen who’s wandered in from the streets. It’s good to see you’re taking an interest in the public library system. I, too, wish I could buy my own copy but unfortunately, I’m flat-out broke. Skint, penniless, no coin in my threadbare pockets.

That said, it was kind – if somewhat odd – of you to wish me a nice day, so I’ll do the same.

P.S. What did you think of Sal and Dean’s conversation? Do you see the lure of death? Personally, I think it’d be kind of fun to haunt someone.

You almost laugh, but catch yourself just in time. This punk – he has some nerve to try and be funny in this kind of situation. Despite this, you find myself smiling as you walk down the aisle. 

Battling the guilt of removing a book from its row, you bring the book to your desk and sit to re-read the vandal’s words. The library is busier than usual tonight, so it’s a long while before you can lay your pen to paper.

Hello, sir.

You are a sir, aren’t you? If you’re female and I’ve assumed wrongly based on your handwriting – I do apologize. It’s fine that you’re broke, but why do you have to write in the margins? You can just read! Control your ink.

Interesting though, that you think it’d be fun to haunt someone because WRITE IN THE MARGIANS AGAIN and if I die, I’m going to haunt your ass.

P.S. I did agree with your general thoughts on the conversation.

Quickly shutting the book, you wonder what the hell you’re doing.

You’re an upstanding citizen. You volunteer, work part-time around your college courses and always, always pay your credit card bill on time. You’re not a chronic margin-writer and yet, here you are on your bathroom break, sliding the book into its new spot at the end of row AQ.

Returning to your desk, you wonder if this guy visits the library in the morning. It must be a time other than your shift, since you never seem to see him. Or, maybe he’s sitting here right now. Scanning the room, you narrow my eyes and try to identify the culprit.

A woman stands at the water fountain; you watch her pile three books on top of the ledge before taking a drink. You wince at the thought of them falling before moving on to the next person. Behind her sits a girl and boy. Neither one of them have pens with them though, and both seem immersed in their books, so you keep looking.

One by one, you cross off every person in the library. Sinking lower in your seat to swivel around, you know this is silly, yet your gaze continues to drift in the direction of the stacks. There’s nothing to do now but wait, and it is with this mindset the night passes.

The next day, you fairly run from your lecture hall. Catching the bus in record time, you sprint from the steps and nearly bowl over the lone guy who stands in line for the bus. Shoulder hitting his, you spin to jog backwards. 

“Sorry!” you yell, wincing when the guy doesn’t look. “Really!”

Nodding once, the guy adjusts his black beanie and climbs onto the bus. Over his shoulder, he waves a hand to acknowledge he’s fine. Shrugging, you hike your bag higher and open the library doors. 

First, you wander the room, glancing at every face before reaching row AQ. It’s disappointing when you find the book already there. You’d been half-hoping to catch whoever it is in the act.

Tugging the book from the shelf, it falls open in your hand.

Yes, I’m a guy and although I don’t object to being called sir, Yoongi will do. I’m offended you’d ask me to stop writing. Ask me not to breathe, ask me not to speak, but never deprive me of words.

You’ll haunt my ass? For uh, scientific reasons… are you a girl or a guy?

P.S. Also – just out of curiosity, which notes of mine stuck out?

Your heart pounds, probably from running so fast. As you firmly shut the book, you realize today’s page is 215. Either, Yoongi didn’t have as much time to read, or he’s reading slower than usual. The realization makes you wonder if he’s enjoying the exchange as much as you are, and attempting to stretch out our conversation.

Glancing at your watch, you notice the time. 4:05 PM – damn, you’re late. Dashing back to the front, you studiously avoid meeting your boss’ gaze. It’s not like you can explain where you’ve been, or what you’ve been doing. Your pen itches to write Yoongi back but again, the library is busy tonight. 

You end up preoccupied nearly until close, helping students to find books, returning old ones to shelves: cataloguing, indexing and checking people in. Finally, around 10:00 PM, you explain to your boss you need to return one more book to its shelf.

Returning to row AQ, you squat behind the shelves. Scribbling furiously to Yoongi, you write on page 215.

I am a girl, my name is Y/N. I’ll be sure to respect your boundaries when I’m haunting you. I do want to apologize though, for telling you to stop writing. In all honesty – despite the delinquency of method – the notes you wrote were rather beautiful.

P.S. I have a lot of favorites

The next day, you manage to work for nearly a half-hour before allowing yourself to check the shelf. You half-jog to row AQ, yanking On the Road from it’s hiding place on the shelf. 

Page 217 has been bookmarked and you laugh, realizing yes, Yoongi is reading slower on purpose.

Hi Y/N,

You work here, don’t you? You must, since you keep calling me all sorts of rude things for doodling in the margins. What’s your favorite book? I’ll read that one next. If… I can ever finish this book, that is. Page 216 was tough to get through. It took me an entire day.

P.S. Please tell me? I’ll tell you something in return.

Exhaling softly, you try and suppress your excitement. You don’t know Yoongi, you remind yourself. It makes absolutely no sense to be so interested in what he has to say. 

The library is rather empty tonight, though, so you quickly pull out your ballpoint pen and settle down on the floor. You’ve been writing in black ink throughout the book, in contrast to Yoongi’s blue-colored notes.

I only call you names you deserve, Yoongi. 

Defacer, graffitist, criminal, thug, ruffian, delinquent – I could go on, but this is only a 300 page novel. Defacing books is the highest form of crime, in my opinion. My favorite book is The Importance of Being Earnest – but I saw you wrote notes in the margins of that one already.

P.S. What secret would you tell me?

The next night, on page 218:

Y/N, I think you’re forgetting one, very important detail and that is – you’re ALSO writing in this book! You’re a defacer, a graffitist, a criminal, a ruffian, a delinquent – well, I can’t quite say thug. Although, if you want me to call you a thug, far be it from me to crush your dreams.

P.S. If you tell me what your favorite note is, I’ll tell you something I haven’t told anyone

The conversation has been going on for over a week.

Rereading Yoongi’s last note, you lean your head to the wall. You feel as if you know him, which sounds silly. You don’t know this Yoongi. You don’t know anything real about him, beyond his pen and his ink and his words but somehow, this feels like enough.

Yoongi.

I like your name – did I tell you that? It’d be nice to hear you say it aloud. Fine, I’ll tell you my favorite, but I expect a very incriminating secret in return.

P.S. “Breathing is easy, but living is hard. When people ask about your life, they never ask about your temperature, your last meal, or how well you slept. They ask about your sweat, your thoughts and your actions. I want my actions to count.”    

Setting down your pen, you stare at his quote.

You didn’t even need to reference the words; you’d already memorized them. It’s an annotation Yoongi wrote in Part I of On the Road. It had struck you at the time, part of the reason you kept flipping pages. Most people write dutifully, a train of thought which rarely amounts anything. Not Yoongi. 

Returning the book to its shelf, you wonder if this is what you wanted all along. To know more about the man who wrote such beautiful words.

The entire bus ride home, you stare out the window. It’d be nice if you were courageous enough to do something like leave Yoongi your number. The idea of it brings heat to your cheeks and again, you tell myself you don’t know him. Yoongi could be seventy years old, or not interested in women, or an ax murderer. Leaning your head to the glass, you continue to stare at the streets which pass by.

Realizing something, you straighten in your seat. There’s an easy solution to all this. You could simply go to the library early. You could camp by the shelf and wait for Yoongi to appear. Even if you decide not to speak to him, at least you’d know what he looks like. Mind made up, your eyelids flutter shut. Tomorrow, you’ll head into work early.

The next morning, you skip class. Heart racing, you duck in the side door of the library, scared someone will recognize you and call out your name. It’d be awkward for Yoongi to recognize you before you can recognize him. Wandering further in, you choose a table directly facing Row AQ. I wait. Pulling out your binders, you pretend to study when in actuality, you’re peering over your book at the shelves.

No one comes.  

Minutes, hours pass and you sit there in silence, growing more and more impatient. Maybe Yoongi comes to the library later than you originally thought. Possibly he leaves before 4:00 pm (the start of my shift), but arrives after – you glance at your watch and feel your heart sink. 3:30. You must have missed him. Or, maybe Yoongi just isn’t coming by today.

Wearily, you stand and begin gathering your things. Halfheartedly, you decide to check the book but are halfway down the aisle when you notice it’s gone. Nearly tripping over yourself in your haste to be closer, your hands brush the shelves, but there’s nothing to find. 

High and low, you search for a book that’s not there. Groaning out loud, you run a hand through your hair. The only thing you can think is someone on the library staff rearranged the shelves before your arrival.

That, or Yoongi moved the book.

Warily, you consider this option. Yoongi hasn’t come in yet today, he hasn’t left you a note. Maybe your last note was too much and you scared him off. Maybe, Yoongi could tell that you liked him – maybe he saw you’re enamored with a total stranger, completely freaking him out, so he ran.

Swallowing hard, you realize it’s almost time for your shift. Holding your things tightly to your chest, you berate myself for imagining this to be more. It’s not as though you and Yoongi are friends, it’s not like you were actually flirting. 

Still, his notes have become the highlight of your week and the thought of their absence pains you more than you can articulate.

Rounding the corner, your feet come to a stop. You stare, confused by the sight of On the Road placed in the middle of your desk. The cover is unmistakable, bright red and completely out of place. Slowly, you lower your bag to the ground, taking a step forward and running a finger along its spine.

You notice the last page has been folded and when you open the book, your heart starts to race.

I haven’t told anyone this yet, but I’m falling for a girl I’ve never met.

Someone clears his throat from behind and you whirl, nearly dropping the book in the process. 

A guy stands several feet away, staring at you with wide eyes. He’s handsome; medium height and build, with delicate features. His hair is silver – dyed, you think – and slightly reflective in the light. In his hands, the guy is holding a black knit beanie.

“You,” you blurt, realizing who he is. “I almost knocked you over when I ran off of the bus.”

Yoongi nods, somewhat incredulous. “I thought I recognized you.”

Placing the book down on your desk, you take a slow step forward. “You didn’t come to the library this morning,” you say, your eyes narrowing. “I waited for you.”

His upper lip quirks. “I came earlier,” Yoongi explains. “I couldn’t wait any longer. I’m... Yoongi, by the way.”

You watch him move closer. “I know. I’m Y/N.”

“Hm. What do you know.” Yoongi scans my face. “I like the way you say your name.”

“That’s my line,” you say, crossing your arms. A faint smile takes over your face. “I should have known you were a thief, in addition to vandal.”

Yoongi grins. “Slander,” he murmurs, his eyes large and dark. Silver hair falls into his gaze as he exhales. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to get over you being here. You’re just so…”

“Short?”

“Beautiful.”

You’re grateful then, that you’re in a library. It means the space between you is hushed, the people around you infinitely quiet. You hear every word Yoongi says and you feel when something careful settles into place between you. 

“Did you mean it?” you ask, swallowing your hesitancy. “What you wrote?”

He’s falling for someone he’s never met.

Yoongi nods again. “Did you really like my writing?”

You nod back. “Yes. Very much so.”

You stand there for a while, looking at one another. At least, you do until Yoongi smiles and you realize what could possibly be more beautiful than his words. 

“Then,” he teases, his eyes bright with humor. “I propose a deal. I’ll pay the library back for the book I destroyed if you’ll go on a date with me.”

You laugh, a touch nervous when he takes a step closer. “But what would you get?”

“That’s simple,” Yoongi says. “I’ll get you on a date. What do you say?”

A slow smile spreads across your face. “I’d say thank you for defacing public property.”

Author’s Note: Er. This is a one shot. LOL - I hope you enjoy!

[3,000 Followers Drabble Game Master List]

[jordanbryden]

Milky smooth sunsets here lately in the mountains. Yesterday my legs were pretty battered, so we finished with a flow track mountain bike session in the hills. Looking forward to a great weekend! . . . #homeiswhereyouparkit #canlife #exploreearth #findyourhappy #triathlete #ironmantraining #gotri #mountainlife #mountains #rockymountainnationalpark #stayrelentless #relentlessendurance (at Boulder, Colorado) https://www.instagram.com/p/Byatvqap-Aq/?igshid=11ojwevufd1y8

[artificialqueens]

interlude 1.2 (Branjie) - PinkGrapefruit

A/N - I feel like i’ve been working on this for ages but it’s the last of my backlogged fics so you’ll get what you get after this. Thanks to the branjie discord for brainstorming with me and to Qtip and Meggie for reading it through to make sure i hadn’t messed it up

This is a 5 time fic prompted by an anon on AQ and i hope you enjoy!

‘five times they follow the rules and one time they break them’

*

1.

[no teams. it just doesn’t end well.]

They’ve strewn themselves over a couch (and each other) somewhere in between episodes three and four. It’s a weekend and to be honest they’re both a little giddy coming off the high of the TV challenge - each feeling that maybe Vanessa should have won but also knowing that there’s still a tomorrow.

They might also be high on their new relationship (or whatever they’re choosing to call it). It’s cute and sweet and a nice distraction from everything going on in the competition just to slow down and cuddle for a bit. Vanjie’s just repositioning his head when Brooke speaks and it sends low vibrations through him. “Nessa,” he starts, quiet and slightly apprehensive. Vanessa props himself up on his elbow and turns a little. “Nessa, do you think we could have some rules?”

The other man hums and tilts his head, examining the thought before carefully replying, “Like what, boo?”  

This is Brookes calling. “Maybe easy things, like not too much on camera and nothing too explicit?”

Vanessa hums again in agreement. He scratches his stubble lightly. “So like, no teams and shit?” He muses. “We weren’t bad yesterday, but I get ya.” They kiss and it isn’t discussed again.

In fact, they forget it was ever a conversation until Brooke wins the reading challenge in episode nine. He’s assigning pairs and for a second Vanessa hopes it’s him, wants it to be him so deeply that his face falls when he chooses Nina instead. And then he remembers the rule, his rule and knows that this was the way they planned it.

He can’t stay mad at Brooke for long anyway.

2.

[gigs are professional. and also too dangerous.]

They’re lucky they share management. They say it all the time because it’s the only way they’ve arranged to not end up booked at the same time. Where possible, Jason and Steve schedule the two in different states, time zones apart and yes, it hurts everytime Brooke waves his man onto a plane but the feeling of welcoming Vanessa back home (back to him) - it’s worth it. Going to bed knowing that when he wakes up, his man will have snuck into his bed and curled around him like a koala, their own personal Noah’s Ark at their feet - that’s happiness.

From episode three, they got calls from everywhere, begging them to co-host gigs or do shows together but it was never going to happen. They’re both volatile with tequila and god knows gay bars have enough of it.

Vanjie does shows everywhere and it takes very little to get him to say things he shouldn’t - to spill little nibbles that could turn into a whole lot if you look at them the right way, connect the dots in the right order. Brooke would like to say he’s different, likes the idea that he’s the sane one - ice queen, impermeable. This is incorrect. He drinks tequila fast and hard, lets it burn on the way down only hoping it won’t burn later in a bathroom that isn’t her own. She’s eight deep at Roscoes when it really starts going. Everything Vanessa has said has been, while true, very Vanessa - it’s made just enough sense to get fan blogs whirring while no one can understand what he’s on about. Brooke, on the other hand, reads like a morning paper. Easy and well-spoken and even when he’s making jokes like ‘I’ve been inside of her.’

It wasn’t a joke and people have the common sense to know that only because it’s Brooke that says it.

After that, Brooke decides to get sober. He reckons it’s safer and he can’t keep being this messy with a crown on the line. The next time he’s at Roscoe’s, he’s not drinking and still makes jokes about all the things he probably shouldn’t but they feel sincere. He realises why they can’t do viewing parties together one week when they’re finally allowed to be together while they watch. Vanessa is curled up in his lap, swathed in blankets and cradling a hot chocolate like it’s the thing tethering him to reality. they don’t really move throughout the episode, spend ad breaks nibbling on necks and whispering things they could easily say aloud in the comfort of their own homes but they feel safer to say in private. They couldn’t do this in a bar - maybe the rule is a blessing in disguise.

3.

[competitors first. boyfriends second]

It’s Brooke’s rule, of course it is. He’s the one who keeps watching Vanessa beat himself into the ground - taking every hit like it is breaking him. He can’t help but worry that if it comes down to it  - to the two of them - he might give up. He is worn down, Brooke can see the fear through his skin, hear torments when he lays his head on his chest. He is so tired. It would be so easy.

So he makes it a rule, when they are sinking into a couch in the workroom, the cameras rebooting for the god-knows-how-many-th time - he makes sure he knows that he has to fight. It wouldn’t be fair if he didn’t, he would feel like he wasn’t supposed to be there. And if he’s being a little more honest than usual, he kind of want to see what it would feel like. He wants to feel that adrenaline pumping through his veins, a chaser to the overwhelming fear of knowing that he could send him home.

Vanjie sits quietly as he talks, never arguing with what he says and when he is done, simply nods. He knows that Brooke is right - cannot argue with the overwhelming evidence that maybe he has a little less fire in him than he did at the beginning.

He follows the rule to the bitter end, fights like he doesn’t know that he will beat him if it comes down to it. When it does go there, he pushes forward until he hears the bitter echo of ‘sashay away’ and knows that he did everything he could. The rule may have been competition before boyfriends but he doesn’t hold this against him. He can’t - it wouldn’t be fair.

It’s not fair, Brooke decides as he watches Vanessa walk away. It’s not fucking fair.

4.

[keep it for the camera.]

They don’t choose this one but that doesn’t mean they don’t follow it. A production assistant corners Brooke in his room the night after the Rusical. She - in more words - tells him that he needs to keep what he and Vanessa have for the cameras, don’t be too sweet when they can’t film, don’t hang out outside of cast times. He bites back a thousand remarks, swallowing down half-made jokes about zoo animals and fucking on camera. None of them are appropriate for the situation and he is sure they would all get him some sort of punishment. The PA looks almost sad, a little solemn and worse for wear. He understands she is just doing her job, can’t be mad at her but at the system for being so damn hard. He just wants Vanessa - why the fuck is it so difficult?

Brooke wishes he was there when they told him, can picture the crinkle of his eyes, the fire in his belly that they will have heard before they saw. He’s not comparing Vanjie to a dragon - no ma’am, but had he seen smoke down the corridor, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

Just because they follow the rule, doesn’t mean they don’t push it, too. They count their small victories like kids count pennies: the more they have, the closer they are to a bigger prize.

So what if they talk more than they kiss in the vans? The journeys are long enough for a little bit of both, and their castmates are glad to hear a little less smacking on the daily commute. They bond in a way that isn’t just skin on skin, warmth gliding between them like bonfire toffee and daisies - it brings them closer together as they intertwine fingers and rest heads on top each other. Their hushed voices don’t carry far (or at least that’s the excuse they make for being so damn close together when ‘you’ve got four whole seats bitch.’ They talk between orange slices and hot coffee, over breakfast, lunch, and dinner when the cameras can’t roll and the PAs are off eating their own meals. They find ways to thread inside jokes through their sentences (something the editors hate later on because ‘it’s fucking hard to edit when you have no idea what they’re on about’). Maybe they do it as a quiet rebellion, if the moments are uneditable, they won’t have so much airtime - they can be their own people before they are clumped as one - if they do, no one confirms it.

5.

[emojis only]

It’s a month after filming finishes and they decide that words are too obvious. They can be bent, misconstrued and they know they’ve been given explicit instructions not to give anything away but god, sometimes they want to show a little online affection. He’s sick of hiding it already, dreading when the show comes around because the NDA already says to let things play out onscreen first and he’s way too all over his man.

They pick out some emojis, safe ones that do not allude to anything in particular but also do. The orange heart is Vanessa’s personal favourite, reminiscent of episode four of Untucked. It was his favourite, not only because god, Brooke looked good in that outfit but because even though he was scared, it reaffirmed that he had everything he needed to be fantastic. He comments the heart and hopes it conveys everything he needs Brooke to hear, everything he can’t type because ‘god babe if you thirst on all of my posts this is going to become way too obvious,’ and ‘remember the NDA’. Those words will be the death of him and he knows it.

The knife and the coffin are probably sexual, Brooke decides as he types them on a picture of Vanjie -  he needs way too many words to describe it with eloquence and only two to describe with accuracy. The words are ‘fuck me’ and whilst it he can’t say it, he’s grateful that he can impart that sentiment on the confusing comment section of Instagram. He likes the detective too; it feels like an ‘I see you’ even when their mouths are gagged and their hands are tied and they’ve got a million other things to think about.

The emojis are all fun and games, neither here nor there and nobody really minds. And that’s okay.

*

1.

[don’t fall in love. showmances don’t last]

Looking back, they’re unsure when they broke this rule. They made it as a joke, a little drunk on prison sangria and competition stress. It’s a joke, they told themselves whenever their hearts fluttered a little too hard. It’s just a joke, Brooke tells himself when he watches Vanjie lipsync for the second time. It’s a joke Vanessa reminds himself when he jokes about putting a ring on it, two days before they can all go home. Maybe they convince themselves it’s true. They stay under the radar and try to pretend that the roses growing in their veins isn’t love, it’s lust, longing, a symptom of a bigger problem. Brooke goes back to Nashville, and Vanessa goes back to LA and it’s fine. ‘Cause it ain’t love.

It takes two days. He sits at home for two days feeling hollow, empty. He lays alone in bed at night but this time he feels it, deep in his bones like a heaviness. They feel under pressure like they will shatter and he wants to scream because this-this is why you don’t fall in love. He’s felt it before and he’ll feel it again as it burns its way through his insides, a trail of fire left in the mussed bed sheets he’d barely laid in. His head thuds back onto the pillow, and he lets the deeply unfamiliar scent of his detergent consume him. It feels like home and like foreign ground, simultaneously and all at once.

He caves, calls him with the number Brooke had said to call as soon as he got home. He hopes he won’t be mad.

*

It takes two days. Brooke flies to Nashville and greets his apartment like an old friend. It was never very decorated - he’d always insisted he wouldn’t have to stay for too long - but compared to a hotel room, it is bustling with life. He spends the first day drowning his sorrows with cheap liquor and his cats, lets Celine Dion fix whatever Drag Race broke. He’s not sure how he can still listen to her but somehow she reminds him of Vanessa and he can’t be mad at that. After two days he wakes up sober and lonely and his head is pounding like a heartbeat so very far away. It’s a joke and he feels like a clown because how did he fall in love like that - with him?

Vanessa calls him and it’s 3 a.m. and he’s never pressed accept so fucking quickly in his life.

*

“Um, hey baby, it’s Vanessa - no wait it’s Jose.”

“Hey.”

I miss you.

I love you.

Move to Nashville.

“How are you?”

I love you.

Move to Los Angeles.

This is bullshit.

“I’ve missed hearing your voice.”

“I know, bitch.”

*

[artificialqueens]

A Study in Pink; trixya (ch.2) -erin

a/n; hi everyone!! I hope people enjoyed chapter one, and if not, oh well. again, please feel free to submit your thoughts, critiques, or questions to the aq ask!! thank you for reading, also let me know if I should include my twitter handle in the next chapter?? love y'all <3

Trixie could barely sleep. Tomorrow was the meeting for Delta Gamma. She had thought Alaska, Willam, and Courtney were nice, but what if it was just a scheme to get the ugly girl there? They just want to make fun of me. Trixie tossed and turned in her pink blanket, looking over at the alarm clock next to her bed. 3:09 a.m. Five hours til her first class. She had gone to turn around when she heard a voice from the bed next to her. “Can’t sleep either?” Adore asked, scaring Trixie shitless. “Yeah, but now my heart is beating three time as much as it was before.” Trixie said, making Adore laugh. “Sorry, I guess I have that effect on people.” Trixie caught up with her breathing and talked to Adore. “Not to be weird, but how are you so confident?” Trixie finally asked, genuinely wondering. From the moment she had met Adore, she was intrigued by her charismatic, loud personality. She would dance in front of a gym full of people (which she did yesterday) and not give a single fuck. “Well, to start, thanks. But I don’t see myself as confident. Sure, I love myself more than before, but it’s not about being confident. It’s about showing people you are, even if it’s pretending. Eventually, you’ll believe it, along with everyone else.” Adore let out. “Plus, life is too short not to streak on campus or eat that sixth slice of pizza.” They both laughed, enjoying each other’s company. Life is too short. “Good night, Adore. I hope you get some sleep.” Trixie said, turning over to face the wall again. “Good night, Barbie.”

           Trixie’s first official day of classes were today and she had never been so nervous. She threw up her breakfast, slightly smudging her makeup. She had decided to wear a pink flowy, lacey dress with white Keds. Normally she always wore her heels, but wanted to seem a little more casual for people’s first impression. She put on a swipe of pink lipstick and she was out the door. Renaissance History, 8:15 a.m., Lincoln Building, Room 290 Trixie’s schedule read. Pearl only had one class with her and it was only once a week. This class was twice a week since Trixie wanted to get it done to move onto another class. Great.

Of course, Trixie was the first one in the class. She sat a little off to the side, not wanting to attract attention. She took out all of her utensils and supplies and ordered them perfectly in front of her. She had been doodling in her notebook when another student walked in. Trixie’s heart skipped a beat. She wore a red long-sleeved body suit with a black lacy skirt. Her tightly curled blonde hair cascaded over her tiny chest. She had white acrylic nails and a bright red lipstick on. Her eyes sparkled, looking like waves in the ocean when they crash over each other. She had a skinny, ballerina build but looked like she could kick anyone’s ass if need be. Trixie had never seen a more beautiful girl. They made eye contact once she walked in. “Hi!” the blonde said to Trixie, showing off her pearly teeth. Trixie smiled, hoping she wasn’t blushing. “Hey” she responded, trying to keep her cool. “Any seat? Full house tonight, I guess.” the girl said, motioning to all the empty chairs in the lecture hall. Trixie laughed. “Guess so” Trixie responded, trying to sound chill. The girl smiled, and picked a seat that was diagonally in front of her. The other girl took out her supplies, Trixie noticing every little detail and quirk. All of her notebooks were either black or white, she had plain wooden pencils, all black pens, and a planner that looked like she had doodled all over it. Trixie looked at her matching stationary and sparkly mechanical pencils and suddenly felt embarrassed. I’m so extra. The class was filling up when a girl showed up right in front of Trixie. “This seat taken?” she asked. Trixie looked at the girl’s darker complexion, her makeup done beautifully to compliment her skin. “Nope, all yours.” Trixie said, smiling at the girl. The other girl thanked her and took her seat. Trixie looked over at the girl’s stuff to find her name. Barbara. The other girl caught her looking and Trixie immediately figured she was either about to be yelled at or punched in the face. But the other girl smiled. “Don’t listen to that name, it’s Bob. How about you?” Bob said with a friendly, welcoming tone to her voice. “Beatrice. But don’t listen to that name, it’s Trixie.” she said, smiling at Bob. Trixie quickly glanced at the beautiful blonde from earlier and saw her looking at Trixie. She quickly turned away and Trixie could feel the heat going to her cheeks. She knew she was going to like this class.

~

           Trixie sat in her dorm, having just finished her homework, and touching up her makeup. She looked down at her Delta Gamma pamphlet. September 3rd, 6-10 meeting and social party! Be there or be square! Pictures of pretty, skinny, tall girls smiling in their skimpy outfits covered the first page. Trixie desperately looked for a girl that looked anything like her, but there were none. This is stupid. There was a knock at her door. “Come in” Trixie said, going back to her makeup. It was Pearl. “I wanna come to this little gathering. What is it, Delta Ganger??” she asked, completely oblivious to the actual name. “Delta Gamma. And I thought you were too cool for sororities.” Trixie said, mocking Pearl. “Ha ha ha, very funny. Yeah, they’re a little overrated but I can settle since this cute, brunette vixen is gonna be there tonight.” Pearl said, putting her tongue between her pointer and middle finger. Trixie rolled her eyes and laughed again. “Oh okay, you try that.” Trixie said. She never thought of it, but the possibility of the beautiful girl from her Renaissance class being there tonight was big. This was the most popular sorority on campus! But at the same time, Trixie figured the girl was too cool for it. “Wake up, bitch! Stuck in la la land.” Pearl said, snapping at Trixie, who was caught up in her own thoughts again. “Sorry, I do that a lot.”

           They had walked over to the mansion the sorority stayed in and it was covered in pink streamers, balloons, confetti, everything from a party decoration section. Trixie could see Willam from here. “Hey bitch!! Glad you could make it, we’re just starting, take a seat in the living room.” Willam said, practically pushing Trixie and Pearl into the mansion. Trixie couldn’t believe her eyes. It looked like a mini castle, with sparkly white walls, marble floors, shimmering chandeliers, and a grand golden staircase that led to the rooms. They walked into the living room only to be stared at by 40 other girls wanting to be in this house as much as Trixie did. They stood in the back since all of the couches and the chairs had been taken up. Trixie scanned the room for the girl from her Renaissance class, but there were too many blondes to even tell. “Hi everyone! Please settle down, we have LOADS to discuss.” Courtney said, trying to get everyone’s attention despite her tiny build. Everyone quieted down and focused on Courtney, Willam, and Alaska. “Hello everyone, I’m Courtney, and welcome to the first meeting of Delta Gamma!! We have roughly 45 girls here and we only take about 20, so we take the best of the best! We do not haze, but we do review the questionnaire forms you will receive later very vigorously. Once you pass the questionnaire, you will be asked to have an interview with myself, the head of the sorority, and my two co-leaders, Willam and Alaska.” Courtney explained. Trixie looked around the room, seeing all of these prettier, skinnier, hotter girls. Why would you get accepted here when they could have Pearl? Trixie asked herself. She found herself stuck in her thoughts until she noticed everyone else around her stand up. “Wait, what’s going on?” Trixie asked Pearl. “Miss Bitch Pants finished her monologue so now we’re going into the function room for mixing and mingling!” Pearl said, mocking Courtney’s Australian accent. They walked into the next room and it seemed like it was as big as the gym on campus. There were tables set up with cute little centerpieces and tables full of food and drinks and candies. Trixie made sure to watch what she ate that night since she wanted to look her best for this sorority. “Wanna eat?” Pearl asked, motioning to the food. Trixie nodded and they walked over. Pearl was a vegetarian, so all she ate was one of the many salads they had to offer and some bread and butter. Trixie basically did the same, adding some pasta with hers. Trixie had went to turn to get a drink when her and another girl collided, their dinners on the floor and themselves. Everyone stopped to look at them. Trixie could feel their eyes burning through her dress. Her cheeks went bright red and she ducked down to the floor to pick up her mess. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I should’ve been watching where I was going.” Trixie rambled on, too scared to look up at the other girl. “It’s fine, really, I shouldn’t have been rushing to the ravioli that quick.” the other girl said, laughing it off. They both laughed and Trixie looked up at her. It was her. It was the girl from the Renaissance class. “Oh, hey! I know you, you’re in my Renaissance class, aren’t you?? Beat me to class today, bitch!” the girl said, joking around. Trixie blushed, not able to believe she remembered her. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, I’ll walk a little slower next time.” Trixie said, trying to joke back. They both stood up. “Wanna clean up with me? I bet they have Tide pens in the bathrooms here.” the other girl said, motioning her head out of the function room. Trixie nodded, and followed her out the room.

           The girls made their way to the bathroom after five minutes of getting lost in possibly the most complex hallway Trixie had ever seen. Trixie hadn’t been able to get her eyes off of the other girl. She had changed her outfit so now she was wearing tight, black leather pants, a white lacey blouse, and boots that went just under her knee. Her curly blonde hair was pinned back in the front, showing off her beautiful, precise cheekbones. Trixie thought she looked like an ancient sculpture, everything made to perfection. “Well, they don’t have Tide pens, but we can work with soap and warm water.” the girl said, grabbing paper towels and wetting it with lukewarm water. She pumped some of the foamy vanilla soap on the towel and mixed it in. “Here, dab don’t rub.” she said, instructing Trixie how to get a stain out. Trixie bit her lip trying to conceal her dorky smile. The girl got a paper towel of her own and they worked at getting the pasta sauce and Italian dressing out of their tops. “So where are you from?” the girl asked, looking at Trixie through the bathroom mirror. “Milwaukee. And you?” Trixie asked, desperate to learn more about her. “Well, Russia for the first eleven years of my life. Moved to Boston, and now I’m here.” she explained. Russia? Why is she so cool? “What’s your major?” Trixie asked, hoping she wasn’t overstepping her boundaries. “Undecided. You?” “Music.” Trixie responded. The girl nodded. “Figured maybe cosmetology, since your makeup and hair are so beautiful.” she said, making Trixie’s heart skip a beat. She tried concealing the red in her cheeks, but she couldn’t. “Thank you, but you’re even more stunning.” Trixie responded. The other girl smiled. She looked at the stain. “Good enough. How are you doing over there?” she asked, looking at Trixie. Trixie had been too caught up in talking to her she was barely getting the stain out. “Uhh, not too good. Probably never going to come out at this rate.” Trixie said, feeling a little pathetic. The girl smiled sweetly at her and walked closer to Trixie. “Let me help, dollface.” the girl said, only inches away from Trixie’s face, dabbing at the spots above her tits. Trixie got a warm, tingly feeling all throughout her body. What I’d do to kiss this girl right now. The girl had licked her thumb and tried that. “Hope you don’t mind.” the girl said, basically palming Trixie’s breast. Trixie gulped. “Not at all.” Did she know damn well what she was doing?? Or was she that naïve? “Alright, that’ll do for now, but put it in the wash when you get home, okay?” she instructed, not moving away from Trixie. Their lips were about six inches apart. Trixie could only nod. The girl looked at Trixie’s lips. “I like that lipstick. Suits them well.” the girl said, smirking devilishly. Trixie faked a smile, trying to contain herself. The other girl locked eyes with Trixie. “So what’s your name, pretty girl?” she asked. Trixie knew very well that this girl heard Trixie say her name earlier and just wanted to flirt. “Trixie. Trixie Mattel. How about you?” Trixie managed to let out, trying to keep her cool. “Long version? Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova. Short version? Katya.” she said, with a sexy tone to her voice. They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Life is too short. Trixie thought about kissing Katya, thinking about her soft, red lips mixing with Trixie’s plump, pink lips. But she contained herself. “I hope we meet again, Katya, my knight in shining leather pants.” Trixie said, looking down at her stain. Katya laughed, showing off her gorgeous smile, once again. “The feeling’s mutual, Trixie. I hope I won’t have to kick you out to make it in the sorority..” Katya said, teasing Trixie as she opened the door. Trixie smiled. “OKAY, bitch” Trixie said, giggling with Katya. “Go ahead, I have to make a call.” Trixie said, lying. She didn’t want to walk back with Katya. She had to make sure she didn’t try anything stupid like pinning Katya to a wall and making out with her. “See ya, doll.” Katya said, with a wink, leaving the bathroom. Holy shit, Trixie thought. I’m falling for a Russian whore.