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quietblueriver · 10 months

Text

Right on Time (Ch. 5/6)

Almost at the end!

But before we get there, here's roughly 11k words of Beatrice feeling things.

Day 28

They’re lazing on one of the sofas in a sort of common room down the hall from Beatrice’s (and only ever used by them), knees bent and feet tucked under the back cushions. Camila, occasionally, kicks a foot out at her, asking (a) whether Beatrice would like a Penguin (she would); (b) if Beatrice wouldn’t mind passing the bowl of pretzels from her end of the coffee table (she wouldn’t); or (c) if Beatrice knows the answer to a clue in her crossword (most of the time, yes).

She had asked Margaret, with some trepidation, for book recommendations. Queer book recommendations. She provided an extensive list via email, followed shortly by a second list of YA options, this one with a note - My sister-in-law is a librarian at a high school in the States. There are plenty more where these came from. Just let me know.

Now, Beatrice is reading Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, which Jillian acquired easily and with no small amount of delight. “Please,” she said as she handed Beatrice a small package, “ask for more books when you want them.”

She glances up and finds Camila frowning at her phone, is unsurprised when a navy-socked foot makes contact with her shin.

“Seven letters. Pastry. Third letter R.”

She can taste the apples, hear Ava’s laugh as she wipes flakes from Beatrice’s cheek, and she’s smiling as she supplies, “Strudel.”

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Day 13

It should take Beatrice about six minutes to walk from her room to Dr. Lawrence’s office, which is another guest room in a separate segment of the temple. She had stopped herself from walking it yesterday because she knew that Dr. Lawrence was there moving in, and her desire to avoid running into her therapist prior to their appointment somewhat impressively outweighed her compulsion to be as prepared as possible. It helped that she could hear Ava’s voice, teasing, “It’s in the same building, Bea. I think you’ll be okay.”

Precisely ten minutes before her appointment, she locks her door and begins the walk. She’s not entirely sure of the etiquette around arriving early to therapy but if there’s an issue, she’ll know for next time.

She decided yesterday, as she paced one of the abandoned floors of the temple, that there will be a next time. The text from Jillian providing a name and time had come, as expected, and Beatrice had confirmed, hesitating only for a moment. Still, she felt the temptation, low in her stomach, to cancel, knew that same impulse might rise to the surface in her actual appointment and leave her quiet, wasting her time and worse, someone else’s. So, she’d taken to one of the upper floors to walk quietly, something she often did in prayer, and forced herself to reckon with the state of her life. It had been a painful but effective reminder of why she’d made the call to Jillian in the first place.

This isn’t something that she can afford to do halfway.

That doesn’t mean she’s excited about it.

She’s in her usual uniform—Arq-Tech black-on-black and her boots, hair in a bun and a few knives in the sheath across her back—and it’s not her habit, but it provides the same kind of comfort and anonymity. She is aware of the irony of taking comfort in erasure of the self when on the way to a therapy appointment. She does not care to reflect on it.

The door to Dr. Lawrence’s office is identical to her own, to most every door in the guest wings, although there is a small name plate in a display newly secured to the wall beside it: M. Lawrence. It’s discreet, which Beatrice appreciates.

A quick glance at her watch confirms that six minutes had been an overestimate—only four minutes door to door, which she should have guessed given that her already brisk pace only quickens when she’s nervous. She takes two deep breaths and then knocks.

It takes only a moment for the knob to turn, and then Beatrice is face-to-face with a woman a few inches taller than she is and a few decades older, if she had to guess. She is…handsome, short dark hair peppered with gray and neatly swept back from her face, bright blue eyes and a strong jawline. Beatrice immediately appreciates the neat crease of her navy dress pants and the shine of her brogues. Her shirt is a forest green gingham, the sleeves rolled carefully to her forearms, and there’s a wedding band on her finger, plain gold, a watch with a leather strap matching the dark shade of her brogues and her belt her only other jewelry.

“Dr. Lawrence?”

Her lips quirk as her head dips lightly in acknowledgement.

“Please, call me Margaret.”

“Margaret.” She extends her hand. “I’m Beatrice.” Margaret’s grip is firm, her hands calloused the same way Beatrice’s are, and as she breaks contact she steps back further into the room, opening the door wider.

“It’s great to meet you, Beatrice. Come on in.”

The shape of the room, much like the door, is identical to Beatrice’s, but it has been modified to fit Margaret’s needs. The half-kitchen is there, although instead of a table there is a small island with wheels and two stools against the wall. A desk sits where Beatrice’s bed is, and the rest of the space is filled with two armchairs and a sofa, a large oval coffee table in the center. Everything is simple, teak with the same clean mid-century modern lines and gray cushions, although there are a few blue pillows on the sofa.

“Have a seat wherever you’d like. I’m just going to grab my notebook.”

Beatrice considers briefly before settling on the sofa, the coffee table providing a comforting bit of space.

“Would you like anything to drink? I have tea, coffee, and water.”

“Water would be great. Thank you.”

She’s not thirsty, but her hands itch for something to occupy them, and she doesn’t want to fidget. Margaret hands her a glass and then sits a plain black notebook on the table, leaves again briefly and returns with her own glass, which she sits neatly on a square, pale green ceramic coaster, its blue twin just in front of Beatrice, before sitting in one of the chairs and crossing her legs.

“So, Beatrice, I know Jillian has told you a little about my background but I thought it might be helpful for me to tell you a few things about myself. I don’t typically talk about my life with clients, but given the unique nature of the OCS, it seems important that you have some background. I want you to feel comfortable speaking openly with me.”

Beatrice nods. “Yes, I think that would be helpful. Thank you.”

“Of course. I grew up in the United States, near Boston. My family was Catholic, and I felt in high school that I was being called to a religious vocation. I went to a Catholic university, and I took my vows shortly after graduating. Like you, I was recruited by the Church to join a…different kind of order. Like you, I accepted.”

She takes a sip of water, and, before putting it back down, rotates the coaster just slightly so that it’s squared to her. When she looks at Beatrice, her blue eyes are serious.

“While it’s not the OCS, my former order does deal in the supernatural. I spent seven years with the Church fighting demons, and then I renounced my vows and went back to school. Because of my background, and because of the connections I have maintained with people in the Church, I have worked with people in many different places in relation to their faith. Honestly, I’ve been surprised by the number of people within the Church who deal with the kinds of things that my former order and the OCS deal with, although maybe I shouldn’t be.”

Beatrice is also surprised, despite everything, wonders where Margaret’s order, where all of these others supposedly able to fight, were when it mattered most.

“In any case, I want to spend most of today talking about you and what, exactly, you hope to do with me here, but I wanted you to be aware that you don’t have to use euphemisms when discussing your work and your life with me.”

It’s a relief. It hurts enough to think about Ava, about Shannon, Mary, Duretti, even, without having to worry about what story she’s going to use, what ineffectual metaphor she’ll have to employ. And, of course, there’s her own long list of sins. She’s not sure, hasn’t been for a long time now, how many people she has killed. She wonders if Margaret kept count. It’s not like it’s going to be easy to talk about; she doesn’t think she’s suddenly going to be ready to lean into her emotions, much less open up to a total stranger. But at least she won’t have to lie.

“Thank you for telling me.”

Margaret nods, and then she pulls the pen from the binding of her notebook, opened on her lap, and says, evenly, “Do you want to tell me a little bit about why you’re here? And, maybe, what you’re hoping to leave with?”

She’d given this a considerable amount of thought yesterday as well, and it’s comforting to feel prepared.

“In the smaller sense, I’m here because a few days ago I became so angry that I nearly killed someone. Very violently. I would have, except that I…” Honesty, she’d decided. If she’s going to do this, she’s going to do it for real. “I saw a…a vision of my…of the woman I love. Ava.” Beatrice sucks in a breath. “Seeing her made me hold back.”

Margaret’s expression has not changed. She’s looking at Beatrice neutrally, pen flat against her notebook. She does not look away.

“In the larger sense, I’m here because over the last several months, my entire life has fallen apart, and I’m not certain how to…I’m not certain who I am in the world anymore.” She takes a sip of water and then forces herself to continue. “I’m quite angry about it all. I’d like to work on that.”

“On your anger?”

“Yes, and on the rest of it. I’ve spent most of my life trying to make myself into something other people wanted. I’m…I’m done with that, now. Or I’d like to be.” She thinks of Ava, so incredibly earnest and unashamed. What you are is beautiful. “I would like to figure out who I am and who I would like to be. For myself.”

Margaret smiles at her. “Well, let’s see what we can do to make that happen.”

They decide on three times a week, to start. Margaret offers options and lets Beatrice make the choice. More is where she lands, because she has the time and because she hurts, and the pain might as well be productive.

Camila asks, carefully, about the session as she sips her tea that afternoon. Beatrice’s eyes drift as she thinks about how to answer, catching on a familiar figure leaning against the wall near her bathroom. She’s in corduroy pants and a patterned tank top, arms crossed and feet bare. One side of her mouth is quirked up, and Beatrice’s chest contracts but she smiles, too, because she can’t help it. She turns back to Camila.

“It’s going to be terrible.” Beatrice lets her eyes roll up and her shoulders stretch back. “If you can believe it, I’m not the most comfortable discussing myself or my emotions.” Camila snorts, and Beatrice kicks her ankle lightly. “But I’m going to try, and I think it’s going to help.”

Day 16

There is a half-kitchen in her room—four small burners and a sink, a small refrigerator. It had been stocked with some fresh produce and a few staples when she arrived—rice, spices, eggs, milk, tea, olive oil, a massive box of assorted packets of biscuits, somehow all of her favorites (Camila is somehow. She at least helps Beatrice in their consumption.).

She had thanked Jillian profusely, of course, because her grief hasn’t turned her into a total monster, and she had smiled and taken the opportunity to inform Beatrice that she should provide her with a list. It was not a request.

“If you don’t tell me what you would like, I’ll simply make some guesses and send things anyway. If you decide to work with us, you can consider room and board part of your contract. In the meantime, you’re here as my guest. Please don’t insult my hospitality.”

Now, she’s sautéing vegetables while Camila sits at the table, walking Beatrice through a list of movie and television suggestions. There’s a rather outrageous screen mounted on her wall with more streaming services and channels than Beatrice knew existed, so their viewing options are seemingly limitless.

“I think Bake-Off sounds nice.”

“Yes! Oh, I’ll have to think about which season,” Camila says, as Beatrice puts the plate of rice and vegetables and salmon in front of her. “Thank you.”

Beatrice nods as she puts her own plate down, pulls her chair closer to the table. Camila prays, head bowed, while Beatrice takes a sip of water. Then she takes a bite of fish and hums happily. “So good, Beatrice.”

It is rather good. She’s pleasantly surprised that she actively wants to eat more, instead of having to force herself through a knotted stomach.

“How’s Vincent?”

There’s not a good time to ask the question, but Beatrice does regret that she’s said something to make Camila’s face harden, knuckles newly white around the knife in her left hand.

“He will be fine. As I’m sure you know, his shoulder was dislocated.”

She does know, as she did it very intentionally.

“His jaw is broken, but it didn’t require wiring. Frankly, I was hoping we would be spared his presence for slightly longer, but at least it will be difficult for him to speak for some time.”

Beatrice is reminded once again of how hard Camila can be, when it comes to the things she believes in and the people she loves.

And she loves Beatrice. Beatrice knows this, of course, and she feels it now as brown eyes track across her face before landing, steady and open, on hers again.

“I am happy to talk about it, if you’d like. I know you’re seeing Margaret, but I’m still here. Always. If you want to talk.”

“I know. Thank you.”

Camila puts her knife down and places her hand on top of Beatrice’s where it rests on the table.

“I don’t want to talk about it, but I will let you know if that changes. I just…I wanted to know.”

She pats Beatrice’s hand twice before moving to pick up her knife again.

“I understand.” She cuts a neat piece of salmon. “For what it’s worth, some mandatory silent reflection is really the least he deserves.”

Camila brought cake, especially appropriate given that the first episode is titled, simply enough, “Cake,” and they eat it with their backs pressed against the front of Beatrice’s mattress, legs kicked out in front of them on the floor. It’s a rich, dark chocolate, delicious and a little bit messy.

Camila leans as one of the bakers explains her signature challenge, an orange and green cardamom Madeira cake that sounds quite lovely, and swipes her thumb across Beatrice’s cheek. It’s covered in a smudge of chocolate, and she grins before sticking it in her own mouth thoughtlessly.

There was a sliver of Beatrice’s life when there was someone in her home who wanted to spend time with her, who made her feel seen and loved. She was six when her grandmother moved in with them and only ten when she began to need more care and moved to live with her uncle, a retired doctor married to a retired doctor. But she remembers the feeling of her grandmother’s hand over hers as she showed her how to hold a knife, the smile on her face as she clapped when Beatrice finished a kata, her off-key humming as she embroidered while Beatrice read a book on the adjacent chair in the study.

She watches as Camila brings the dishes to the sink, calling out, “We can fight about who is doing these after the showstopper.”

Rather than returning to the floor, she pulls a quilt from the small box in the corner near the closet before holding out a hand to Beatrice, who takes it and lets herself be tugged up and bullied into her own bed.

They settle on top of the comforter, Camila spreading the quilt and sitting just close enough that Beatrice can keep her own space or close the distance without much effort. She lets herself choose the latter, pressing their legs together as Camila presses play on the remote control.

They watch another episode like this, and then Camila sighs and says, “I have to go. I’m on early shift tomorrow.” She folds the quilt and puts it back and dries the dishes that Beatrice washes and wraps her arms around Beatrice at her door.

Her smell is familiar, and comforting, and as they part, Beatrice says, an off-key hum echoing in her mind, “Thank you, Camila. I love you.”

Camila’s brown eyes widen only fractionally before her hands reach out for Beatrice’s, squeezing them tightly for a moment.

“I love you too, Beatrice. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She puts the dishes away and does a little research, adds a few things to the grocery list she keeps in her phone. Because Kristian wanted only the best for whatever possessed cultists he imagined would stay here, there’s a communal kitchen on another floor, spacious and full of new appliances. She’s found a lemon tart recipe that she thinks Camila will love.

Day 18

Beatrice consciously works to unclench her jaw, relax her shoulders, focuses on the white and purple orchid on a small shelf behind Margaret's head as she asks the question she’s been debating since their first session.

“Why did you renounce?”

Margaret’s dressed down today, dark jeans and a gray button-down, dark brown boots. She’s wearing her glasses, clear frames that accentuate her bright eyes, currently tracking the movement of Beatrice’s fingers along the edge of the blue pillow she’s taken to holding in her lap.

“Can I ask why you want to know?”

It’s not the first time that she’s asked Margaret a question. Every session so far, she has echoed Margaret’s “How are you?” It’s reflexive, although Beatrice is genuinely interested in her answer. Margaret always responds in a word or two and moves on quickly. She has not offered information about herself since that first day. Beatrice respects and understands this. This question, though, feels different. Important.

“I think it might help me. To understand. I’ve never met someone like me before.”

Margaret takes a moment and then nods, says, “I started doubting. It happened gradually, mission by mission, and then one day I knelt for prayer and felt totally unmoored. Like the last strand holding me to my faith had finally snapped. It was terrifying, honestly. I’d given my whole life to the Church.”

They’ve never talked about training, but Beatrice suspects that Margaret knows as well as she does how to control her movements and displays of emotion. The twirling of her wedding band is new, and she watches it spin until Margaret starts speaking again. Blue eyes are already on her when she looks up, and she knows it’s a demonstration of vulnerability that Margaret let Beatrice see. She’s grateful in ways she can’t really articulate for the reciprocity.

“I stayed for another year, and then I made the decision to renounce. It wasn’t an easy one, but,” she lifts her shoulders, “I couldn’t stay without my faith, not to do what they were asking me to do.”

It’s helpful. They’re not the same, but it’s helpful.

“Thank you.”

Margaret twirls her ring again.

“I didn’t tell you that first day, because I didn’t want to push my experience onto you, and I still don’t want to do that. But my sexuality is part of the reason that I took vows and also part of the reason that I renounced them.

“I’m queer. I’m a lesbian. I believed I was called to live a life of celibacy even before I took the veil. When my beliefs shifted, that gave me room to shift my understanding of myself.

“It’s not the only reason why I chose to renounce, but it was an important part of my decision.”

It’s not exactly a surprise, but it loosens something in her chest to have confirmation, to hear Margaret say it so clearly, to see her ring with new context.

“Thank you for telling me. For what it’s worth, I don’t feel like you’re pushing your experience on to me. It’s…it’s helpful, even though I thought…” She reddens and stops herself. “It’s helpful.”

“It’s hard to believe, I know.”

She’s joking, Beatrice realizes, as Margaret gestures at herself and raises an eyebrow. Beatrice laughs, feels her shoulders relax. She traces the edge of the pillow again, squeezes slightly.

“I’m gay.”

It takes no time, to say the words that have silently defined so much of her life. She blows out a breath.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever said that out loud.”

“How does it feel?”

She thinks for a moment, takes stock.

“It’s strange, and a little scary. Mostly, though, I feel relieved.”

Day 21

A few days after she moved into the guest room, Jillian brought two duffel bags at Beatrice’s request.

“This one is yours. Ava’s things…she’d already packed them. There was a note on the bag requesting that it be brought to you. I’ve brought that, in case you want it.”

Jillian offered a small piece of paper, folded unevenly, because of course it was, and she opened it to find a simple note: For Beatrice. She traced the letters with her fingers until she remembered herself, clearing her throat.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

She had unpacked her own clothes into one of the drawers in her dresser, although she really only wears workout clothes and pajamas, favoring Jillian’s Arq-Tech gear any time she’s around others in the temple.

Ava’s bag has been sitting, unopened, in the bottom of her closet since then, but today she places it gently on the bed and unzips it, takes a deep breath before folding it open.

There, on top, is the hat. She traces her fingers over the brim and moves it to the bed next to the bag. Ava’s jacket is next, and then her favorite shorts. It’s underneath these that she finds it, a small white envelope with with her name on the front in familiar handwriting. Her hands tremble as she pulls it from the bag.

Tucked inside are two handwritten recipes, the first for a virgin Cuba libre (“It’s a coke with lime, Ava.” “It’s about proportions, Bea.”) and the second for lemon drops. There are little drawings on each, lemon and lime and stick figures—one sitting at a table with books, recognizable as Beatrice from the little bun, and two that are obviously meant to be Ava and Beatrice dancing, surrounded by little hearts.

Behind that is a polaroid, a selfie Ava took with Hans’s camera at the bar and pinned to the cork board upstairs. Beatrice is rolling her eyes as Ava kisses her cheek, which is obviously red even with the terrible quality of the photo. She had been distracted, the bar uncharacteristically busy because of a local football match, but she remembers the moment, thought the photo had been lost to their hasty exit. Ava must have had it at home, already. She tucks it back into the envelope, behind the recipes, and pulls out the last piece of paper.

Dear Beatrice,

Thank you for this life.

I love you, and I’ll love you in the next.

Ava

It’s too much. It’s not enough. Her chest feels cavernous, expanded to accommodate the flood of sadness that pours in and forces her breath out. Her body settles on the edge of her mattress, feet pressed against the ground to keep her upright as she fights for breath.

Eventually, she digs through the bag until she finds one of Ava’s sleep shirts, massive and tie-dye with a psychedelic frog on the front and a hole near the collar. She takes her own top off and tugs Ava’s over her head, neatly but efficiently putting the rest of Ava’s belonging back into the duffel and zipping it up again. She crawls into bed, the envelope placed reverently on her bedside table, and stares at the ceiling as she cries.

There’s a dip in the mattress, a pressure on her ankle. She doesn’t look, not right away, because she wants her to stay. She hears, in the soft tones Ava used in their bed in Switzerland, “There was more I wanted to say, but we didn’t have much time.”

She looks then, sees Ava in one of Beatrice’s sleep shirts, plain blue and pulled from the dirty laundry, hair down and impressively disheveled the way it was every morning. “I hope you know, anyway.”

She holds her eyes open until they water, the outline of Ava growing fuzzy, and when she blinks, tears falling, she says, “I do.”

Day 22

She wakes before her alarm, as usual, but instead of pushing herself up, padding to the electric kettle and then to the bathroom and then to her tiny kitchen and then to the gym and then and then and then, she stays. The echo and the accompanying familiar pang are unsurprising: “Please, Bea, just snooze it once and I won’t complain at all on our run.” But the anger that has been simmering in her chest, that typically boils over at thoughts of all she’d given up, all she’d asked Ava to give up, is strangely absent. She’s empty. She’s alone.

It’s easy to toggle her alarm, takes no time at all, green to dull gray with the smallest swipe of a finger. It’s easy to close her eyes and roll over and, for once, to sleep.

When she wakes up two hours later, she doesn’t feel rested. She is still somehow bone-tired, so, after she uses the restroom, kicking yesterday’s pants out of her way, she crawls back into bed. She doesn’t have a session with Margaret on the calendar for today. She doesn’t have any obligations to Jillian or anyone else that can’t wait until tomorrow. Or next week, if she’s honest with herself. What she’s doing is important but not urgent.

Nothing is urgent, she thinks, as she curls herself around a spare pillow. Nothing is urgent and Beatrice is tired. She stays in bed in a dazed, half-sleep. At some point, she begins to cry, slow and steady tears, but she doesn’t feel them, not really. They continue as she puts on the kettle and finds Planet Earth on one of the many streaming services available on the somewhat outrageous television in her room. Her cheeks are dry by the time she’s finishing her first cup of tea, and she contemplates whether it’s worth leaving the warmth of her duvet to make a second as she nibbles on Digestives, which she has brought into the bed with her, crumbs be damned. In the end, she makes another cup and brings another sleeve with her to bed, the milk chocolate ones this time, because she wants them.

Camila knocks on her door in the afternoon, at their regular time, and she answers, still Ava’s t-shirt and shorts she had thrown on for Camila’s sake. Her hair is loose and her eyes are bleary, the dulcet tones of David Attenborough sounding in the background. There are crumbs on the shirt, and she brushes them away idly as Camila stares.

The concern on her face is obvious and immediate, and Beatrice may be…whatever she is right now, but she is still a sister warrior, so she notices the flex of Camila’s fingers and the slight movement in her arm. Because Camila knows Beatrice and loves her, she stops herself from touching and asks, instead, “Are you sick?”

Beatrice considers. The last time she had remained in bed this long, she had been sick, burning with fever and wildly dehydrated from a bad case of the flu. Even half-hallucinating, she had wanted to go for a run, had snuck out of the infirmary and nearly passed out against the wall one hallway over, apparently slurring something to Mary about conditioning as she and Shannon carried her back to bed. One or the other of them had stayed with her until her fever broke, after that.

She does not feel sick, but she does a quick scan, tensing and breathing, just to be sure.

“No. I’m not sick.”

Her body does now feel heavier than she can stand, though, so she walks back to her bed and situates herself again, leaving the door open for Camila, who hesitates only for a moment before following, toeing off her shoes. Beatrice closes her eyes and can just hear, over the panicked cry of a water buffalo, sounds of rummaging and the click of her bathroom door closing a few moments later. A shadow blocks the light of the documentary, and Beatrice blinks open her eyes to find Camila, looking a bit like she’s playing dress-up in her father’s clothes—black Arq-Tech t-shirt swallowing her torso and leaving only the tiniest bit of a pair of red running shorts visible beneath.

Her eyes drift to the envelope on the bedside table and linger for a moment and then she asks, as if this is any other afternoon, “More tea?”

They spend the rest of the afternoon together in Beatrice’s bed watching nature documentaries and eating biscuits. Camila keeps her distance until Beatrice scoots closer, and then she presses her arms into the mattress and hauls herself back until she’s resting against the headboard. She takes a moment to wiggle side to side, getting comfortable, a movement so painfully reminiscent of Ava that Beatrice’s breath catches, and she lets it catch, doesn’t hide it.

That’s all it takes, apparently, for the gaping chasm in her chest to fill again with grief and there are tears as a pained, ugly noise leaves her body. Camila puts a pillow in her lap, and Beatrice does not hesitate before folding over, lets herself be small and sad and, she knows as she feels the steady pull of Camila’s fingers through her hair, still loved.

She stays in bed for three days. She texts Margaret to cancel a session, gives no explanation, and Margaret replies telling her to text or call if she needs to talk. Camila sits with her as often as she can, reading, making Beatrice tea, occasionally pushing her over in bed so that she can tuck herself into Beatrice’s side or wrap herself around her. They make their way through much of the Attenborough canon.

She doesn’t see Ava once over the course of those days, but on the fourth morning, when she opens her eyes, there’s Ava in black leggings and a matching sports bra, fists pressing into the slight swell of her hips and lopsided grin on her face.

“Up and at ‘em, hot stuff.”

She toggles her alarm off and then pads to the electric kettle and then to the restroom and then to her tiny kitchen and then to the gym.

Day 26

She’s barely out of the shower when she hears the knock at the door.

“One moment!”

“Take your time.”

It’s Mother Superion. Beatrice does not take her time. She throws on clothes and, weighing the rudeness of making Mother Superion wait against the rudeness of greeting her in a disheveled state, allows herself to answer the door in her house sandals and with her hair still down and damp, soaking through the fabric of her t-shirt. To her credit, Mother Superion’s eyes only stay on Beatrice’s bare toes for a moment before drifting back up to her face.

“I apologize for interrupting your afternoon. I should have called.”

They’re all different now, of course, but it’s still something of a shock, to hear such a casual apology from the woman she thought of, until very recently, as Cruella de Jesus.

Beatrice steps aside and opens an arm to the inside of her room, gesturing in the direction of the small table tucked into the corner with her half-kitchen.

“No, no. It’s lovely to see you.”

She means it as much as she can mean it given that she currently wants to see no one at all. Well, almost no one at all. No one in this realm, anyway.

Mother Superion makes herself comfortable as Beatrice asks, “Tea?”

“Thank you. Yes. Same as always, if you have it.”

She had begun filling the electric kettle before she’d even asked the first question and nods slightly in response as she turns to pull down two mugs. The small space is filled with the sounds of Beatrice’s shuffling for tea and milk and honey, the rising boil of the kettle, the eventual clink of spoon on ceramic. She brings both cups to the table, a similar milky brown, a generous spoonful of honey for Mother Superion already dissolving in the hot liquid. Before taking her own seat, she doubles back to the cupboards and pulls out a packet of Ginger Nuts with two small plates.

Mother Superion doesn’t bother to hide her smile, and she looks so much softer this way, so much younger. It’s easy to forget how young she really is. The anger that burns through Beatrice is sharp and sudden, and she busies herself opening the biscuits and fiddling with her tea to hide it. She doubts it is effective—Mother Superion is the one who trained her to track movement and emotion, and she knows anger better than anyone Beatrice has ever met, with the possible exception of Lilith.

In a show of grace and understanding, she says only, “Thank you, Beatrice.”

It’s quiet again, a biscuit’s worth of time, and then Mother Superion says, “I know we’ve seen each other in the temple but you were gone for several days and I wanted to come see you a little more privately.” A sip. “Forgive the stupid question, but how are you doing?”

It is a stupid question. She does not say so.

“As well as you’d expect, I think.”

Superion waits. Apparently, a sliver of her lifelong desire to exceed the expectations of the authority figures in her life has managed to survive the past several months. She should probably speak to Margaret about that. For the moment, she acquiesces to it and continues, on theme, “I’m still going to therapy. It is…difficult but helpful.”

“I’m glad that it’s helpful. I like Margaret.”

She imagines Margaret and Superion and Jillian together. The image comes together naturally, wine in Jillian’s living room, The Talking Heads on her fantastic sound system. It is a party she’d like to attend. It is a party she hopes to throw, when she’s older.

“Me too.”

“Beatrice…”

It is her turn to wait, as Mother Superion’s face shifts, open as it rarely is, and full of emotion. Her hand reaches out, hesitant, and Beatrice offers her own, palm down on the table, permission and request. Superion’s hand is warm on hers, the calloused pads of her fingers landing on her wrist.

“You always have a place with us, at Cat’s Cradle. I know you may not want it right now, or ever, but it’s important that you know you will always have a home there.”

She’s not proud of what happens next, but she’s unable to stop it, the rising tide of anger sweeping everything else out and leaving her full. Something about home, she thinks, breaks her open, and the anger spills from her in a flood.

“Have you forgotten the transfer to Malaysia?”

Her tone is hard, but if Superion is surprised by it, she does not let it show. She keeps her hand where it is, meets Beatrice’s eyes without flinching but without any guard.

“I haven’t. Of course not. I’m sorry, Beatrice. It’s not an excuse, but things have changed. It will never happen again.”

Things have changed. But not enough.

“Do you know that sometimes when I dream of Ava, I wake up ashamed?”

Her voice shakes.

“When I was 19 years old, I was asked about transferring to a special order, where my particular skill set might be put to use in service of the Lord. They meant that they needed me to kill demons, and, sometimes, people. I accepted before I truly understood that, but I didn’t question it once the mission of the OCS was explained more explicitly.

“I believed so strongly in God, in the Church. I was so ready to give my life away, to make it mean something. Something good. Even when I received the transfer, I was ready to do as I was told. I was so sure that on my own, I was unworthy. I had been sure of that for a long, long time.”

Superion watches her, taking her in. Her own expression is familiar, one she wore often at the Cradle—unreadable, unmoving, an example for them all.

“I have killed so many people. So many. In the name of God. And I’ve been absolved before ever having a chance to request it, praised, even, for my efficiency and aptitude in carrying out violence.

“The first time Ava and I shared a bed in Switzerland, I stayed awake the entire night, held my body as tightly as possible on the edge of the bed. Ava knew, somehow, and she…” Her voice cracks. “The next night she held my hand and pulled me toward the center of the bed and talked and talked and talked until I fell asleep next to her.”

Her chest is heaving now, tears falling, and she’s embarrassed but the flood isn’t finished. She stares at her hand, still under Superion’s somehow, but doesn’t move it. She feels another hand on her shoulder, warm and familiar. She doesn’t look. She can’t look.

“I felt more shame about loving her than I felt about killing other human beings. Because of them. Because of what they told me. Because of what they taught me to believe about myself.”

She drags her eyes back up to Superion.

“Make known to me the path. I trusted them. I trusted them, and they made me a soldier and took everything I was willing to give. If I hated myself, all the better for them, really. How could they? How could you?”

Superion flinches then, and it’s not fair, she knows. It’s not fair and it’s not her fault. There are many, many ways that she was cruel, but that was never one of them, not to her, and not to Mary or Shannon. Still, she’s in Beatrice’s room, wearing the veil, telling her that she has a home in the Church. Beatrice knows what that home has already cost her.

The hand on her shoulder squeezes tighter and she lets her eyes drift just enough to catch the fingers, perfect and familiar, in her periphery. She blinks and doesn’t bother to look again. She knows they’re gone.

Her voice is lower now as she repeats, a mantra, “There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me.”

Superion’s hand moves then, drifts up to grip her wrist. Beatrice’s eyes catch hers and she’s surprised, to find them steely. She says, fiercely, “There is nothing wrong with you.”

Beatrice sags and suddenly Superion is kneeling next to her, hands on Beatrice’s knees as she looks up into her face.

“I’m sorry, Beatrice. I’m so sorry that you were made to feel unworthy. I’m so sorry for everything I did to contribute to that.”

Finally the flood has abated, and she’s left an empty vessel, offers what she can in her own apology, her eyes focused on her knees.

“It wasn’t you. I’m sorry. It’s not you.”

“That’s kind of you to say, but it is me. I wear the veil. I’ve kept my vows. I cannot pretend like I am unaware of the Church’s influence in the world, good and bad. And, of course, I earned the title of Cruella de Jesus.”

A wet laugh escapes her throat as Superion reaches a hand up and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m not sure if I’ll want to go back to the Cradle.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to come back, but it is a standing offer.” Their eyes meet and Superion gently takes hold of her chin. “And Beatrice, you are loved, I love you, for exactly who you are.”

Day 28

She had asked Margaret, with some trepidation, for book recommendations. Queer book recommendations. She provided an extensive list via email, followed shortly by a second list of YA options, this one with a note - My sister-in-law is a librarian at a high school in the States. If you like any of these, or the ones that I sent, we can recommend more.

She glances up and finds Camila frowning at her phone, is unsurprised when a navy-socked foot makes contact with her shin.

“Seven letters. Pastry. Third letter R.”

She can taste the apples, hear Ava’s laugh as she wipes flakes from Beatrice’s cheek, and she’s smiling as she supplies, “Strudel.”

Day 32

Sometimes it’s like this: There’s a shadow as she’s finishing her forms, stretched across the ground in front of her. There won’t be a body, if she looks, but she knows the shape of her. As she begins her cooldown, she purposefully leans her body into the darkness and knows that when she stands again, there will only be light.

There is a laugh, as she dances while she brushes her teeth. She’s in the mood for music and she lets herself move as she gets ready for bed, unselfconscious. When she looks in the mirror, there are brown eyes full of affection, a bottom lip caught between her teeth. Beatrice watches her own cheeks color, is grateful for the familiar swoop in her stomach—her laugh, always her laugh. She tilts her head down to spit and when she rises again, the only face in the mirror is hers, but she dances again.

There is a pressure on the bed next to her, a fissure in the air behind her, warmth against her back. She keeps her eyes closed, for a moment, to keep the feeling.

There is another body in the room. Three people near the table instead of two, or the corner isn’t empty any longer, or the space near the doorway is filled. Usually, it is when Beatrice is struggling with a passage—a difficult translation or a dense bit of text. A flicker of her eyes, a break in her thoughts, and Ava, in her overalls or her shorts or her tunic.

She asks, a warm cup of tea between her hands as she looks up to meet Margaret’s eyes, “Should I worry? Is there something wrong with me?”

“Do you think there’s something wrong with you?”

“No. I think I miss her. All the time. I’m glad every single time it happens.”

“Well, then. There you go. It’s okay to let yourself have this, Beatrice. There’s no normal when it comes to grief. We can talk about it again, if you start to worry.”

She has started to worry, but in a way she doesn’t want to think about too closely yet. Hopes she never has to think about at all. It’s easy now—the shape and sound and feel of her. The details are there.

She doesn’t know what she will do if Ava starts to blur.

Day 34

Margaret asks, “What would it mean for you to love yourself? All of yourself?”

She’s in her usual spot, in her usual uniform, a cup of tea in her usual mug sitting on her usual coaster. This is becoming familiar, which doesn’t mean easy but does mean she’s a little more at ease.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been allowed to do that before.”

She lets her eyes lose focus as she stares at her mug. When she looks back up again, Margaret is watching her.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking…”

She hesitates. Even now she can hear her mother’s voice calling her dramatic, see her father’s dismissive gaze. Fuck them, Bea.

“I’m thinking about how they taught me to hate myself.”

She is six years old, and they’re in the car on the way back from mass, stuck in traffic. Beatrice sits between her parents and looks out at the world through the window next to her father. It is a very pretty day, and she hopes that she’ll be able to do her reading outside this afternoon. Two men holding hands walk a very handsome Labrador, and Beatrice wonders if he likes to play fetch, if they are taking him to play in the park nearby. The dog stops to sniff and the men kiss each other. That’s interesting, she thinks. Beatrice jolts slightly as the car starts to move again.

“Disgusting. Out there for anyone to see. There are children around.” He glances at Beatrice. “I’ve half a mind to ask Bill to stop the car so that I can have a word with them. You know, in my day, someone would have taught them a lesson. Now anyone who tried would be crucified. It’s a shame, really. No consequences anymore.” Her mother hums her agreement. Beatrice doesn’t understand but she says nothing. She has learned that sometimes asking why makes her parents look at her like she’s doing something wrong. She knows, somehow, that this would be one of those times.

She is eight years old, at Leah Smith’s birthday party, sitting quietly while the other girls play with Barbies. They’re making up stories as they move them around the massive dollhouse that Leah had been given earlier that day. Beatrice is halfheartedly brushing the hair of the Kelly doll in her hand, watching the clock and wondering when they might watch a movie, when Leah says, loudly, “Ew, Kristen, no! Don’t make her a dyke.”

The other girls titter, and Beatrice says nothing.

She had heard her father say it in the study, about her cousin, and she knows it’s a bad word. But she knows also that it’s more than that right now. Kristen, holding a doll in scrubs and a doll in a pink polka dot dress, responds simply, “Gross. No. It was only practice. And you don’t have a Ken.”

She is ten years old, standing in a leotard, one hand on the bar as Ms. Thomas, her new teacher, demonstrates a transition. Ms. Thomas smiles during class, and not in the way that they are all taught to smile for performances, petroleum jelly rubbed against their teeth. These smiles are real, and she gives them freely. She does the same with praise, always pairing it with her corrections. Unlike Mrs. Dumas, her previous teacher, Ms. Thomas is gentle when she repositions her. It takes Beatrice a few weeks, but eventually, her chest becomes less tight and she stops expecting harsh words and hard hands. After a class where Beatrice just can’t seem to get it right, Ms. Thomas asks her to stay for a moment. She is prepared for a lecture, to tell her that she’ll try harder and do better next time. Instead, Ms. Thomas rubs her back, telling her that it’s okay, that everyone is learning, that she’s doing very well. Beatrice nearly cries.

She gives them apple slices after class and in their second week she lets them decorate paper pointe shoes with their names. Her classmates, having reached a silent collective agreement to stop pretending that they’re too old for this now, fight for the glitter markers, but Beatrice writes her name in black, making neat block letters. Ms. Thomas compliments her handwriting and she suddenly feels very good about her paper shoes, even if they are plain compared to everyone else’s. Ms. Thomas makes one for herself, using purple and blue markers to write Ms. Thomas in perfect cursives, Emily in parentheses just underneath. She hangs them all on a cork board in the hallway, clapping when she’s finished as if they’d done something impressive.

Beatrice’s parents don’t seem to like her as much as they liked Mrs. Dumas, frowning when Ms. Thomas explains on parent night that although students their age have transitioned into more serious training, they should also maintain joy and a love of dance, that it will in the end make them better dancers. Her parents dismiss this theory over dinner. Beatrice thinks it makes sense, that even though she still doesn’t like it, she’s much better than she was last year (still worse than most of her classmates) because she’s less afraid of doing things wrong. She eats her carrots quietly instead of saying anything. She knows better.

Thankfully, even if they don’t like what she’s saying, they do like that she went to the Royal Ballet School, that she had been a member of the company, even, until she got hurt, something with her left knee. “She danced with Ronald and Thea’s oldest. They swear she was the best in the class, and you know how much it must hurt them to admit that. She’s a professional, no matter how ridiculous she sounds.” Her father hums in agreement and they move on to discussing an upcoming dinner party. They seem to think Ms. Thomas knows what she’s doing, so Beatrice gets to stay.

Until she doesn’t. They’re at the ballet. Beatrice’s parents occasionally bring her “for culture,” and Beatrice enjoys the shows. It’s fun to watch, when she doesn’t have to dance herself.

She has been put in one of the awful dresses her mother has stockpiled in Beatrice’s closet for occasions like this, a navy blue thing with a high collar and long sleeves. The fabric looks so soft on the outside, is soft on the outside, but inside it’s stiff and scratchy and Beatrice has spent a lot of time trying not to fidget and they’re not even in their seats yet. Her black shoes pinch at her heels and her toes are squished. She wonders if her mother tries to find her the most uncomfortable shoes possible, if it’s another way of trying to make her ready to go en pointe next year.

She sees Ms. Thomas in the foyer. She’s laughing, in a dress almost the same color as Beatrice’s. She’s also got long sleeves but her dress is shorter and cut lower. Her hair is down, and it’s curly, falls dark and shiny around her shoulders. Beatrice thinks she is very pretty. She’s about to ask to say hello when she sees a man in a gray suit wrap a hand around her waist. Except, it’s not a man. It’s a woman. It’s a woman in a suit. A woman in a men’s suit. Her hair is short and curly, and she’s smiling and standing easily with one hand in her pocket and her other around Ms. Thomas and something in Beatrice opens wide. She’s never seen someone quite like that before, and she wants more.

She pushes that thought down, though, because there’s a more pressing issue. Beatrice knows, on instinct, that this is not just Ms. Thomas’s friend. She also knows, on instinct, that her parents cannot know about this. Suddenly her palms are sweating, and she’s looking around for a reason to redirect her parents, to avoid walking anywhere near Ms. Thomas and her not-friend.

She doesn’t find one in time. She sees her mother’s eyes wander in Ms. Thomas’s direction, watches the corners of her mouth pull down. Beatrice dares to look over again and sees Ms. Thomas pressed even closer to the woman in the suit, whose hand is now lower, on her hip. Whatever small amount of hope Beatrice had that this would be okay vanishes as she watches Ms. Thomas lean up and kiss the other woman. Her own stomach swoops with something she can’t name but her focus is immediately redirected as her mother grabs her arm tightly and pushes them toward the stairs and their regular seats.

The next day, she hears her mother hissing to her father in the dining room. “And, that, that thing she was with? In public! No shame at all. She teaches children, John. She teaches Beatrice. It’s unacceptable. It’s disgusting. I called the school this morning and do you know what they told me? They said it has no bearing on her qualifications and that it was none of my business. We’re pulling her. I already had hesitations, after that ridiculous spiel about the joy of dance, and this confirms it. I should have listened to my instinct then.”

Later that week, she asks her mother why she’s switching schools. It’s the wrong choice; she knows that her mother will be unimpressed, but she asks anyway. For some reason, she needs to hear it said aloud.

As predicted, as soon as the question leaves her mouth, she gets a look that makes her want to hide in her bedroom, where she will likely be sent shortly anyway. “You saw her, at Covent Garden, did you not?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Well then, you understand. Beatrice, that kind of behavior is sinful. You shouldn’t have to see it in public. You shouldn’t have to see it at all. Your father and I are not interested in surrounding you with people who glorify that kind of lifestyle. We’re certainly not leaving you in the care of someone like her.”

Beatrice feels anger in her stomach. She wants to yell. She wants to tell her mother that Ms. Thomas is kinder to her than her parents have ever been. She wants to say she and the woman she was with looked happy and her parents never look happy, not like that. She wants to burn her leotards and throw away every dress in her closet and make her mother listen when she tells her how much those clothes make her feel like she doesn’t belong in her own skin, how seeing the woman Ms. Thomas was with was like fitting a puzzle piece into place. Instead, she says nothing. She feels something in her close.

She is twelve years old, sitting in a pew with her parents as a Bishop from the United States conducts mass during a visit, his homily fiery and focused on the corruption of the traditional family. His words make her stomach hurt. They are hateful and angry and ugly. She cannot leave, so she stares at Jesus on the cross, counting his ribs and wondering if he would recognize himself in the Bishop’s speech. Beatrice can’t find him there.

She has never seen her parents so engaged in a service, and for the first time in her life, she misses their weekly discussion of the families they saw in the pews and what they had most recently done right or wrong. She would give anything for the gossipy, cutting remarks at this moment.

“That’s the kind of attitude we need here. As the Bishop said, everyone seems to have forgotten that it’s nothing more than sin. To call it marriage! We know what marriage is. It isn’t that. And it was so refreshing to have someone acknowledge that decent people can’t speak their minds without being called bigots. I could hardly leave the house last month without having it shoved in my face.”

(Beatrice had been happy to see the rainbow flags around the neighborhood where her dojo is. Her Sensei even put one in the window. Beatrice’s parents never came to get her from classes, never really stepped foot near the dojo at all, but she was still nervous that they might find out somehow.

She asked tentatively, on the ride home the first day the flag went up, whether Tom would mind keeping it between them. “I’m afraid they’ll make me stop going, if they find out Sensei doesn’t mind…” She wasn’t sure how to end the sentence so she stopped there.

Tom, who had only been with them for a few months and was already Beatrice’s favorite, said, “Don’t worry, Miss Beatrice.” He met her eyes in the rearview and must have seen her panic, because he tried again. “It’s okay, Beatrice. Really. I won’t say a word.”)

“It was worse than I’ve ever seen it,” her father says. “I’m afraid it will be difficult to make progress, now that they’ve convinced people that what they’re doing is about love. You know Mark’s assistant put out a photograph of himself with the man he calls his husband? Mark handled it, of course, but he had to make something up in the performance review to protect himself from suit. Truly disgusting that it’s come to this.”

Beatrice meets Tom’s eyes in the mirror, bright blue and crinkled at the corners. He does this sometimes, catches her eye and winks or smiles while her parents pretend she isn’t there. He’s smiling now, too, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Her parents are too caught up in their fervor to notice her, so she tries to give him a smile back, but she knows it’s unsteady, even if she isn’t sure why. Even if she’s not ready to admit why. When they make it home, Beatrice filing out of the car last, Tom closes the door and lets one of his big hands rest on her shoulder for a moment before going back to his post in the driver’s seat. Tears prick at her eyes and she blinks rapidly, eyes to the ground, until they go away.

She is fifteen and someone has told their parents who told her parents that she and Jessie have been doing something. It’s a lie. They haven’t done anything, not yet anyway, but her parents take her phone and her computer and they find the notes tucked into her math binder and suddenly, she’s being sent to Switzerland.

She is twenty-four, sitting in a library with a girl who is her opposite in so many ways. Devoid of shame and irreverent and selfish. “Don’t hate what you are. What you are is beautiful.” Beatrice finds that she’s crying.

She is twenty-four, dancing with her best friend in a bar, bodies pressed close and hair down and music too loud. Ava’s hands are on her, easy and familiar, and she lets herself touch back, closes her eyes and dances and takes another lemon drop shot. There’s so much joy and so much love.

And then it’s gone, shame pooling in the void its left as they walk into the night air and she remembers who she is and the life she’s chosen to lead. Ava isn’t hers to love. She sends her away after Michael and wonders if she can find it in herself to repent.

She’s crying now, shaking with angry tears that she wipes away roughly on her sleeve.

“I’m so angry at them. I’m so angry at everyone. But it’s my fault. It’s my fault. I can’t…She’s gone and I’m here and I…I wasted so much time.”

Margaret watches her closely, and Beatrice sees her unclench her jaw as she leans forward, toward her.

“It’s okay to be angry, Beatrice.”

“I don’t know if I can forgive them.”

“We can talk about that, if you’d like to. But I’m much more interested in you learning to forgive yourself.”

Day 35

Jillian knocks on the door to her makeshift gym as she’s stretching after her run. She’s not surprised to see her. She’d known this visit was coming, even if she wasn’t exactly certain when.

“Do you have a minute?”

They both know that she does, but Beatrice appreciates the question anyway.

“Of course. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you, but I’d appreciate some water.”

They walk back to her room, and she pours them both a glass, sits at the table and, when Jillian joins her, apologizes for her post-workout appearance.

A wave of her hand. “I’m the one who came to bother you as you were finishing your run. Please.”

There doesn’t seem to be a point in dancing around it, so she says, “You’re here about the Arc.”

“Yes.”

“There’s a plan to move it.”

“Yes.”

It’s almost entirely a joke when she reassures her, after a sip of water: “I’m not going to kill anyone.”

A wry smile breaks across Jillian’s face.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

She presses the glass against the inside of her wrist and lets the condensation spread across still-hot skin. She’s spoken with Margaret about the Arc, about this conversation. She feels as ready as she can be.

Jillian continues, forearms pressed against the table and hands clasped, “The current plan is to move the Arc in two weeks. There will be no power loss in the move. There will be constant monitoring. The same will be true at my house, of course.”

She says this like Beatrice hasn’t been entirely unreasonable about the entire thing. She trusts Jillian. And she’s well aware that Ava could come back in any number of ways. Michael and Lilith traveled without the Arc; she could, too. It has never been about the Arc, but they both know that.

She nods but instead of addressing the plan, says what she actually wants to say. “Thank you for being kind to me about this.”

Jillian blinks. “Beatrice, you don’t need to thank me.”

“I do, actually. I’ve been…I am…quite a mess.”

She can see Jillian moving to object so she adds, and means it, “I am in the process of understanding that it’s alright for me to be human sometimes. But I am still responsible for my actions.”

Jillian’s mouth closes again, and she continues.

“You’ve been incredibly generous and unceasingly kind, over and over again. I appreciate your grace in the face of…all that has happened with me over the last several weeks. Thank you.”

“I…You’re welcome.” She clears her throat. “Do you want to be there, when it’s moved?”

“Can I think about that?”

“Of course.”

She finishes her glass of water and excuses herself with a squeeze to Beatrice’s bicep.

Day 39

She keeps trying. Work, gym, Margaret, Camila.

She learns to bake bread and reads queer fiction and hurls insults at Paul Hollywood as Camila laughs.

She cries in the shower, and tries to remember her breathing exercises when the anger bubbles up, a less frequent but still not uncommon occurrence. She snaps, occasionally, and apologizes, and Camila does not run away.

She continues to keep her distance when she’s working. She heard one Arq-Tech employee telling another that she had to be restrained at the Arc and that she nearly killed Vincent with a katana. When she’d exited the stall, the one telling the story had squeaked before both of them hurried away. She knows the stories are still making the rounds, with considerable liberties taken. It means that they all look at her strangely but also that they leave her alone, which works well for her at the moment.

She sees Ava in flashes when she’s awake, and in her dreams, good and bad. She’s grateful, and it hurts.

She’s still not living, not in the way that Ava meant, but she’s working on figuring out the kind of life she wants to have and for now, that’s good enough.

Day 41

“Are you ready for this?”

She’s excited, very excited, and it’s nice, to see Camila be so animated, habit exchanged for a pair of gray sweatpants and a plain navy t-shirt that she’d brought to Beatrice’s room one night when she stayed and left folded on the end of the bed without comment before leaving for morning prayers. Beatrice had placed them neatly in the drawer next to her own sleepwear, and they live here now.

They’re on episode three, having watched the first two yesterday, and Beatrice is not ready. She is absolutely not ready. But she’s giving it a chance, as requested. It’s a small ask, especially given that during their Attenborough marathon she’d failed to warn Camilla about a particularly traumatizing scene involving Orcas and a baby whale. Not to mention the fact that Camila has slept with her in a bed full of biscuit crumbs. Watching horrifying reality television is really the least she can do.

Half an hour passes, during which Beatrice separates her M&Ms by color, finishes a small bowl of popcorn, and makes vaguely affirmative noises at Camila’s commentary while biting her own tongue.

And then it’s too much. It’s too much, as she watches an incredibly sleazy man grope a woman he has just met for the first time without any shame.

“Camila, I can’t. I can’t do this.”

“Beatrice, we’ve barely started.”

“Three episodes. I’ve given you three episodes. But Cam, this is, frankly, a horrifying premise.”

She’s started and now she can’t stop.

“For all that all of them keep using the word authentic, I’m uncertain how anyone can appear on this show with genuine motives. And I'm genuinely concerned about anyone who is there for good reasons, because it cannot end well.

"That man,” she waves at the television, “is groping a woman who is quite obviously too good for him. He tried to determine her figure by asking if he could lift her onto his shoulders at a music festival. On a television show whose premise is, ostensibly, that one's figure shouldn't matter all. And she has agreed to marry him, a decision which makes me both worried and sad."

Camila doesn't interrupt, and she doesn't hide her amusement.

"They could all use several sessions with Margaret, something I can say because I have been immersed in their personal lives for three excruciating hours."

Involvement in friends' romantic lives is something she has been spared in her life, thanks to her vows, Mary and Shannon an exception for which she is incredibly grateful. She's uncertain whether she could handle the kinds of conversations she's watching occur in the women's living quarters or keep her mouth shut about the men's generally abhorrent behavior, which she's sure doesn't improve once they're in the outside world.

She looks at the freeze frame. She doesn't have any interest in watching this bizarre, televised mating ritual for about 1000 reasons, but there's one in particular that she never would have been able to vocalize before she renounced, even if she could have identified it. She does now. “Also, it’s painfully heterosexual.”

Camila blinks at her and then bursts into laughter.

“I’m sorry. Painfully heterosexual?”

“Yes.”

Camila reaches for the remote, clicking out of Netflix. Beatrice sees, just for a moment, a reflection in the black of the television screen. Her own face, and behind it, Ava, who winks at her. She finds herself blushing, coughs and reaches for her water, hoping that Camila doesn’t notice.

“You win. Well, that comment wins. We can switch shows. Want to show me Doctor Who?”

She says, after they make it through the first episode, “It’s nice, to hear you joke that way.”

“About being gay?”

It still feels strange to say it out loud, and she knows, from the rise in Camila’s eyebrows, that it’s still strange to hear it, but she’s smiling, too.

“Yes, about being gay.”

She says it as if she’s asking Beatrice to pass the popcorn, nonchalant, even if her facial expressions have already given her away. Beatrice appreciates the effort.

“I’m trying. I want…I love her so much, Camila, and I…I want to be able to show her that, to show everyone that. It’s hard, though. Apparently, I’m expected to start with loving myself.”

She places a gentle hand on Beatrice’s knee. “It’s difficult to love anyone else if you can’t love yourself.”

Beatrice throws her head back, exhausted at the thought. “Matthew.”

Camila hums. “Yes. And RuPaul.”

Day 44

There’s a noise, and she glances up from her work and sees Ava, standing just in front of the portal in her battle gear, her Warrior Nun. She smiles before turning back to the book in front of her, caught in some strangely phrased Latin. Barely a moment passes before her brain stutters and she hears Ava’s voice, prodding, “Look again, Bea.”

She does and her heart thunders. Ava is still there. Ava is still there.

Beatrice runs.

#warrior nun #avatrice #sister beatrice #ava silva #sister camila #warrior nun fic

21 notes · View notes

therealvinelle · 2 years

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do you have any tips on writing Aro? I love the way you write him, and i want to do a better job than i am. he only has a small part in this fic but i feel he could easily just take over when Carlisle shows up lol

Oh that's hard to answer.

There's no official process to it when I decide how to characterize someone, it all just happens rather automatically, which makes it tough to explain to others.

Though, with Aro it's actually simpler than it is with a lot of other characters, since there are so many thing that make him unique.

The man is over three thousand years old, and he has a gift that means every time he touches a person he knows every single thought that person has ever had. His vampire brain makes it impossible for him to forget a second of his own life or even of the minds he has touched. He has ruled the vampire world with for over a thousand years, enforcing a law he came up with where breaking it means your death, no second chances and no alternative punishments (not counting those who are made to join his guard). Rather than brute numerical force, Aro decided to conquer the world with gifts and strategy. He killed all those who would stand against him, refused to yield, or who in other ways were an inconvenience to him. He killed his own sister even though he loved her, and when he thought his friend Carlisle had harboured an immortal child he was ready to kill him as well.

So, even before my interpretation of the character enters the stage, there are a few things we know about him.

He's intelligent

Too often I see Aro dumbed down to the point where it's unfeasible this guy could ever have conquered anything, nevermind the world. He's made into a comic book villain and easily outmaneuvered, usually by the Cullens even though the Cullens have zero military experience (save for Jasper, but Jasper's field of expertise is newborn armies. He knows how to use brute strength and quantity strategically, when outsmarting that entire school of military philosophy is exactly how Aro got to the top in the first place. Jasper's out of luck).

Of course, Aro had Caius and Marcus with him, taking over the world wasn't a solo mission, but if one of those three had been a weak link, the Volturi would not have succeeded. They each contribute, and more, Aro is the one who realised what talents were needed and held the group together.

You're looking at a man who understands people and sees their strengths and weaknesses, sees opportunities where others don't, who understands how best to utilise the tools and advantages he has. He is calculating, analytical, and can inspire others.

He's highly intelligent and a force to be reckoned with. If you want your characters to get the better of him you'll have to sell me on it. Either they outsmart him, or he makes a mistake, or both - the important thing is you can't sell him short.

Here's a post @thecarnivorousmuffinmeta wrote on writing intelligent characters I believe would be useful. And while the second part is about writing Tom Riddle, it's generic enough that you could apply it to Aro as well.

His gift colours his relationship with everybody

If he can read every single thought a person has ever had, then he knows them more intimately than anybody else ever will. The person you are when you are with friends, when you are at work, when you are with family, when it's just you, and all the things you won't show to anyone, Aro sees it all. He sees the best and the worst of you.

More to the point, his every relationship has an innate power imbalance where he knows everyone he meets better than they know themselves from the start, while they know only what he chooses to show them. That is, in turn, extremely isolating since most people aren't going to put up with that.

I think Aro likely allows those close to him a set of boundaries. If someone doesn't wishes to have their mind read and he disrespects that, he's signalling that there is nothing they can do to shield their mind and, in turn, themselves from him. A very effective way of establishing dominance against criminals, to be sure, and the members of his guard can't very well refuse their leader to know what they know, but when it comes to personal acquaintances such as Carlisle or the wives, he would be shattering the trust between them by forcing his gift upon them.

Aro is living in a strange world of his own where he knows everyone around him so much better than anybody else does, but that very gift is isolating and means he can't ever have a normal interaction.

His gift also gives him a unique vulnerability. Unlike Edward, he can't be blocked, which is great when you want as much information as possible, but it also means he can't be blocked. He's getting every goddamn thought. If he touches Rosalie, he'll see her rape from her point of view, and know exactly what was going through her mind at the time, and he will see her decades of grief and bitter regret at all she will never get to have. I know we all joke about Aro having canonically read Midnight Sun, but he really has seen all the years of Edward knocking his head against a wall muttering, "Angst. Angst. Angst." to himself, just as he has seen the inside of countless of other mentally ill or traumatized people.

The man has to have incredible strength to live with a gift like that. More, a gift like this will shape who is as a person.

And here you can headcanon, as I do, that he is at times reluctant to read a mind he knows won't be pleasant, or that Marcus will use his gift to filter out minds Aro really, really, shouldn't read (such as if a prospective recruit is having funny thoughts about Jane).

I also headcanon that reading a mind can be overwhelming, especially if it's his first time reading someone's mind, and that Aro has to figure out how he's going to navigate this particular person's mind before he can get anything worthwhile out of it.

He's immortal

More often than not, within Twilight or in other fandoms (pour one out for Master of Death!Harry), ancient characters will be portrayed in a way that feels mundane and narrow in scope.

You will get a lot of mocking the mayfly humans who so foolishly believe their blink of an eye time on Earth matters, or that their short-lived empires impress anybody. The immortal character will be too worldly to function, and think very highly of himself simply because he is old. He may or may not have a god complex.

It's a valid interpretation, the world has no shortage of people who are too worldly to function in their teens, and who would get a thousand times more insufferable if they lived to be three thousand years old. The fact that vampires don't mature physically is another factor working against them.

(... and I think I just made myself realise that the way Aro is frequently characterised is in fact what Edward would become, if he got to be that old. Edward talks as if he's much older than he is and considers himself to be very worldly when we meet him, give the guy another three thousand years and you'll be looking at fanon Aro.)

I personally choose to characterise Aro as one who has seen history repeat itself too often to think he's an exception. All the world's most brilliant thinkers, the most well intentioned laws and conscientiously executed governments, it has all fallen, one way or another. It is the nature of things. Aro is not the first man to become an emperor, and while his empire may be the first of its kind, his rule will one day meet its end, and while he can do everything in his power to thwart those who would be his usurpers, he would be a fool to believe it won't happen eventually.

I'll admit that @theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin and I have a very specific type when it comes to how we want our immortal characters. We're both fascinated by the perspective you would get on the human race when you get to watch it for long enough, and how little trifles that seem so important to the contemporary mind would cease to matter.

I think Aro views immortals as no bigger than mortals, and that being ancient has been humbling, rather than the opposite.

I like to think I have proof of my interpretation of Aro in his love for human culture and arts. If we were ants to him, he wouldn't see the point in commissioning Solimena- why bother, when he could simply touch the man to learn how he performs his craft, and then teach himself to mimic it? Why be an academic, when our philosophies and scientific findings are the products of lesser minds?

By all accounts the man appears to be perfectly sane

Why I think Aro is sane is covered in this post.

Essentially, while all parties agree that the man is eccentric, I frequently see him characterised as insane (usually a nebulous insane where he's either a childish and infantile man, or he's a neurotic mess, or he's just... Insane™ (think Joker)).

Your fic, your decision, but... I'll just be blunt. I've yet to see insane!Aro done well. I'm sure it could be, I'm a firm believer in "anything can be pulled off if the author is good enough", but I've yet to see it.

I see him as someone easily perceived as mad, and not particularly bothered by that fact. If he was, he wouldn't be so openly himself. If anything, he seems to intentionally cultivate that perception.

A note on writing Dark™ characters

Frankly, this is worth a post of its own, just as the "How to write intelligent characters" bit, but I'll give it a shot.

For lack of a better way to explain this, I shall confess that when I was 13 I was one of those edgy kids who liked dark characters because they're so much cooler than the boring good guys. They hurt innocent people because they're edgy like that. God help me, I shipped Bellamort.

Why do I bring this up, you may wonder, and it's because a lot of the time when I'm reading Aro fic he acts like something 13-year-old me would have found very impressive. Sadly, this means we're now back to Aro being a comic book villain, because in order to have your Dark Aro™ you have to dumb him down and make him edgy (I don't want to give examples of this publicly since it's a small fandom and the examples that come to mind would be from specific and easily identified fics, so you'll have to forgive my being vague. I hope it's clear what kind of characterisation I'm describing, though). He becomes a flat and uninteresting character.

With a character like Aro, who murdered his sister for power, you can't ignore the man has a dark side, but don't write a Dark™ character.

Aro is ruthless, there is no denying that. He can kill anybody, no matter how much he loves them or how much it will destroy him, if he perceives it to be necessary. He killed god knows how many vampires on his way to power, and continues to rule not as a king, but as a judge and an executioner. He has made sure the vampire world knows he will spare no one if they break his law or try to rise up against him, and that is the kind of lesson you can't teach without making examples of countless of covens (And yes, I know Caius exists, but again, if Aro was a weak link here then the Volturi would be known as "those guys who can kill you, but won't").

In spite of this, we see he is capable of being both generous and fair to his subjects. There's a distinct lack of bloodlust, and his admiration for Carlisle points to a sincere appreciation for goodness and morality that you're not going to get from Darky McDarkety Dark.

I view him as a man with demons. He has done unforgivable things, he has to live with the eternal reminder of what he did to his sister in the form of Marcus, and I interpret his choice to present his warm and sincere side to those around him as one made because he is deeply private in his own way, and this seeming openness is a good way to keep the parts of himself he doesn't want to broadcast close to the chest.

Lastly, I'm a nerd

There's no denying my interpretation of Aro is largely inspired by several fictional characters I adore. Examples being:

Emiya Kiritsugu from Fate/Zero, a man who will destroy anyone and anything in pursuit of a cause he has devoted himself to entirely. He kills the only mother he has ever known because saving her would have meant the deaths of hundreds, and he marries the woman he loves even though they both know he will have to kill her to save the world. In the end, when he learns that his cause would only lead to greater destruction, he abandons it even though this means his wife died for nothing and his daughter will die as well. Does he hate himself for these things, yes, does that stop him, no, because he's living a life where it keeps being him who has to make these awful decisions, and every time he tries to choose the one that will save as many people as possible- or kill as few as possible.

Livia from I, Claudius, who is incredibly intelligent, ruthless, will kill her loved ones off, her biggest problems are dealing with fools, and who's ultimately recognised by Claudius as a stabilizing force after she's dead. She is hated by those who recognise her for what she is, save for by Claudius who, though he fears her, grows to understand her.

Claudius from I, Claudius, who doesn't wish to be Emperor, but he remains on the throne to Rome because he knows that the world will fall apart without him.

TL;DR: Write Aro as an intelligent man whose outlook on the world around him is shaped by his gift, one who has attentively watched human history unfold in front of him and learned from this. Make him ruthless because he has to be.

Good luck, I hope this was remotely helpful.

#yeetbean #writing #aro #twilight #twilight renaissance #twilight meta

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coffeeandcalligraphy · 11 months

Note

13, 12 and 20 for the pride asks!! :3 (if you already answered those pls ignore i cant count)

ty for asking! <3

13. Would your oc be open to a poly relationship? Why or why not?

omggg this is such an interesting question because I've been thinking about Kit & Bev in Seventh Virtue and I think they are going to be poly (I am ITCHING to write book 2!). I haven't planned that book that much so I'm not sure on details yet but I do have some very loose ideas I'm looking forward to exploring!

12. Does/did your oc ever wish they could change the way they are? Why? If it’s in the past, how did they get over the feeling? (this can be about internalized homo/transphobia)

okay obligatory Lonan answer because a good 80% of his plot in Moth Work/Feeding Habits is him strugggggllliiing with his queerness. For him, this stems from religious trauma and his relationship with his father (it's why in FH I "rewrote" bible verses in each chapter--that internal reckoning is really important to his character). This is a major conflict in MW and we see bits of it follow him into FH. A lot of this experience was my own :) lol (I went to Catholic school all my life before uni and needed a safe space to explore those feelings which is why Lonan is precious to me!!! <3). I WILL SAY that he does move past this, though canonically we haven't seen that just yet (in Seventh Virtue he's sooo comfortable with who he is, though that's an AU!). Hallowed Bodies, which is basically BODY BACK but in his POV, will show him exploring his queerness which I'M SO EXCITED FOR!!

20. Have your ocs helped you in self discovery? How?

omg perfect timing <3 yes!!! re: the above, but I soooooo needed Lonan to really deal with my own internal struggle. I sort of soft came out on here in March I think? But it's been a seven year journey for me, and I feel lucky to have a character to... go through that with lol. It made younger me feel a loottttt less lonely!

#asks #ty!!!! <3

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mmvalentine · 2 years

Text

Lover Like Me pt 14 (epilogue) | Feysand

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

The next year blurs by and I swear I couldn’t even tell you what we filled it with. We just hazed through, the way that you get to the end of summer vacation drunk on long days and the absence of school bells and wonder where the time went.

I can tell you that we moved house, not immediately but eventually, and not very far. Rhys wanted to stay close to the garage, after all. In fact, none of us live in the Velaris blocks anymore, and no, Rhys didn’t buy a house for each of them. His father was wealthy but not that wealthy. He did buy the auto shop though, and start paying an actual living wage once he fired the old manager, and wouldn’t you know it, the guys all started renting decent places once they could afford it.

Mor moved closer to the beach and met a girl at one of Helion’s extravagant parties. Azriel’s got a slick city apartment with a view, and Cassian’s shifted toward the mountains and living his best lumberjack life. They all commute but no one’s complaining.

I often think back on the time we all lived together with great fondness, but I know for the others, painful memories still live there, and we’ve never been back. I don’t mind at all, because I’m home wherever Rhys is.

And Rhys is here, in a house of our very own, and he’s magnificent.

Out from the shadows of his violent father’s past and his dead mother’s house, Rhys is a force to be reckoned with. Business is booming, we go on trips most weekends, and I’ve never heard him laugh so loud. And coming home to him every day is a luxury that simultaneously feels like I’ve been doing it forever, and like I’ll never get used to the thrill of it.

It’s not a giant house, but there’s the loveliest rose and lilac garden out the front, and French doors on the second floor to the balcony that Rhys built. We have a bedroom with a skylight, which he cleans every weekend because he loves to look at the stars. It has a study we converted into an art studio for me, with shelves all along the wall to hold all my supplies. There’s a spare bedroom that is always made up- it was important to both of us our friends could stay with us whenever they wanted or needed to. And it has a garage where Rhys keeps his bike and also a beautiful vintage Bentley that he’s restoring in his spare time.

Rhys runs the shop better than Amarantha ever did, and now that she’s gone the guys actually like going to work. I visit sometimes, bring by boxes of pizza when they work late not because they have to but because they’re enjoying each other’s company. Pepperoni for Azriel, cheese for mor, mushroom for Rhys, and four of whatever there’s four of for Cassian. They wipe black grease off their hands and laugh with their mouths full, and now movie nights happen less frequently but we put a projector in the garage and every month or so we watch on a wall-sized screen.

Sometimes it’s just Rhys who’s stayed back, slumped in the office over the books that were never his favourite part of the job. On those days I feed him Irish tea and chocolate biscuits, and when his blood sugars are revived, we make love on the desk, where I have a perfect view of a certain painting that hangs on the wall and remains my most abstract piece to date.

As for me, my rent situation may be taken care of, but I will never not have my own bank account again. I’ve earned myself a permanent spot in Tarquin’s gallery by maintaining the highest selling rate of any of his resident artists. It’s not quite enough that I’ve quit my job at the art store, but I’m getting closer. Hey, maybe one day I’ll outgrow Tarquin and open a gallery of my own.

I’m telling you, my life is perfect.

Not because we never fight- amongst the brilliant days there are sad ones, when Rhys is full of trauma and fury and grief, and just because most of the time I know how to bring him back doesn’t mean it always works, or that I always have the energy to do it, or that he always wants me to.

But because he chooses me every damn day, even when I have nightmares about blonde haired men and I kick him in my sleep, even when I have unreasonable expectations that he will read my mind and then get upset that he hasn’t correctly anticipated my needs, and even when he works late and I’ve stayed up painting and we’re both cranky and snappy and rude.

And because I choose him back, just as many times.

And that- I wouldn’t trade that for the world, not for a thousand days of serenity, not for a million dry-eyed nights.

Still, it’s not the fights and the slow, painful healing that I want to replay over and over.

It’s days like today.

When I wake slow in the early morning light with Rhys’s lips on my ankle.

The alarm is set for seven, which is when we wanted to get up and get on the road. Our bags are packed and Rhys’s motorcycle is clean and full of fuel, and there are hours of mountain trails waiting for us to lose ourselves in their alpine embrace.

Yet here is Rhys with a kiss that moves slowly up the side of my calf.

And he’s usually such a stickler for a schedule.

I moan softly without opening my eyes. It’s warm and soft in our bed, and I’ve never been one to rise easy from slumber. Rhys’s tongue hits the corner of my knee, his teeth nip at the inside of my thigh, while the rough of his hands trace the journey his lips have just made. I twitch a little when his mouth lands at the join of my leg and my hip, although my limbs are still so heavy. Then the heat of his breath hits my underwear as he kisses the fabric between my legs, and my back arches up to his touch as if lifted by this string of static that starts in my stomach and ends in the apex of my thighs.

“Good morning, lover,” Rhys whispers, and then his mouth is otherwise occupied.

He pushes my underwear to the side and then it’s the flat of his tongue from pussy to clit. I gasp at the first touch, and then my panties are slid off my legs and I’m kissed on the sharp parts of my hips and the soft parts of my inner thighs and over my bare pussy again. I’m only half-way awake but I’m drowning in something sweeter than sleep as he laps me up and eats me alive. The minutes slide by but Rhys has all the time in the world as he flicks his tongue against me over and over again, winding me slowly round and round his little finger like a spool of thread. It’s not difficult; I’m always his.

His hands slide flat from my hips to my belly to my breasts, and all the while his lips are loving me. His mouth moves slow and dirty and sure. I’m rocking myself onto his tongue, the pleasure is a fog around me, and when he gets my nipples between his fingers, I tip my head back and moan just like he likes.

I could have happily passed the day like this, but my waking dream is cut through my the too-bright ring of my phone alarm.

At first, we ignore it, but of course the stubborn thing rings on and on. I groan in protest when Rhys gets up, but then the silence is restored and Rhys comes back to me and is settling his body over mine. His fingers lace through my fingers, and my hands are swept up and pinned above my head. He’s heavy and hard and as he rolls his hips into me, I’m mollified.

“Sleep well, honey?” Rhys’s voice is husky and low, and I don’t know how he expects me to answer when he’s grinding into me as he speaks. My eyes roll back and my hips lift to meet his, and the dark chuckle that issues from above me is as smug as a Cheshire cat. He kisses me then, sweeping his tongue deep into my mouth to make sure that I can taste myself on him like when he fucks me but finishes in my throat. The memory evoked is so filthy I’m turned on even more, and I start moving up against him looking for friction between my legs.

Rhys obliges me, driving his hips forward and kissing me deeper. I’m fairly sure I could come just from dry-humping this man, but he’s not going to let that happen. I’m rubbing up against his erection and building into a little rhythm that’s getting me where I want to go, and then just when I get to that floating place Rhys shoves his waistband down and pushes inside me.

I’m stretched out faster than expected and Rhys is sliding into me and by the time the tightness eases I’m coming on his cock.

It’s that easy.

And if there’s one enduring thing about us, about our relationship, it’s that it’s easy. It’s so easy and even when it’s difficult and when it sucks it’s easy and that’s why I love him. Or maybe because I love him. I love him so fucking much and I wouldn’t believe that someone so good would love me back except that he tells me all the fucking time and my head has gotten so big with it I wonder how I get in the front door sometimes.

And so here I am, early in the morning with no thoughts in my head and I’m coming hard while Rhys is all the way inside me and then when I’m back in control of my body I fuck him back until he comes, too.

On Sunday night, we’ll get back from our trip and we’ll unpack.

We’ll carry our bags in on tired legs and when I sit down and start unlacing my boots Rhys will look distracted. He’ll start picking through our belongings and I’ll ask him what he’s looking for.

“I’m just looking for… I could have sworn…”

“What, Rhys?” I’ll ask.

“It’s just, it was right here, can you look in your bag?”

“Look for what?” I’ll ask again, even as I start rifling through my backpack, searching for something I don’t know the name of.

“It’s so small, it could have fallen out.”

“Fuck’s sake Rhys, what am I looking for?”

“It’s the black box, you know the one.”

I don’t know the one, and I’ll get annoyed as Rhys continues to be vague while he shoves his hands in the pockets of our discarded leather jackets.

“Would you just look?” Rhys will say, and I’ll start getting mad that he’s sounding frustrated with me when he’s not communicating properly, so when my fingers close around a foreign object I’ll shake it at him.

“Here, is this what you’re looking for?”

“I don’t know, open it.”

I’ll roll my eyes and snap open the little velvet case, and my anger will instantly evaporate because inside will be the most perfect sapphire and diamond ring I’ve ever seen. I’ll be in shock, I’ll look up at Rhys but he’ll be down on one knee with his violet eyes so bright I can hardly stand it.

“Feyre,” he’ll say, and then he’ll swallow because he’s getting choked up. “Feyre from the moment I met you…”

“Yes,” I’ll breathe, and he’ll laugh.

“Feyre, I never thought-”

“Yes,” I’ll interrupt again.

“I didn’t think someone like me-”

“YES,” I’ll yell, and I’ll fall to the floor before him and try to kiss his stupidly gorgeous face, but he won’t let me until he can at least get the question out.

‘Feyrewillyoumarryme?!” he’ll shout, and then he’ll fall backward because I’ve flung myself at him and I’ve covering him with kisses and ‘yes’s.

And then the studio door will burst open and Mor, Cassian and Azriel will be exploding out from their hiding place and dog-piling on to us, and I’ll barely be able to breathe from laughing and crying and being crushed by these goobers, whom I love so very much.

But that will be on Sunday.

Today, we are naked in bed.

And I hope that this is the way he remembers me always, when we’re old and wrinkled and grey. I hope he remembers buckling a helmet under my chin before we get on his motorcycle, I hope he remembers my arms around his waist as we ride. I hope he remembers living in this house, now, with me, before dogs and kids and mess and whatever else he wants in our future. But most of all I hope that he remembers being this deep inside of me while we move, keeping pace with our matching heart beats, with nothing but time and thoughts of being loved, and being a lover.

***

The end, at long last.

My loves. Thank you for being with me in this story, it is the longest one I've written by far (like more than triple the length of The Bargain) and it has been such a joy to hang out with you guys along the way. I really appreciate everyone who read and shared and reblogged!! I will miss you, please dont be strangers ❤️❤️❤️

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-loml @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @pitrsattabhaadmeinjao @achernarlight @swankii-art-teacher @sjmships @courtofjurdan @teddytdr @positivewitch @thalia-2-rose @darling-archeron @rapunzel1523 @fairchildjace @hopefulacademia @story-scribbler @fandomstalker27 @realbookloverproblems @dealfea @s-tormwitch @cretaceous-therapod @whenyadoesntcutit @scatterbrainedgirl @whoever-you-choose-to-love @endlessdaydream @elentiya-whitethorn @rarephloxes @timesconvert @mis-lil-red @alerialumina @lokisllama

#feysand #feysand fic #acotar

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zoeyslayter · 6 months

Text

2024 To Read List (plus reasons as needed):

TW for Columbine/school unaliving mention and conversion mentions (homophobia). If I've missed your trigger let me know so I can fix the tags accordingly.

All book titles connected to their respective Goodreads pages.

A Mother's Reckoning: Living in the Aftermath of Tragedy by Sue Klebold - Reading this out of pure spite in response to an-in my opinion- unfair video about Sue. Won't link it so the guy doesn't get harassed but it made my blood boil. Side note: I have a special interest in Columbine but I in no way am interested in joining Tumblr's TCC. Eric and Dylan should not be fangirled over imho.

Emily Wilde's Encyclopedia of Faeries by Heather Fawcett - I like faerie books

Murder Your Employer: The McMaster's Guide of Homicide by Rupert Holmes - No particular reason; saw it at B&N and thought it seemed interesting. R.L. Stine apparently liked it so hey, why not?

We Sold Our Souls by Grady Hendrix - I've been looking at this author for a while, and I own some of his books on audible, but I've been trying to get back into physical media

My Next Life as a Villainess: All Routes Lead to Doom by Satoru Yamaguchi, illustrated by Nami Hidaka, and translated by Shirley Yeung - Whole series, but I'm on the second book. One of my all time favorite animes. Can't wait for the Switch game to come out in NA.

Fire Dancer by Catherine Jones Payne - I met this author about 2 years ago at a convention and she is awesome. I'm almost done with her Breakwater series, which I also recommend if you like mermaids.

Split Image: The Life of Anthony Perkins by Charles Winecoff - Perkins has been said to be bisexual, but based on further research I genuinely think that he might have been a homosexual. This topic surrounding him has interested me for a while. especially since I have reason to believe that this came from conversion therapy.

RWBY: After the Fall by E.C. Meyers - I love RWBY and also fanfiction reasons. I also got Before the Dawn and Roman Holiday for similar reasons.

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins - Okay so I read the first book around the time the first movie came out but I only watched the movies past that, and I suddenly got hooked back in by people mentioning small details that Collins wrote, as well as Panem Academy and Emhahee on tiktok

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breitzbachbea · 1 year

Note

for the fic writer asks: 🍭 🎈🎀

Thank you, darling!

Fic writer asks

🍭why did you start writing?

I wish I knew. I've been writing since elementary school, I think, but I can't remember the why. As I grew and became a teenager though, in retrospect it was escapism. I made characters who are cool and respected and stand up for themselves ... very much the opposite of lil old me. It's also a way to make my head shut up - Adhd means that I am never not thinking and if I wouldn't have an outlet for all of my ideas, I'd simply explode, I reckon. I haven't written in so long actually, I should today ... there is a stretch of Irish Problems I could get done without prior research ...

🎈describe your style as a writer; is it fixed? does it change?

Very matter of factly, very prosaic and not poetic. I like simple but precise language and rather have fun with language via wordplay:

"So far it had only lead to a not so merry round of roundabout merry go round, but Francesco was sure it wouldn’t be left at that."

Instead of florid language, I rather describe body language and use short impressions, though I also like my potent metaphors. It does change, though! I also try to adjust my narrative entity slightly to the POV I am using. I write 3rd person most of the time, but I do want reflect through whose eyes the narrative entity is narrating regardless.

And aside from my writing style developing, which I am always pleased to notice in comparison, I sometimes do switch it up consciously. I am a big fan of ghost stories, of the liminal and dangerous in the world of imagination, which is where I tend to get less precise and revel in the uncertainty that creates goosebumps.

And funfact, I noticed that when I write from an Italian speaker POV, I am sometimes more forgiving for writing longwinding run-on sentences. Because boy howdy, as someone who is learning Italian via reading books, they love a fucking run-on sentence.

🎀give yourself a compliment about your own writing

I can edit, must edit and edit happily, which i take a lot of pride in. I love killing my darlings, cutting out scenes that I love but that kill the pacing of a scene or don't 110% fit the characters. Also, people like my OCs and the way I write characters in general, making them vibrant even if they occupy only very minor roles. AND! People say that my writing flows very well, which is all I ever wanted with my writing style.

#beareplies #ginevralinton #writing #storie nostre

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recentlyheardcom · 7 months

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It isn’t surprising that Grace Elizabeth Hale chose to write a book about a 1947 lynching. The University of Virginia professor is an award-winning historian who has taught and written about the South and white supremacy for decades, including in the book “Making Whiteness: The Culture of Segregation in the South, 1890-1940.”But her new book is more than just history from the archives. “In the Pines: A Lynching, A Lie, A Reckoning” is a family history of the worst sort. While growing up in Georgia, Hale had spent part of her summers with her grandparents in Jefferson Davis County in Mississippi. She was told that when her beloved grandfather, Oury Berry, was sheriff, he had given an Atticus Finch-esque speech to the townsfolk to stop them from storming the jail and dragging Versie Johnson off to a gruesome death.Johnson was a Black man accused by local men of raping a pregnant white woman. But the woman never came forward; she may have been Johnson’s consensual lover. The prisoner died shortly afterward, purportedly during an escape attempt.Read more: When will America finally dismantle its racist myths? Two powerful new books tryIn fact, Johnson was murdered by law enforcement under direction of the man Hale had known as Pa.Hale started digging beneath the family lore back in graduate school. “I realized the story couldn’t have actually been true the way it was described to me,” she said in a recent video interview from her home in Charlottesville, Va. “But at that point I didn’t really want to know."Ultimately, however, Hale realized she couldn’t help the United States reexamine its history without reckoning with her own. She could “not stop looking” until the truth was laid bare. Our conversation, about her process and her discoveries, has been edited for clarity and length.What motivated you to write this now? What really drove me to write was [the Unite the Right Rally in] 2017 in Charlottesville. This is where I live. You saw those pictures of the people with the tiki torches surrounding that little group of students around the Jefferson statue at the Rotunda — those are my students. And [Heather Heyer] died just blocks from my house.I can't tell you how traumatizing it is to have white supremacists visit your town. They came for months because the city council voted to take down the Robert E. Lee statue, and I always felt like I had to be at the counter-protests. It made me realize that even though I thought I understood it all, there was something that I didn't get, which was the visceral threat that comes when you have people with loaded guns parking their car in front of your house.That made me think about a project that will make people understand that history isn't distant and abstract — it's us. All history is somebody's family story. Frankly, that’s what gave me the courage to revisit this situation, because it was hard to do. I had grown up with a story of my grandfather's heroism. And I thought my not wanting to know was symptomatic of a lot of white Americans. I wanted to make the point that this erasure of history is foundational to why racism and white supremacy persists.Read more: Op-Ed: White supremacist publications took a hit after Charlottesville. Now they're stronger than everThe thing that was most difficult to me was discovering the story — which I didn’t know until I started this research — that the sheriff before [Berry] stopped a lynching multiple times. That was just heartbreaking because it showed that it could be done.You note that white supremacists saw their extra-legal behavior as serving their community. Does that feel connected to the way insurrectionists on Jan. 6 saw themselves as heroes saving the country? Is that the version their grandchildren will hear?The concept that white male citizenship includes the right for you to personally embody the law is absolutely central. We celebrate autonomy and self-help in these rural communities, saying, “Look at these people, they know how to take care of themselves,” but vigilantism comes out of that too.

When there’s an understanding of citizenship as limited to a certain group of people, whatever they do is somehow justified. We saw that with Ahmaud Arbery and with January 6th.I'm trying to be a storyteller here, but I'm also a professional historian, and the history argument I’m sneaking in is that there’s a porous boundary between law enforcement and vigilante behavior. I don't think it is strictly a Southern or rural thing. Most Americans don't think about how different levels of the government — local, state, federal — are at cross-purposes with each other, and that these various levels often turn the other way or even encourage vigilante violence. That’s very much in play today.Read more: 35 years after her mother's murder, a poet of Black struggle writes a monumentYou made a monumental effort to learn as much as you could about Versie Johnson — not just his death but his life. Why go to those lengths, beyond correcting the record?Maybe that is the most personal part of the book. [She chokes up.] There's nothing that I can do about these actions and his death, but I could bring him to life on the page to whatever degree I could, and acknowledge his life.Do you regret not pursuing this story decades ago when more participants and witnesses would have been alive? Or would your research have been limited by the lack of information online back then?I do regret not doing it earlier, because I would've found more people that were alive in the moment that the killing happened. But you're absolutely right, the digitization of genealogical records was not there and it's incredible what you can now find. I must say that while part of the reason then was that I didn't want to know, this is very difficult, time-consuming research and I wouldn't have been able to do it without the fellowship funding I got. Also, I’m a single parent, and so until my children were in college, I couldn't be away for that long.How did your mother and other family members react to your digging up the past?Her choice was to not reexamine the past. This story is not something she accepts. It's really hard for all of my family members and they didn't get to decide. It was certainly something that they would've rather me not do. I just want to leave that at that.Get the latest book news, events and more in your inbox every Saturday. This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.

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survey--s · 1 year

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456.

1) What’re your plans for the weekend? Absolutely nothing lol. I feel like I've not had a proper break from work in ages as Archie was really sick last weekend so we ended up down at the vets. This week has just been insane too so it's really nice to just be able to relax.

2) Could you ever be vegetarian - why or why not? I was vegetarian on/off for a few years as a teenager but ultimately it's not really something I'm interested in.

3) Name a quote from your favorite TV show: "That's a lot of information to get in thirty seconds".

4) What time did you wake up this morning? About 6.45 as apparently my body clock is back to being on work-time lol. I didn't get up until closer to 9am though.

5) What chores do you do around the house? Well, pretty much everything that needs to be done as it's my house, lol. I mean, nobody else is gonna do it for me.

6) Do you like wind chimes, or do they annoy you? They're fine at other people's houses but they'd drive me mad if I had them outside my own house lol. Especially as they'd probably set the dog off barking constantly. 7) How much sleep do you usually get a night? Normally around seven hours.

8) If you could have any outfit, cost not an issue, what would you get? I'm not really bothered about having nice outfits. 9) Do you play any instruments? I can play a few but I haven't played them for ages.

10) What song would you say describes your life right now? The Lazy Song by Bruno Mars lol.

11) Do you have snacks lying around your room? No.

12) Did you get up to much today? If it’s morning, what are your plans? Not really, just normal household stuff. I had a lie in, fed the animals, let the dog out, vacuumed, did the litter trays, made breakfast, went back to bed for an hour, washed up, showered and now I'm just messing about online and watching TV.

13) What’s your favorite animal to see in the zoo? Penguins, tigers, elephants, squirrel monkeys, lemurs.

14) When do you start back to school or college? I haven't been in any kind of education in over a decade now.

15) What other social networking sites are you on? Facebook and Instagram.

16) What was the best year of your life? Hmm, overall I would say 2007, 2016, 2018 and 2022.

17) What plans do you have for the rest of summer? It's only February but mostly I spend my summers working and riding, plus I have a couple of weeks off in August.

18) How old is the person you like right now? He's just turned 38. 19) Do you get an allowance? How much? No, I have a full-time job lol.

20) What games console is your favorite? What about favorite game? We have an xBox but I haven't played it in ages. I liked Gems of War, the old-style Lara Croft games and also Super Mario back when we had a Nintendo.

21) If you could go anywhere right now, where would it be and why? I'm honestly happy just chilling out at home today. I need a lazy day after how manic my week has been.

22) Do your parents nag you a lot? What about? I don't live with my parents so it's not really their place to nag at me. My mum sometimes complains about the state of my car though lol.

23) What is there on the walls of your room? There are a couple of paintings but that's about it.

24) Is there anyone that just really annoys you? Oh yes.

25) What are your plans for tomorrow, anything good? Just a chilled out, lazy day as I have another fully booked week next week. Luckily Mike is off so he can sort the dog out lol.

26) If you could wake up tomorrow being able to do one thing perfectly, what would it be? Sing.

27) You have two wishes to make to help the world, and one can’t be “another wish” or anything similar. What wishes do you make? Clean water and ample supply of food. <--- this.

28) Do you reckon world peace is possible or are we just too selfish? People are way too selfish.

29) Do you listen to Bright Eyes? Wow, nostalgia alert lol. I used to LOVE Bright Eyes - especially Lua and Bowl of Oranges but I've not listened to them in YEARS. I might download them off Spotify actually. 30) Are you interested in politics, or do you just not care? It's not that I don't care, it's that I don't think anything us "mortals" do can actually make a difference.

#survey #surveys

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infinipiner · 2 years

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A story about my uncle ending

While total enrollment has grown by thousands, Auburn now has fewer Black undergraduates than it did in 2002. In Alabama, a third of graduating high-school students are Black, but in 2019 just 5 percent of the student body at Auburn University, one of the state’s premier public institutions, was Black. The share of Black students there has shrunk steadily since 2012. Nearly half of the students who graduate from high school in Mississippi are Black, but in 2019, Black students made up just 10 percent of the University of Mississippi’s freshman class. Meanwhile, racial stratification is, in many places, getting worse. Today, race-conscious admissions policies are weak, and used by only a smattering of the most highly selective programs. A long process of erosion began, undermining the power of affirmative action to right historical wrongs. White applicants filed lawsuits, claiming that to take race into account in hiring or education in any way discriminated against them. Today, race-conscious admissions policies are weak, and used by only a smattering of the most highly selective programs.Ĭolleges that adopted affirmative action in their admissions programs quickly faced challenges. Kennedy had used the phrase in a 1961 executive order requiring government contractors to “take affirmative action to ensure that applicants are employed, and employees are treated during employment, without regard to their race, creed, color, or national origin.” The goal was to diversify the federal workforce and, crucially, to begin to correct for a legacy of discrimination against applicants of color. For the first time, they began to make a real effort to offer Black students an equal shot at higher education, through a strategy called affirmative action. Nothing much came of it.īut as the civil-rights movement gained traction, white schools started reckoning with a legacy of exclusion. The report called for more federal money for institutions that did not discriminate against Black students. Commission on Civil Rights pointed out, these schools were chronically underfunded. Entrepreneurial Black educators opened their own colleges, but as a 1961 report by the U.S. Later, bans were replaced by segregation, a system first enforced by custom, then by state law. In Alabama in the 1830s, you could be fined $500 for teaching a Black child. The United States has stymied Black education since the country’s founding. One has money and confers prestige, while the other-the one that Black students tend to tread- does not. That day, a little more than a decade ago, was my introduction to the bitter reality that there are two tracks in American higher education. Something else quickly became obvious: Almost every student I saw at UAH was white. The library had books and magazines I’d never heard of-including the one for which I now write. The buildings looked new, and fountains burst from man-made ponds. But when you’re home long enough, you start to notice flaws: The classroom heaters were always breaking down, and the campus shuttle never seemed to run on time when it was coldest out. My mom had gone there my uncle had been a drum major in the ’80s my sister was on the volleyball team. So I loaded up my backpack, ran down the stairs-the dorm’s elevator was busted-and headed across town.įounded in 1875 to educate Black students who had been shut out of American higher education, A&M was a second home for me. I’d heard that the library at the University of Alabama at Huntsville, 10 minutes away, was open three hours longer than our own. I needed a change of scenery from Foster Hall. O ne afternoon, during my freshman year at Alabama A&M University, my homework was piling up, and I was feeling antsy. This article was published online on July 26, 2021.

#A story about my uncle ending

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teacherintransition · 2 years

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Would You Do It All Over?

You left the career path, but it’s still in your heart…

If you could start again…would you?

First off, I am past wondering if I did the right thing. Retiring at fifty four was right …I was tired of putting off projects I desperately wanted to pursue. After thirty years in public education, it was time; I had achievements of which I was incredibly proud and I know I had an impact on many students. From a practical standpoint, if I had remained on the job, my wife wouldn’t have been able to pursue the fantastic opportunity to become a travel nurse. No new cities, no new friends, no new confidence…just stay at a workplace being under appreciated and under paid. Things will usually work out the way they should…just don’t roll the dice with karma.

This kind of introspection and “what if” is expected when in life transition, no worries …no panic. It happens because you gave your heart and soul to a calling. I am a public school teacher …full stop! I’m just doing something else now, but it is who I am in my soul. Yes, I do miss my students every day; whether they are eighteen or are fifty, but we move on to bigger and better things. BUT, the question sneaks into your psyche, in the quiet moments when you least expect it, when your guard is down; “would you ever go back?”

Where the shiznit did that come from? What kind of game you playing you deep seeded,subconscious? Well, there it is…the question. I’m not the only one who asked themselves this question; I have five to six colleagues who went back to teaching after retiring. They have their reasons and are theirs alone. Since retiring in August of 2020, I have received seven unsolicited offers to return to the classroom, all of which I turned down. The reasons are my own, but hell, I write about my state of mind every week so there are likely no surprises.

I often get, “well, I reckon them kids got too wild!” Nope, I was able to stay current with the kids and my rapport was always excellent. This question follows, “I guess they made the job too hard to do what with testing and paperwork?” Pretty damn close, but I endured it if I was making headway with a kid. “Was it Covid?” It was a determining factor. The state of Texas had over promised and under delivered and lives were at risk. The proudest collective achievement of my profession is how we pulled off the largest educational rescue in history by adapting instruction to finish the year; and within two months the public was turning its back on us. Nothing new here, except I had thirty years in…three years more than needed to retire. It was time for me and my family.

Still the questions, oye vay… but can you still do it …if needed. Damn straight I could, I was never too burnt out for the job, BUT (there’s that big BUT) some terrible things have happened in the ensuing two years: book bans, litigation liability if a student or parent is offended by instruction, the non issue of CRT, increased scrutiny on daily lessons to make certain the teacher is teaching the “right thing,” loosening the professional requirements to become a teacher to get more manageable, less professional “teachers.” I can remember at no point in my life or professional career where educators were being treated as badly as the current practice of regarding us as unreliable, underhanded non-professionals; and believe me …there’s quite a history of such treatment. This shameful change has occurred in less than two years and is overtly political in its nature. I have strived to avoid political discussions in my articles so as to make time spent reading my thoughts as helpful and introspective; and I will speak no further than I have on that topic.

This is a place to look inward and to adjust to this life change; part of which deals with the questions one asks of themselves…this is just one of many. Would I go back? With the current state of affairs…NO. I achieved too much and worked too hard to allow myself and profession to be so disrespected. Now, if you take a philosophical tone to that question and asked, “if you were twenty two and were you just certified would you become a teacher within the present environment,” then there would be much to consider. I’ve been in retail, assembly line manufacturing, road construction, cabinet making, roofing… those would be things I could do as a twenty two year in 2020. Worthy though they are of consideration….they but deny the undeniable truth. I AM A TEACHER. (…and start 90’s hard rock …NOW, as I turn to walk toward the sunrise.)

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joshslater · 3 years

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Jockboy

Based on an idea from papermoon357. Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

After the divorce Claire was quick to move to a different state. Visitation rights don't mean much when it's not physically possible to visit, so instead I had to watch from a distance how my son Jake grew up to be someone very different than what I had envisioned. I mean he's smart and doing well in school, and I wouldn't want anything but for him to be happy and have a good future, but at the same time I feel like he's been robbed of something. His options being limited by being around this Mark guy as father figure.

I was very surprised when Jake called and asked if he could spend the semester at my place. With remote learning being back again it didn't really matter where he was, he figured, and for some reason he had decided to get to know his dad properly. Better late than never I guess, but way too late to have any impact on him as a person. Of course I said yes. I hoped it wasn't trouble at home that made him decide to leave, but even more so a reason to house him. We'd have plenty of time to talk about that I figured.

I drove there to pick him up myself. Can't trust any mass transportation in times like these, and I reckoned my truck could fit everything he owned if he wanted to haul it to my place. Pretty light load though, a bunch of clothes, a bunch of books, and a bunch of computers. I tricked him with the "What happened since last time" trick to get him going and interrupted him with follow-ups on everyone and everything. Kept him talking all the way to the motel. We started early and I let him fall asleep again in the truck until close to lunch.

Now that we were far away enough that it felt like there was no going back on the decision for him, but still a bit left that it felt like we were negotiating I laid out my demands. As a welder, I told him, there is no working from home so I'd be away all day. I expected us to eat breakfast together in the morning. He would have to manage lunch on his own. Once I'm back home we would work out one hour every school day before dinner.

He was not thrilled about that last part. No surprise there, given his doughy body, so I launched into my prepared speech that PE was still part of a good education, and imagine his friends if he would come out of this spectacle looking better than going into it. I could see his gears turning when he responded "Well, I guess I don't have a choice."

I didn't take many days for us to find a good routine. I was up first cooking a hearty breakfast for us and I tried to keep it varied. Pancakes, hash browns, eggs 10 different ways. Lots of proteins to keep us both through the day. I always placed two vitamin bears on his plate. We both knew he was too old for them, but he always smiled when he saw them. The breakfast was really enough to take us through the day, but I left instructions for how he could make a light lunch if he wanted. I didn't want to push his cooking limits, but he managed it without problems.

He visibly wasn't very keen on stepping out into the garage with me once I got home, but he had put on workout clothes in advance and didn't protest with any words. My setup is pretty decent. I bought benches and weights and stuff from a gym that was going out of business as everyone stayed at home. We took turns doing the same exercise. I first showed how to do it and then I gave him a very light weight and checked his form while he tried it. Then we alternate a few sets before moving on to the next exercise. I could see already the next day that he was much more at ease with the whole arrangement, and by the end of the week he even appeared enthusiastic about working out.

After our PE we showered and I made dinner. We'd eat in front of the TV and took turns deciding what to see. I introduced him to wrestling, showed him classic football games, and explained the rules to any number of sports. He in turn showed me movies and shows that was important to him. He perhaps didn't enjoy everything I showed him, but he appreciated it. I must say I really enjoyed that whole Marvel Cinematic Galaxy thing we watched through.

I could tell by the end of our second week that he was getting self-conscious in a good way. He kept looking at his own muscles under tension as we worked out. He perhaps didn't look that different, but it was clear a lot of body fat had turned into muscle mass. It was by the fourth week most of the fat covering his new muscles began to melt away as well. His face had become much more defined and mature looking. I think it was the height that really gave away the plot. He had added about an inch just over his torso, and perhaps another inch and a half overall. The old T-shirts made it really obvious as the taller body combined with the wider shoulders made them barely cover his belly button. He stopped wearing them and only wore sweatshirts or hoodies, if anything at all.

It wasn't until the week after he asked me what was happening to him. I decided from the start I wouldn't bullshit him and told him straight up that he was turning into the jock boy I had always intended. He looked at me in both shock and confusion. I continued to tell him that the vitamin bears during the first week were made by me. Gelatin, sugar, berry essence, and custom-ordered gene therapy medication that would push him in the right direction. His expression turned into disgust and anger. He shouted that I had no right to do that to him. It was his body, his decision, his life. I told him half his body was my DNA, and I had been denied any part of his upbringing besides the occasional birthday and trips to Disneyland. I was still one of his custodians and could take medical decisions for him, and what he was getting was how things were supposed to be. Things were just made right.

I left the house for a walk after our bout to calm myself. I was sure I did the right thing. There were so many times I could have backed out and every time I landed on that this was what was best for Jake. By the time I came back he hadn't moved at all from the living room couch. I silently went to my bedroom. He should have some time to mourn his old self. He is never coming back. I'm not sure old Jake would even have the courage to fight like that. And with the fireworks of brain chemistry about to detonate in about ten days it doesn't really matter what he does.

But I think he'll come around before then, physical cravings notwithstanding. While he was feeling sorry for himself in front of the TV he was watching NBA.

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cardansriddle · 3 years

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Could you do a Yandere Tom Riddle where he meets S/O who is exactly like him Slytherin, Halfblood, conceived under a love potion and cold at heart? (You can if you want to)

Destined- Tom Riddle

A/N: I have to admit I strayed away from the topic just a tad bit and got carried away. I did not really explore the Yandere side of Tom here, and this is kinda shitty i know. But I decided to post it nonetheless.

He heard whispers about you.

It had not been surprising at first, Hogwarts did not allow any transfers, yet apparently you had been an exception. Perhaps that should have been his first sign to gain information on you, after all, you had to be quite extraordinary for the Headmaster to make an exception, right? However, he had completely overlooked your arrival, not giving her a second glance during the classes, in the hallways, or at the Slytherin table where he would dine.

Yet two weeks passed, and while Tom had expected the whispers to cease, they seemed to increase each day. That was the exact reason why he had decided to finally see what all the fuss was about. What was so special about you that no one could shut up about the new girl?

His fellow Slytherins would always sneer whenever your name came up. He was tired of Abraxas going on a rant about how halfbloods were not pure enough to be sorted into Slytherin, and once Tom had snapped, throwing a hex at him to shut him up. After all, he was a halfblood as well.

He was hidden in the safety of the shadows, tracking your silent steps as you moved through the corridors of the ancient castle, your soft hair cascading down your back while you adjusted the strap of your bag, releasing a frustrated huff every now and then. Many would move out of your way, parting and allowing you to pass and Tom's brows furrowed at the obvious action of fear— or was it respect?— as he continued to follow you.

After a short while, his patience started to run out, and he was quite tired of tracking your steps. The boy was tempted to slip some truth serum into your drink at some point, yet he had refrained, a part of him knowing you would somehow take notice of the trickery. He knew it by the way your eyes would survey the room very carefully as if you were cautious and distrustful of everyone that surrounded you. It bothered him how similar both of your mindsets were.

He heard you had managed to hex a handful of students ever since your arrival, whispering such threats in their ears that they would leave with trembling limbs.

You had darkness in you, and Tom was planning on unleashing it.

You finally made it to the library, politely greeting the old librarian before moving to your usual table in the corner, a space that was secluded and away from prying eyes. You pulled out an unfamiliar book and did not waste a second before you were indulged in it.

Tom watched, as your brows knitted together in concentration, as you pulled your lower lip in between your thumb and pointer finger, as you ran a hand through your soft hair in frustration, and he devoured every little action.

A little amount of time passes before he could not stand the questions gnawing at his mind, so he finally decided to approach you, settling in the chair next to you with grace.

You looked up from your book, your expression annoyed as you stared at the Prefect next to you. "Can I help you?"

He did not respond for a brief moment, as his eyes fell to the cover of the book you were currently reading. 'Love Potions: The Dangers and Effects'

"An interesting choice of book." He expressed his thought sourly, wondering why she would waste her time reading a book on Love Potions. Had he miscalculated things? Was she not special? Was she just another foolish girl searching for love? He almost gagged at the thought.

"Not particularly." You answered with a tired sigh. "It was apparently written by an imbecile because there is no useful information in here." With that said, you snapped the book shut and turned to him, cocking an eyebrow. "Is there something you need, Riddle? Because I would rather not waste my time and chit-chat."

"Many would love to be in your place and chit-chat with me, darling." He answered, his lips curling into a smug smirk. You rolled your eyes at his arrogance. "What was it that you were looking for in a book about Love Potions?"

You glanced at him, debating whether or not to actually answer his question. You've heard that Tom Riddle was the brightest student in school, and after some contemplation, you came to the conclusion that perhaps he would have some insight on the subject you were so interested in.

"What do you know about children conceived under the effects of a love potion?" You asked, and quirked a brow as his body stilled. His guarded eyes searched your face before he straightened his spine.

"Why are you asking?"

You sighed then, figuring he did not know about it. "Forget it. You're just as useless as the imbecile who wrote this." You made a move to grab your book and put it back in your bag, yet you were startled when his hand slammed on the table, the other grabbing the back of your chair as he leaned in towards you.

"Watch your mouth." He snarled.

"Jeez, you're sensitive." You smirked as you put your hand on his chest in an attempt to push him away.

He continued to glare at you, even as he settled back in his seat.

"Children conceived under the love potion are told to be void of most of the emotions. They cannot feel, they cannot sympathise, and cannot feel love."

His words caused you to freeze in your place, and it was as if realisation dawned upon you as you stared numbly at your hands. So that is why you felt no remorse, no regret, no guilt- and no love towards the people you were supposed to care about.

He watched you, as you seemed to be mulling over things in your head, and a thought struck his head.

“Were you conceived under the effects of the love potion?”

You looked up, surprised at his bluntness.

You debated lying to him, yet you knew Tom Riddle, and he was not the type to gossip or indulge in similar useless activities, so with a bitter smile, you responded. “Yes. I was.”

Something churned in Tom’s heart, something dangerous as he stared at you. You were...similar to him. He had never been able to say that about someone. There had been no one that could understand his feelings- or well, the lack of- and now there you were, the one person in the universe who happened to have the same unfortunate fate as him.

“So was I.” Was his unexpected response. You saw no deception behind his gaze and knew he had no reason or motive to lie about such a thing, and you believed him.

It was then that you had formed a bond that went unspoken. It was as if you understood each other without needing to speak the words. And that is how that weird night blossomed into days of spending time together, becoming friends. It was quite easy, you matched each other’s level both emotionally and intellectually, and it came as a relief to the both of you.

Whatever you two had, had blossomed into a deep trustful releationship, and you had been informed of Tom’s plans for the future. As expected, you supported his idea, his beliefs, and your own thirst for power had you feeling giddy at the idea of becoming unstoppable.

It was when you were both at that same table in the library when he spoke the words that you swore made you feel something.

“As I rule over the world.” He breathed. “I want you by my side, ruling as the Dark Lady. The world will be ours. We will be a force to be reckoned with.”

You had looked up at him with utter yet pleasant surprise, and you had felt your lips curl into a smirk as you agreed, because how could you not when he was offering the whole world to you?

He then had grabbed your chin, lifting your face and brushing his soft lips against yours.

That day, he had kissed you so hard, you thought your lips would bruise, yet you did not dare complain. If that was what pain felt like, you would take it every day, only to feel his lips on yours once more.

The universe had created you for one another, two similar souls destined for a great purpose. Destined to rule the world.

#tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle fanfic #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle one shot #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x oc #tom riddle angst #tom riddle fluff #idk what this is

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willowbleedsonpaper · 3 years

Text

Happy With You

Sirius Black x Female Reader

W.C. : 2800

Request: Hiii wifey ;) may I request a fic for the love of my life sirius black? Maybe the reader is james’ little sibling?Also, lots of yearning/ mutual pining please 😭 but please pleaseeee make it a happy ending cause shattered part one left me HEART BROKEN

A/N: Thanks for the request lovely! I had so much fun writing this I hope you and everyone enjoy it.

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Maybe it was the way she spoke, like her words were written in the finest sheets of parchment by all the blessed people that got to listen to her, as if her voice carried the melody of a siren and attracted everyone in her direction. It definitely had that effect on Sirius Black.

Sirius wanted to follow her to every place she set foot on, listen to her talk as full of passion and excitement as she always did. She had a magnet to her, a magnet that pulled him and made him want to talk to her all the time. Or just be with her, sitting on grass just outside of the castle as she played and ran, maybe he’d play with her. Laughter flowing with the cold breeze as he wrapped his arm around her waist and spun her in the air.

“Sirius!”

That wasn’t her voice.

“Merlin, we’ve lost him.”

But it was close enough.

“Huh?” Sirius murmured, lifting his head from the book open in the desk in front of him. He shook his head softly, eyes focusing on round glasses before he could see beyond the lens and into brown eyes. Not quite the ones he was hoping for, though. “What is it?”

“Never seen you so invested in something.” James chuckled. If only he knew. “Do you get what the professor is talking about?” he asked, spinning the book in the air to see if maybe he got it upside down with no luck, the book was on the right side and just as it was supposed to be read “I reckon he stopped speaking English hours ago.”

Sirius laughed at that, turning to see Peter just as confused as James and then to Remus, the only one actually taking notes “Moony gets it.” he said, pointing towards the brown haired boy with a small grin. “Ask him.”

“Oh, we know Moony gets it.” James said humorlessly, snatching the book from Sirius’ hands “He’ll explain to us later, but I need to understand now.” He turned back on his seat, stealing glances from Remus’ papers as Remus moved slightly to the left, giving James a better view.

“Do you get it?” Sirius whispered in Peter’s direction, the boy calmly taking notes as he nodded.

“I think so.” he answered “Just found the part in the text that he’s talking about. But the professor already asked James, he didn’t know the answer and he’s about to get detention that would get him out of the next Quidditch practices. He 's desperate.”

“Figures.” Sirius laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he started taking notes about what he thought was important or worth remembering “Maybe whisper the answer to him next time.”

“I’m barely understanding myself.” Peter murmured, turning to Sirius “I thought you would know, we lost you to that book for a minute there.” He said, pointing to the same page Peter had opened in his book, but Sirius just shook his head “Just as lost as you.” he mumbled, but the hint in his voice was clear that he didn’t mean the class.

*******

You stood next to your professor’s desk, your friend just behind you as you asked the few questions you still had about your class that just ended. That was when the loud voices reached your ears and you smiled internally, James was close.

“...and that would be the more complicated uses of the charm.” the raspy sound of your professor’s voice ceased and you had to stop yourself from running out of the classroom right there and then. He is always with him.

“Thank you, professor. I understand better now.” you smiled at him, taking your friend’s wrist as you slowly started to walk “We’ll see you next class.!” you said, your face a blur as you ran outside dragging your friend with you.

“What 's the rush?!” she yelled over the fuzz of the students changing classes and the wind flowing in your ears. Her hand shot up in the air, holding down the hat on her head as you sped through the halls following the trail only they could leave.

“They were here.” you informed her, avoiding all the people in your way.

“Godric, you’re out of your mind.” she laughed, but followed you anyway.

Just as the hallways started to get clearer you got the advantage of finding the four heads you were looking for, just standing in the middle of the entrance to the castle like they owned the place. Somehow, you knew they did and no one had the courage to admit it. They knew it too well and had no need to put it into words. Yes, they got detention and caused more trouble than the entire school together, but most of Hogwarts loved them and they got away with more than they should be able to, even professors had a soft spot for them. They had a nameless power over Hogwarts and they knew it. But you had power over one of them.

“James Potter!” you yelled, marching towards them as you still held onto your friend's hand.

His head snapped up to you, the momentarily fear that he showed on his face quickly turning into a grin as he ran towards you with open arms. You squealed, leaving your friend's side to run to him, bodies crashing as he hugged you tightly.

“Hello, little one.” he said excitedly, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as he ruffled your hair, the groan leaving your mouth only making his grin grow.

“I'm almost as tall as you.” you complained, standing on your tiptoes to see him eye to eye for one second “See?” you said, the effort making you drop to your actual height, the low giggles coming from your friend making you get away from James. “And only a year younger.” you said matter of factly, taking his hand and guiding his arm away from you, just it time to see his friends catching up with him. “Hello boys.” you greeted them with a smile. They all thought you had a light to you that they loved, your first days at Hogwarts had been spent with them and they immediately made you feel like a part of their group. The feeling had stuck until the present day, even if you had your own friends and didn’t spend much time with them as you once did, they had grown to look out for you in their own ways. They all saw you like a little sister and you saw them all like family, but the ache in your heart screamed to this day for something more from a certain someone, your eyes lingering a second longer on him before you turned back to James.

“What did you do now?” you said accusatively, crossing your arms over your chest. You had seen the terror slide from his face the moment he saw it was you calling his full name, he had done something and you knew it.

“Nothing.” he answered defensively, his face tensing as he turned away from you. “We actually have to get to class so I’ll see you later , you goblin.” he stretched his arm, ruffling your hair again before he took off running. “Bye Willow!” he yelled, waving his hand in the air as your friend did the same.

Remus, Peter and Sirius said their goodbyes quickly, following James closely as you and Willow stood there watching them go, only you noticing the slow steps that Sirius was taking, his head turned towards you as he waved his hand. Your giggle echoed the stone walls as he winked in your direction, a smile forming in your face as he finally disappeared from your sight.

“Merlin, that lasted forever.” Willow breathed out.

“What lasted forever?” you asked her, starting to walk beside her.

“Please, I had to fight the urge to cover my eyes.” she said, laughing in the end. A silence followed her words and she turned to see your confused face as you walked “You and Sirius?” she explained in a whisper, as if the words were forbidden to anyone to say out loud.

You continue walking, your confusion only growing as you stared at her “Wh-What about me and him?” you asked with a string of voice, the sound making Willow relax as she flashed you with a smile.

“Are you that oblivious or you're just in denial?” she asked incredulously “He obviously has a thing for you.” You shushed her quickly, covering her mouth with your hand when her voice raised, the sudden motion capturing the attention of a couple of older students. You smiled tightly in their direction, letting go of your hold on Willow as she stuck her tongue out in your direction, the other students gave you an awkward look but carried on their way without a second look in your direction.

“No need to announce it to the entirety of Hogwarts.” you muttered under your breath, a knowing smile on your friends lips as she nodded successfully.

“So you agree he has a thing for you?” with a huff you nodded, rolling your eyes at the squeal she let out. Her hand took hold of your shoulder and she shook you gently “And do you?” she asked “Do you feel something for him?”

Suddenly, your eyes found every single detail of the castle interesting, your eyes landing on every wall with the most intense curiosity as to avoid Willow’s eyes, but there was no escaping her glare “Oh, c´mon!” you hissed, covering your face and dragging your hands down your face “Have you seen him? Of course I have a thing for him.”

Willow laughed but kept her now warm gaze calm on you “But do you have feelings for him?” she asked.

You snapped out of the embarrassed state you were in, turning to her with a frown “I don’t know.” you admitted.

Truly, you didn’t know.

*******

The weekend arrived at Hogwarts, the sunlight shining softly through the windows and over the faces of those closest to them as the birds sang just outside to greet the early risers.

You groaned as soon as the sun caressed the side of your face. “Five more minutes.” you mumbled, covering your face with your pillow, turning to the opposite side with your back to the window.

The quiet room soon was filled with soft snores that you tried to ignore, the noise only growing louder as you pressed the pillow harder against your face. Your eyes snapped open and you rose, supporting your weight on your forearms as you glared to the bed right to yours. One minute passed, then two and then three and you thought you held back enough. Your hand reached for your pillow, throwing it with all your force towards Willow’s face.

Her sudden scream was muffled by the tangled covers that got all over her face as she fell from her bed. The entire mess of limbs and sputter of words lasted for only a second before she emerged from her covers, her eyes instantly landing on you “What was that for?!” she demanded, taking the pillow from beside her and throwing it back.

Ducking her throw, you narrowed your eyes “You’re loud,” you said, getting out of bed “and I’m hungry.”

*******

“I looooove pancakes.” Willow murmured as she took a seat, getting her plate and starting to serve the food without another thought.

A breathy laugh left your lips, taking your spot right in between James and Willow “What Willow means is good morning.” you said with a smile. It had become a habit to have breakfast with James on the weekends when your house didn’t matter and everyone could enjoy their meals without colors keeping them from other students.

“And she lives.” James laughed at the sight of you “You’re an early bird now?”

You glared at him, glancing at Willow once before you huffed heavily “You can blame the bear having breakfast over there.” you said, pointing at her.

She limited to wave a dismissive hand in your direction, her focus on the food in front of her more than in any other thing.

Everyone laughed at your friend’s behaviour, the sleep still in her eyes as she ate. She was oblivious to all the eyes in her.

“Can someone get me the syrup, please?” you asked, reaching your hand in the air. A familiar warmth in your fingertips made you raise your head, your hand lingering there for a moment before you smiled “Thank you.” you told Sirius, a glint in your eyes as you stared at him. His own smile didn’t go unnoticed by you and that sense of calm filled you once more. How could someone so chaotic be such a calming presence to you?

Breakfast became your favorite moment of the week. It was the moment of the week where you had an excuse to be near Sirius, where you could sit next to him and no one would question it. Breakfast became more than just being able to sit close to him or accidentally brushing your hands together. Saturday mornings became your mornings, just you and Sirius. As if the world knew it was the only time and place you could share knowing glances, where smiles looked brighter and the feeling of butterflies wilder. Sirius could swear that holding your hand underneath the table was the best feeling, one where he could swear your skin felt softer and your palm warmer. No one could say a thing, because it was just you and him. Y/N and Sirius.

In those short minutes or rapid hours no words were needed.

But Sirius loved taking risks.

You look lovely, by the way he would whisper in your ear, away from the noise and praying eyes of the rest of your friends.

Soon, the time you two had on the weekend over breakfast wasn’t enough. You started meeting late in the evenings when most of the students prefer to stay inside the castle to avoid the chill air. You two had no problem with it, you had come to enjoy it.

“Tell me more about it.” he asked you gently, his back resting against a tall tree. He held your hand in his, both intertwined and resting against your chest. “I’ve never heard of it before.”

You looked up at him, your head resting on his lap as you thought about it “Well, some muggles believe in witchcraft but not like we know it. You see, we have magic and come here to study it but only a few of us. They believe everyone can perform a spell with the right motivation, they use all kinds of herbs and crystals that we don’t.” you said, your free hand moving with your words as if it was a melody and you were directing “Some of them work with their ancestors and work hard to heal. It’s a completely different kind of witchcraft. They do spells, charms and rituals but not like we do, they even do it dancing. Can you imagine?” you asked, lifting from your position to look at him.

If it weren’t because you waited for his answer he could’ve stayed there watching you. For a moment he swore you were gleaming and he never wanted to let the image go from his mind. He saw you in a different light for the first time, one he hadn’t been able to see you from before. “Dancing?” he asked.

You nodded eagerly, standing and pulling him with you. You let go of his hand and started to move, spinning in your spot with your robes flowing around your bare feet. You took little jumps and started to move your hands with the flow of your hair just above your head.

He really couldn't resist.

You had closed your eyes at some point, giving him the chance to run up to you, the squeal that left your lips didn’t cover his laugh, his arm secured around your waist as he spun you in the air. You were both laughing, the sun setting behind your backs as he finally set you down and then he realized, he felt like all this was coming out of his dreams.

His arms stayed around your waist, swaying gently to the sound of your humming, his head resting comfortably on top of your head. “Are you happy?” he asked you.

You expected for your heartbeat to go crazy, for the palms of your hands to start sweating but all you felt was an overwhelming calm taking over you. You sigh, resting your back against his chest as he held you “I am.” you told him “I feel happy with you.”