#so like. i come in like ten minutes early out of habit every day so now since i had to stay late on friday to finish things that Had to be

[andwewerehappy]

i have so much work anxiety this is insane. i hate this job what does it even MATTER

[jrreigns]

Mama’s Garden

It’s your birthday and your daughter wants to celebrate. Her father can do nothing but oblige.

A/N: My submission for Levi Month Day 21; Post-War: Children. ~1.3k words of pure angst.

Credit to @cafekitsune for the dividers!

“Papa, do you think mama would like this?”

A single pebble. A shiny one at that. Levi gave it an expressionless glance and gave a firm nod.

“Mama would like anything you give her, Eden.”

Hardened eyes met soft bright ones, ones that broke out in innocent glee, ones that made Levi Ackerman’s heart swell. There was only one other person who had this effect on him.

You.

The little girl chucked the pebble into a worn pouch, along with other things she wanted to give you. It was your birthday today and Levi had been up early—partly by his own choice, the other because of the giddy toddler who had been preparing for this day for weeks. It had been hard to put Eden down to bed yesterday and the bags under Levi’s eyes were a testament to that.

The day was sunny and so Levi moved forward with his child’s plans, a picnic for mama. Stowed inside a basket were fruit—the ones you and Eden liked—some sandwiches she helped him make, and leftover stew from yesterday’s meal.

“Mama doesn’t like stew,” Eden huffed, wrinkling her nose.

“Mama doesn’t like it, or you don’t like it?”

Eden gave it a seemingly deep thought.

“Neither of us.”

Dinner time had been a struggle yesterday, too. She turned out to be as picky of an eater as her father.

It was less of a struggle now though, compared to a couple of years ago.

Right. Eden was almost five. How quickly the time has passed.

Time, Levi reflected with a pang, time that he wished he had more of.

“Papa,” a little girl with his features, but your eyes, called to him, “let’s pick flowers for mama.” He nodded before his thoughts could ensnare him again.

“This red one, and this blue one, and this pink one…”

It amazed Levi how much she’s grown. She used to be so small, would fit right into his hands like a dainty little package. Now, she counted to ten and back, knew colors, helped him water your garden. She already knew so many things—Levi sometimes found it hard to keep up.

“Mama, you’re going to like my bucket, I promise,” Eden whispered into one of the bell-shaped flowers, a habit she had ever since Levi had told her that you’d hear her if she spoke into them.

“It’s bouquet, Eden,” he corrected her gently and turning to head back to the house when she stopped him.

“Won’t we water the flowers today?”

Levi paused, a twinge of guilt tightening in his chest. So Eden has noticed; Levi has tried not to let the approaching date affect him, but your garden hasn’t been tended to in a week now. The weeds were beginning to creep in, some flowers were wilted and some of the bush was growing wildly in some places.

“Yeah,” he finally answers, his voice softening, “go get the watering can.”

Eden giggled with delight, small shoes pattering around the corner as Levi watched her disappear momentarily. The minutes felt long; a familiar worry settled in his bones, a worry he couldn’t quite shake when his daughter was out of sight.

Levi let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when Eden finally reappeared. Watering can in tow, they watered the garden together. Levi’s brows were furrowed in concentration, trying not to overwater like you’ve taught him before.

I’ll tend to this later, Levi silently promised as they left the small garden and headed back into the house. He watched as Eden said her goodbyes to each and every flower, exerting patience where there once was none.

With the small basket in tow and a giggling Eden following closely behind, Levi began the familiar trek to the fields to see you.

“Papa, how come you married mama?”

Your toddler exhibited such curiosity that could drive Levi mad at times, but nonetheless he ensured to give her the information she wanted.

“I loved your mama, so I married her.”

Words like love still felt foreign in the former captain’s mouth. Yet, with time, it was getting just a little easier to speak of it—to speak of you.

“So people marry for love?”

Not always.

Very rarely.

“Of course,” he answered, voice steady.

Soon, the cobblestone paths diverted into dirt walkways. The small patch of flowers that had been growing from the cracks of the stone brick now flowed wildly in this section of the road.

Past the willow tree and into the flower fields, alone and by a motionless lake, you were there.

This is where Levi let love in—where he let you in. This is where Levi proposed.

This is where you rested.

“Mama, happy birthday!” Eden exclaimed, her voice ringing out in the quiet air. She took a seat next to the familiar gravestone, pouch already open as she emptied out its contents on the patch of grass she sat on.

Levi watched her for a moment, the weight of the day finally pressing heavily on his heart. Finally, he set the basket down, hand brushing light over the cool stone.

“Here’s this pebble I found today. You can have it, I already have one like it in my room…”

Levi could feel his throat closing up as Eden continued speaking, explaining every single gift she’s brought and what it meant. The pebble, a pink bow she’d begged Levi to buy (a bow he thought was for her), a drawing of a big house and a family of three.

A family of three, Levi wished his family of two could be a family of three. So many nights he spent hoping you were alive somewhere, not just in his mind—those quiet hours when the house felt too empty, and the silence too heavy.

Emotion was getting harder to combat with age, but Levi tried with all his might to refrain from crying. No, today his daughter deserved a moment of happiness, even if you being gone was killing him inside. Even if being here was killing him inside.

But Levi couldn’t stop the tears even if he wanted to.

“Is papa crying?”

He quickly wiped them away with his sleeve.

“No, it’s water.”

“…There was water in papa’s eyes yesterday, too.”

Eden was just like you, always so annoyingly observant. Levi could feel his heart twist at her words.

The flowers swayed peacefully in this part of the field, their soft colors blending with the golden light of the afternoon. The wind blew against Levi’s hair, tickling his face as he watched Eden run and play. A small smile etched itself on his scarred face in this fleeting moment of calm.

When Eden finally tired, she helped her papa clean up and put everything back in the basket. The gifts would stay, except the drawing. Levi had to find a way to secretly take it back home.

“Can we come back soon,” Eden asked, a hint of sadness finally making its way through.

Levi gave a firm nod. “Of course.”

There was a silent pause, a moment of deliberation for the young girl.

“Papa, how come mama can’t be with us?”

She died at childbirth.

“She’s busy,” was Levi’s gruff response, before letting out a heavy sigh. “Mama’s taking care of us…from the sky.” Levi was weary of religion, but if it meant he could spare even a shred of innocence for his daughter for the time being, he’s taking it, no questions asked.

“Mama’s an angel?”

A silent pause.

“Yeah, sure kid.”

She grinned, curiosity quelled for a short minute, before another thought burst through her tiny mind.

“Will you also be an angel one day?”

Levi could feel his heart stop. He hoped so, if it meant he could see you one day. He missed you so much—he missed your smile, your laugh, your playful kisses despite his half-hearted protests. For a brief moment, he allowed himself the comfort of an afterlife with you.

“Yeah, one day,” he finally managed to say, his voice almost breaking.

Eden smiled, her small face lighting up with an innocence that tugged at Levi’s heart.

“Papa, I love you,” Eden says so suddenly, “Mama loves you, too.”

Levi’s breath hitches, a warmth spreading through his chest. His eyes soften, he breaks into a rare, tender smile, one that hadn’t come easily for years.

“I love the both of you, too.”

[nerd-of-karasuno]

Bakusquad Sneaking into Your Dorm Room Headcannons

Eijiro Kirishima

Bakugo always knows when Kirishima sneaks out

He doesn't bother anyone but he definitely gets mad at Kirishima the next day for being too loud late at night.

The times Kirishima has gotten caught is probably around or under five times

There has been a few times where he has run into a classmate while heading to your room but was able to play it off as he was going downstairs to get water or because he forgot something

and the latter is true in most cases

He does forget quite a lot of his things in your room.

Think fast Kirishima!

It took him away to come up with that tho

after he ran into Todoroki who was kinda suspicious of him, Kirishima knew he had to make up a convincing excuse

Really he's just grateful he hasn't run into Iida yet

because Kirishima really knows he'll be doomed then.

One habit Kirishima does have when sneaking into your room is crashing into your bed right on top of you

He will tackle you gently if you're not on your bed already

Kirishima does this without fail every time

Katsuki Bakugo

surprisingly very stealthy

Even you don't know that Bakugo's coming to your room most of the time.

It may seem sometimes that your room is slowly becoming his room with how much time he spends in there especially at night and especially after the Kamino Incident.

It was completely unexpected the first time Bakugo snuck into your room

You might have brought the idea of sneaking around up but probably thought he'd never do it

We all know how he is with his sleep schedule and going to bed at a certain time

Don't worry he still keeps that schedule

He just sneaks into your room earlier.

Then when Bakugo leaves, you don't notice majority of the time

Bakugo is pretty strategic when it comes to this

He leaves early enough to get back to his own room without running into anyone

Bakugo doesn't always wake you but he always kisses your forehead before he goes

but Bakugo'll never tell you or admit that :)

Hanta Sero

honestly Sero's pretty good at getting from his to your place

he may get caught like once but that's about it

and it's sometimes surprising

because Sero will literally sneak into your room at completely random times

like he'll be like see you later when you're saying goodnight

and little do you know he actually does mean see you later when he's opening your door about ten to fifteen minutes later.

Sero will also play it super risky occasionally.

You don't know if he does it on purpose.

Class 1-A definitely have late night hangouts and when everyone eventually heads to bed, Sero will go to your room.

Sero never gets caught when he does this

even tho the hallways have quite a few people in them

yeah get this man to share his secrets

Denki Kaminari

Denki attempts to be sneaky

but he fails the first few times never even making it to your room

but through trial and error he makes it to you successfully

And he's very proud of it

look it was only one time that Denki ended up tripping on the floor very hard and waking up the others on your floor

he wants you to stop teasing him about it lol

now the challenge for Denki is staying quiet when he's in your room

Whoever's in the room next you you definitely knows that you have someone over

Denki gets carried away quite a lot

so he forgets that he's supposed to be kinda quiet when in you're room.

He always has a little celebration when he closes your door,

Denki's just happy he wasn't caught and he's able to spend the night with his favorite person.

Mina Ashido

Mina would 100% get to your room and back safely and without anyone else knowing

But I feel like she would slip up when telling the 1A girls a funny story or a video she saw when she was in your room and she would accidentally give out details that clued in some of the girls to exactly where she was at

Let's just hope Mr. Aizawa never overhears lol.

If Mina does happen to run into someone, she plays it off so well

No one suspects anything

well sometimes she heads over to your room with a bag and then someone might wonder what she's up to

Mina loves bringing over things to do in your room

Whether it be makeup, nail polish, and other fun stuff, you're having a blast when she's in your room

Oh, and Mina definitely spills the tea on whatever hot gossip there is that's been going on at U.A.

You are filled in with all the details

Honestly when Mina sneaks into your room, sometimes you get absolutely no sleep or don't go to bed until some odd hour in the morning

but hey you're always doing something that's kinda productive when Mina's in your room.

dance parties

[glaciertea]

Tickets for Two

Miguel O'Hara x GN!Reader two-shot

Part 2 (coming soon)

This is part one of this story that's been on my mind for quite a while.

Summary: Working the graveyard shift at a movie theater has it quirks. It's not the best thing, and it's not the worst.

Well, there is one thing that keeps you from leaving this job.

The huge, gorgeous man who comes in every Thursday.

CW: Nothing for this chapter, just having a crush on Miguel.

Word count: 1.7k

There was something about Thursday nights in the movie theater that always made you exhilarated.

It wasn't the smell of freshly stale popcorn that stunk up your nostrils or the fact that you were able to score the after-hours time slot on this day. The ones many would kill to have because after 9 p.m., the place is a barren ghost town. Oh, no. It wasn't one of those reasons. 

It was him.

Throughout the year and a half you managed to survive working here; you've never seen a man like that before in your life. Yes, you've seen your fair share of attractive people come in and out; of course, this was a place to watch the latest hit-or-miss films. But this one, this one was different.

Tall, high cheekbones, a jawline that could shapren diamonds merely by looking at them, those piercing eyes, and those muscles. You always have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming.

He started coming three months ago for the ‘Traditional Thursdays’ feature presentation. Your theater would show old movies from the 1930's ranging to the 2020's or 2030's. It was a nice addition, as your boss wanted to have that “retro-style feel,” and it was pretty successful… if one were to go at the 9 p.m. slot. That frame usually brought in a decent amount of customers, but you were happy to not deal with that anymore.

You managed to get in the ten-to-one schedule block. It was a ghost town during those hours, especially with the midnight showings. You would lounge behind the concession, eyeing a few nightcrawlers emerge, but you would wait for him.

He would walk through the sliding doors exactly at midnight. Never a minute early, never a minute late. The actual film doesn't begin until 12:10 to showcase the following week's feature and a trailer or two. 

So it gives him enough time to head in your direction. He has become a regular for you, always ordering a medium black roast coffee, a small popcorn, and a pack of gummy worms. It got to the point where you realized the items were never going to change, so you made it a habit to have them prepared for him on hand. You barely speak because you don't know what to conjure up, and you certainly don't want to make a fool of yourself, so you stick to the basic “Here's your order” and “Enjoy your film.”

He always responds with a “Thank you” or an “I appreciate it,” and each time, your knees will wobble. His voice was smoother than the butter that you poured on the popcorn. He had you weak. His chiseled profile, his domineering height—he was too good to be true. You want to know more about him, but he's very much to himself. You are intimidated by him; his demeanor can make him seem unapproachable, but that only draws you in more.

There will be a day you will finally find the courage to strike up a conversation. One day.

You just weren't expecting it to be today. You manned the concussion stand, eyeing the time and counting the milliseconds. It was, of course, slow, but you loved it. Easy money to you.

His order was fresh and ready to go; he was going to stroll in less than a minute, and you had to put a lid on your excitement. And like clockwork, he came in and made his way right to you.

Putting on your best smile, you placed the snacks and beverage on the counter. “I got everything ready to go, sir. Piping hot and a new batch of popcorn made.”

“Actually, I want to switch it up. I'm sorry for the inconvenience.”

Your brain practically malfunctioned. Not from the request, but from the fact he uttered more words to you. Your reaction must have given something away as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“If not, that's fine. I don't want you wasting supplies on me.”

Scolding yourself, you shook your head and waved your hands. “No, no! No, sir, it's not an inconvenience at all. I'll gladly ring you up with a new order. Anything for the customer.” You despised saying that phrase as it got so many ungrateful, smug idiots out of problems they decided to cause. But for him? You would repeat it endlessly.

Discarding the usual and clearing the order from the register, you nodded. “What are your taste buds tingling for?” Did you really say those words in that order? Your body suddenly wanted to combust.

The man raised a brow as you chuckled nervously. “That sounded... less dumber in my head.”

His lips turned upwards at that, and your heart stopped. He smiles? He can smile! You never once saw him do that, but if you did, you managed to miss it. He managed to look more radiant; how was that possible?

“Well, my taste buds are craving pretzel bites, fruit snacks, and... can I make my medium roast into a large?”

“Yes, sir, I'll try to get it done before the film starts.” 

“No hay necesidad de apresurarse. Take your time.”

“Okay.” You squeaked out, hiding your flustered state from him.

Miguel rested his arms on the countertop and observed the way you moved back and forth, blending new beans and meticulously placing the hot pretzels in a bag. 

“Here you go.” You reached down and took a packet of fruits and propped it nicely on the pretzel bag. “Steaming and raring to go.”

“Are you usually precise when making these orders?” Miguel pulled his wallet out and paid for the meal, leaving a nice tip.

“Kind of. Maybe it's because I have more time to do these things, and I like my regulars to enjoy nice treats.” You grinned and went to clean up his usual. “I hope you enjoy.

“I'll be sure to keep that in mind. Definitely keeping sure. Thank you again.”

You didn't know what meant by that as he took up his things and headed off to catch the film. You put your hand to your chest and calmed your heart rate, going on about your night. You honestly believed that would've been the end of that interaction and that the following week would revert back to the same old, same old, but you were far from it.

The next Thursday, he was there, but fifteen minutes earlier, asking for a new item from the menu alongside the other treats. You were once again thrown off, but that didn't mean you got to be near his presence more, and if not longer. 

It started off with small extras. A bag of pretzels, sized up on the popcorn, an extra bag of candy—nothing too extravagant. However, as the weeks coasted by, the orders got bigger. A hotdog, flatbread pizza, sliders—those meals took you longer to make, but you did not mind one bit. 

You got to chat with him constantly; when Thursday rolled around, you had that extra pep in your step. The conversations ranged from his tedious office filled with people of the same personality, the many tales of strange movie customers from you, or anything that springs to mind. He was awkward, loveable, and sweet, and your crush for him only grew more with each visit. To the point that it was overwhelming.

And it wasn't blowing away anytime soon. 

You were fixing him up a basket of curly fries and chicken tenders casually yapping away when the topic of movie genres popped up.

“I'm into animated movies. They seemingly are able to convey more emotions than actual humans.”

Miguel enjoyed watching you; he honestly preferred looking at you than the film he was supposed to see. “I enjoy them as well. They tend to have moments that resonate with you on a higher emotional level.” He tapped his finger on the glass counter. “Do you have any favorites?”

“Hmm.” You rubbed your chin before moving back over to the fries and dumping some extra salt and pepper on them (they barely had any flavor to them). “I like a good Lixar film. It's funny how they're able to give certain things sentiment. Rather it's inanimate or not, they find a way. I mean, they gave a torso and sweater emotions. A sweater!” You poured the fries into the plastic basket and moved onto the tenders. “Now in particular, I love Bouillabaisse. Up is a heartbreaker, but I can understand the older man's pain. Searching Elmo is so gorgeous, especially for the time it came out. And Coco, that's a tearjerker. That ending scene when he's singing to her? Gets me every time.” 

“I enjoyed all those as well.” Miguel took a sip of his freshly brewed coffee. “Especially the last one.”

“Oh yeah?” You grabbed some tongs and flipped the tenders to cook them evenly. 

“Sí. A bit of a bias though.” 

“A bias?”

“I share the name of the main character.” He stared right into your eyes as he said that.

“Miguel.” It was velvety as it slid off your tongue.

Was that a suave way of him giving his name? It never occurred to you that you actually never learned his name. He knew yours because of the required name tag, but you were glad to know it now and took it with no complaints.

“It fits.” You smiled and finally finished and rang up his meal. “I shouldn't keep you from the movie. I hope everything is of satisfaction for you.”

“You already know it will be.” He paid and reached for his goods when he stopped.

You crooked your neck and looked down to make sure you didn't miss anything. His usual and the new meal were there, so you didn't know what was up. 

“Is everything okay? Did I mess up your order?”

“Everything is fine. I only want to…” he snatched up a napkin and scanned, even going as far as peering over the counter.

“Miguel?” 

“Do you have a pen?” 

“Yes?” You took one from under the register and handed it to him.

“Thank you.” He scribbled down at lightning pace and folded it half, sliding it across to you. “I'll see you then.” He bowed his head, snagged up his meal and left. 

You had to wait several seconds to recover from your shock when you hastily snatched up the napkin and opened it up. You drew your lips to your teeth to prevent yourself from screaming. 

There were ten digits written in blue.

[toournextadventure]

bad dream?

Summary: Tara wakes up in the middle of the night from a nightmare. Again. They always seem to come at the worst of times. But at least she can ask you to keep her company for the night.

Word Count: 1.8k Warnings: swearing, mentions of Ghostface and related trauma Pairing: Tara Carpenter x Reader

Tara woke with a start. Her eyes opened to the dark room illuminated only by the street lights outside her window. The image of Ghostface was engraved into her eyelids every time she blinked. If she focused on one spot for too long, she could almost see him standing in the corner of her room. Watching her. Waiting.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes quickly; if she took too long, He would be there again. It didn’t make much of a difference though, her palms were so sweaty she had to wipe them off on her bed. Not that it helped much, her bed was soaked too.

“Gross,” she mumbled to herself as she continued to sit in almost a literal pool of her own sweat.

Every time a car drove by outside, she flinched. It was from the headlights, or the sound, or even just the knowledge that someone had been outside her room even for a fleeting moment. All they would have to do is climb up the fire escape and that would be it, she would be done for.

Tara liked to pretend during the day that nothing bothered her. Sam was already so openly traumatised about it, she couldn’t add her own trauma to it. But she was scared, and it came out at night. When she was enveloped with the darkness and every sound could be Him, watching and waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

With shaky hands, she grabbed her phone from the nightstand and turned it on. The light from the screen blinded her, but only for a moment. 2:17am. Too fucking late to just stay up, too early to do anything about it. She sat there and chewed her lip, thinking about what her next move was.

There was no way she was going to wake Sam up. What, was she going to waltz in there in her pyjamas, stand at the foot of the bed and say “I had a bad dream?” No, she wasn’t a little kid. But she didn’t want to be alone, and that narrowed her options considerably.

Well…

She dialled your number and held her phone up to her ear. Each time it rang, she felt herself getting more and more anxious. What if you didn’t answer? God, what if something had happened to you? What if He was back and had gone after you to get to her and Sam?

“Hello?” You mumbled, sleep evident in your voice. She exhaled through her nose; you were safe.

“Did I wake you?” She asked.

“No,” you said, followed by some ruffling on your end. “I’m always awake at 2:30 in the morning.”

“It’s not 2:30 yet,” Tara said quickly. She got out of bed and started digging through her dresser drawers; she needed something clean to put on.

You were silent on the other end of the line, and for a moment Tara was convinced you had fallen back asleep. It was a habit of yours to fall asleep while on the phone, or during a movie, or occasionally while hanging out with her friends. You blamed it on studies, she blamed it on the massive crash after all the caffeine you drank during the day.

“Did you have a nightmare?” You finally asked, your voice far too gentle for her to appreciate.

“No,” she said quickly. “Just a bad dream.”

“That’s a nightmare.”

“Semantics,” Tara argued. She started pulling on a new pair of shorts as she waited for you to say something else.

“Would you like some company?”

She froze and stood in the middle of her room. Yes, she thought. She very much wanted some company, especially from you. There was something about you that made her feel safe; it was why she had agreed to go out with you in the first place. But she knew how often you sacrificed your own well-being for her. She couldn’t ask that of you again.

A creak in the apartment made her jump.

Actually, yes she could ask you to sacrifice your well-being again.

“I’ll leave the window open,” she said, quickly moving to do exactly as stated.

“Give me about ten minutes,” you said, and she heard more shuffling from your end of the line.

“Stay on the line with me?” She asked hesitantly.

“Sure thing, pretty girl,” you said. “Give me a sec, I’m switching you to my headphones.”

Tara looked down at the firescape outside her window. The light two floors down came on, and she could see a shadow reflecting off the metal railing. It moved, and she heard the matching shuffling and clamouring before you spoke again.

“Can you hear me?” You asked; you sounded a bit staticy, but otherwise clear.

“Yeah,” she said with a nod that you couldn’t see.

“Did you wanna talk about it?” You asked as you continued to shuffle around your room. The light from your room swayed as you moved inside.

“Just the usual,” she said absentmindedly, leaning against the windowpane and trying not to shiver from the cold fall air.

It was a lie; it wasn’t the usual nightmare. This one was about you. About Ghostface coming back and using you to strike a very particular note of fear into her. Using you as the bait in His twisted game, asking her questions she didn't know, and being forced to watch as He gutted you like a fish.

“You’re such a liar, Tara,” you huffed, but she could hear the little laugh.

“How would you even know?” She asked with her own huff.

“Cause I can see you.”

Tara jumped and dropped the phone to the floor, spinning on her heels to look at the window. You were crawling in, a duffel bag over your shoulder and holding something in your mouth. It almost looked like a movie case. Your headphones covered your ears and you smiled at her as best you could.

“You’re such a prick,” she grumbled, but quickly ran over to help you in.

“Take it,” you mumbled around the case, holding your head forward. She took the hint and grabbed it. “Thank you.”

“Do you make it a habit of creeping in people’s windows?” She asked as she grabbed you by the elbows to steady your stumbling into the room.

“Only when they invite me,” you said with a smile. You leaned forward and captured her lips in a quick kiss. “Hey, baby.”

“You didn’t actually have to come,” she mumbled against your lips.

“You asked me to,” you said, giving her another quick kiss. “I’m always happy to keep you company.”

While you moved to set the duffle bag on the bed, Tara went to close the window. She looked down to the alley below for a moment, checking to make sure no one was out there. It wouldn’t surprise her if He was watching, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. Sam and Quinn were asleep, it would be easy for Him to-

“-Baby.”

She turned quickly to see you already stripping down the bed. You were moving with the speed of a military vet - all thanks to your mother - with none of the stress. But your eyes were on her, looking her up and down. It made her self-conscious. With a sigh she crossed her arms over her stomach, holding herself in a faux hug.

“Wanna tell me about the nightmare?” You asked in a soft voice. She hated when you were soft with her; it made her feel fragile.

“Aren’t those your bedsheets?” She completely overlooked your question, her eyes landing on the new sheets you were finishing tucking in.

“Freshly washed,” you said with a half smile. “I have to do laundry tomorrow anyway, I’ll throw your sheets in.”

“Anyone ever told you you’re whipped?” She asked, but nonetheless she crawled into the freshly made bed. It smelled like you.

“All the time,” you said with an exaggerated sigh. “Feels better, don’t it?”

“They’re cheap sheets,” Tara shot back. You barked out a laugh that echoed through the room.

“Talk about ungrateful,” you said around a few more bouts of laughter.

The sheets were warming up when she slid down a little further, pulling the thick comforter up to her chin. She just watched you move around. It always amazed her how many things you could fit in your trusty duffle bag. Tonight, you brought out a folding lawn chair, your laptop, a textbook, some snacks, and…

“Is that a bat?” Tara asked when you plopped down into the chair, the weapon resting on your lap.

“Why yes it is,” you said proudly. “Wooden and ready to beat a few heads in.”

“You brought a bat to your girlfriend’s room?” She probed.

“Tara, I love you,” you said with a pointed look. “But you and your sister are danger magnets and I am not taking any chances.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but quickly closed it. It wasn’t like she could deny your accusation; you were right. She and Sam were always attracting some sort of danger, whether it was Ghostface or the crazy conspiracy theorists from Reddit. There was always something around the corner.

And you apparently were choosing to face it head on instead of running away like everyone else had.

“Get some sleep, baby,” you said softly when Tara remained silent. “I can see the window and the door.” There was a seriousness on your face even though your body seemed relaxed. “No one is getting in.”

“Can you stay in bed with me?” She asked.

“I can’t see the door and window from the bed,” you said not unkindly.

“Just until I fall asleep,” she tried again.

Not that she should have been concerned whether you would or wouldn’t get in bed with her. You didn’t even hesitate before placing the bat down on the ground and standing up, stretching for only a moment before crawling into bed behind her. Relief flooded her veins the instant your arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her close.

“Thank you,” she whispered, leaning forward to kiss the hand near her face.

“Of course, baby,” you said just as quietly. She felt your lips press against the back of her neck. “I’ll always come when you call.”

With a soft sigh, she cuddled further into you and finally felt her body relax. You were there with her, you were safe. No one was going to get in, He wasn’t going to come back. Someone she loved was with her, holding her tight and keeping her safe.

“Good night, Tara,” you whispered, and she felt you press another kiss to the top of her head.

She had never fallen asleep so fast.

[writingforstraykids]

Hii! So I don’t know if you’ve already posted this… but if not, could you please do soft thoughts for Changbin?? (He’s my bias)

Thank you!!! I love your work btw!! 💗

I tried my best since I don't really write for anyone else but Min, Chan, Lix and sometimes Innie now. I do hope I did your imagination justice🖤 thanks to @zehina, niki and kylei for their ideas☺️

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

Changbin loves coming home to you after a long day, resting his head in your lap, and relaxing. He loves it when you run your hand through his hair, soothingly massaging his scalp as you tell him about your day. He doesn't stop planting tiny kisses on your other hand and your thighs, getting sleepier with every passing second he spends in your comforting presence.

Speaking of headscratches, he loves when your nails are a little longer or you get them done professionally because he loves the way they scratch his scalp just perfectly. Especially on nights when he has a hard time falling asleep.

Whenever you're not feeling well, whether at home or in public, his hand naturally finds your back. He rubs soothing circles on your lower back or all the way up and down, assuring you he's there.

Changbin always has an extra bottle of water with him, not wanting his beloved partner to dehydrate. He always makes sure to have one with him, reminding you as often as he can to "just take a little sip" and then relax for another ten minutes. Especially in the summer when you're out having fun with him, you're very glad about this sometimes annoying habit.

A, for you, rather amusing habit of his is helping you put on your socks and shoes. You have no idea why, but this man is on his knees faster than you can comprehend and makes sure you're all comfortable in your socks. Then he puts on your shoes for you, and if needed, he ties your shoelaces tightly enough for them to stay that way the whole day. He can get really sulky if you "forget" to tell him and won't let him help you.

If you're the type for candles, he has your back. No matter the occasion or time of the year, this man can find you fitting candles: lavender for when you're stressed, sweet pumpkin-themed ones for Halloween, red roses for Valentine's Day, or cinnamon and orange during Christmas time. He never fails to amaze you, and by now, you have an amazing, unique candle collection, keeping one of each flavor to remember forever.

Another one that has started quite early in your relationship is matching with him. It started with matching your outfits by color before adding matching sweaters. For your first anniversary, he got you matching keychains, and soon after, you had matching phone cases. Several ones, in fact, so you could change them as often as you'd like, and he always makes sure to change his own accordingly.

Changbin won't let you carry your own stuff for once. He's always hovering, holding your bag for you, grabbing your drinks and snacks, and if you'd let him, he'd hold your phone right under your nose the whole day as well. In his eyes, you shouldn't have to carry anything since you have a "pretty strong boyfriend who can take care of you." Yes, your coffee will still fit into his hand next to your shopping bags, handbag, wallet, keys, and donuts.

He loves acting silly with you, especially when it's only the two of you. Whenever you put on your playlist with girl group songs, he'll go crazy with you, outdancing you with ease. It's frustrating, really. You have no chance against those hips and goofy smile.

He craves your attention every second of the day. Binnie wants to wake up next to your sleeping face, to hold you as you sleep, and to the feeling of your heartbeat against his chest. Your heartbeat is his favorite sound, right after your laugh. Whenever he can, he places his head on your chest to listen to it beating and smirks at it, picking up pace when he calls you by one of his ridiculous pet names.

Speaking of ridiculous nicknames, Binnie is definitely the type for it. He calls you by the longest and weirdest-sounding pet names you only see in memes. Getting a laugh from you in return feels like another win for him. He'd do everything to make sure you're happy.

He is your number one fan, and he will never deny it. If you ever doubt yourself and he notices the slightest sign of it, he's there. Hyping you up and comforting you in everything you do. That also means he'll do everything to make you comfortable. He'll pick up your favorite food no matter the time, hold you close, or just let you cry on his shoulder for a bit.

He loves your body in every single way. If you ever have trouble accepting your body and don't tell him, he'll be pouty all day because he wants to help. If you want to change something out of comfort and not self-hatred, he's there every step of the way. He'll hype you for your new hairstyle or color, he'll help you pick out new outfits, and oh, he'll be the happiest man alive if you ever join him at the gym.

He carries you for fun. If he wants you to join him at the gym, cook dinner with you or watch a movie he'll pick you up and throw you over his shoulder carrying you there. Especially when you playfully protested against doing whatever he had in mind. You love him so much for this quirky habit.

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

Taglist: (Please let me know if you want to be added to/removed from the taglist!)

@atinyniki @mal-lunar-28 @lilmisssona @aaasia111 @galaxycatdrawz @kthstrawberryshortcake @channieaddict @soullostinspaceandtime @malfoygalaxies @rebecca-johnson-28 @michelle4eve @lixie-phoria @gxtwllsn @xxstrayland @kibs-and-bits

[7ndipity]

Mornings with Yoongi

Yoongi x Reader

Summary: just some thoughts and a small blurb about soft morning things with Yoongi

Warnings: none, not proofread

A/N: Thanks to the lovely anon who requested this! It's a little short, but it's kind of a similar concept to the Yoongi drabble I'm planning to post tomorrow, so hopefully you like both of them?

Masterlist

Requests are open

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Contrary to what some people might think, despite typically being the first one up and about, Yoongi is not a morning person.

Mornings with you however, made him start to reconsider his opinion a bit.

Naturally, he enjoyed the slower, lazy mornings on the weekends, when neither of you had anywhere else to be, hazey gold light slipping through the curtains as he lay listening to your steady breaths as you slept next to him.

But even on normal days, when you were both in a rush to get ready and out the door, there were little habits and routines that you two had developed that made him come to appreciate those early hours of the morning.

The way you always let your hand drift across his back before you get out of bed.

Him helping you curl/style that one section of hair in the back that never quite lies right for you.

Knowing where each other's things are, but not your own. "Do you know where-?" "You're grey sneakers are in the hall closet." / "Have you seen my earbuds?" "In my bag." "Why are they in your bag?!"

On days when you have to leave earlier than him, he still gets up with you and makes your coffee or breakfast for you.

Slipping little notes in his bag or pocket for him to find later.

Surprisingly clingy in the morning. If he doesn't get a certain amount of affection, he's grumpy the rest of the day.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, you tiptoed around the room, gathering your things for the day, only to turn around to around to see his dark eyes, still heavy lidded with sleep, following your every move.

"Hey." He rasped.

"Hi." You whispered, not wanting to wake him further.

"What time is it?"

"Almost nine."

" 's too early." He grumbled, grabbing for your waist as you walked past in a half-hearted attempt to pull you back to bed.

"Yoongi, I have to get ready for work." You whined.

"You don't have to go in till ten." He pointed out, trying to entreat you with his eyes as he toyed with the edge of your shirt.

You sighed. "Ten minutes."

With a grin, he half dragged you back onto the bed, wrapping his arms around you tightly.

"You big baby." You giggled.

"Shh, I'm sleeping." He mumbled as he tucked your head under his chin, eyes already closed again.

[thegingerwrites]

Obikin sickfic musings

So I’ve been sick for almost the past week, pretty much unable to look at a screen or do much more than rot in my bedroom for most of it. But! I have been thinking sick fic thoughts. Especially after reading Lemon's Obi-Wan sickfic a few weeks back. What is Anakin like when he’s sick? (And how does Obi-Wan take care of him)

The Jedi don’t get sick very often and when they do, they can often be sent to the Halls of Healing or the medbay of their star destroyers to get any illness treated quickly. But sometimes that isn’t possible, common colds are too various and changeable to treat directly so it’s easier a lot of the time for them to pass on their own.

Anakin gets one while out in the field and doesn’t really notice at first. A bit of congestion, fatigue, dizziness, isn’t really enough to stop him from doing what needs to be done. Honestly, most of that is expected after pushing himself so hard for so long.

When Anakin is sick, he pushes himself too hard. He is out on a campaign, stationed on planet, and in the midst of leading the ground troops through an assault. Midway through, he stops giving orders, fully immersed in his own head and doing what needs to be done. He has a few close calls, his reflexes are slower than they should be, but they live to fight another day. Ahsoka and Rex give him a few sideways looks as they return to the ship.

Even when the battle is over, he doesn’t retire to his quarters. He stays up, heading to the hangar to catch up on some repairs he has been thinking about for weeks. He waves off attempts to get him to slow down and rest, needing to keep going until he collapses.

Ahsoka loses patience with him almost immediately and hands the situation over to Rex until he convinces her to call in reinforcements. General Kenobi is in the system, wrapping up an engagement on a neighboring planet. If anyone can tell Anakin to sit down and rest, it’s him. Thankfully, he is only an hour away.

“Anakin.”

“What are you doing here?”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m fine. Did Ahsoka call you?”

“She did but I’m told the decision was seconded by Rex, your officers, and Chief Medic Kix.”

“…Traitors.”

“There are two ways this could go. You can admit that you are not feeling well and head back to your quarters to sleep of the rest of this cold with your dignity still intact.”

“Or?”

“Or I give it about ten minutes before you collapse and I have to carry you back to your quarters.”

“Fine.”

Anakin wasn’t exactly allowed to be sick when he was little. His mother took care of him as best she could, but Watto forced him to work regardless of how Anakin felt. His early years at the Temple were marked by a few bouts of illness, as his body adapted to its strange new home. He is better about recognizing illness and accepting help now but some habits are hard to break.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“My mission went exceedingly well, thanks for asking. Completed it with just enough time to wrestle unruly former padawans into bed.”

“I mean, if you want to—”

“You can barely stand, Anakin. Hold still.”

“I’m still capable of taking my own armor off.”

“Then why is it still on?”

“…I think it’s half the reason I’m still standing.”

“Come now. Clothes off.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Anakin.”

When Anakin is feeling truly miserable, every kindness shown to him is treated like a gift from the Force itself.

“You don’t have to be here, you know.”

“I know.”

“I’m here now, in bed, resting. I promise I’m not dumb enough to run off the second you leave.”

“I know that too.”

Anakin breathes a heavy sigh that catches around the congestion in his chest. He clears his throat and nuzzles into Obi-Wan’s side.

“Thank you.”

“Whatever for?”

“For everything,” Anakin slurs. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, darling.”

Anakin smiles at the sound of the endearment he only ever hears when he is very sick. Obi-Wan offers it up carelessly to other people but it only ever gets administered to Anakin when he is at his lowest, perhaps when Obi-Wan thinks that Anakin won’t notice or remember, or when he believes Anakin most needs to hear it. Anakin remembers every single “darling” and “dearest” and “love”. Something about them does make him feel just a little bit better.

“Are you going to make your tea?”

“You hate my tea.”

“Yes, but I like that you make it.”

“…Alright.”

Anakin doesn't like the taste of Obi-Wan's tea but he does like the way that the ceramic mug feels in his hands and the smell of the steam that wafts from it and the way it fights the chill from his low-grade fever. This time, when he holds it in his hands and shivers, it almost feels like a good thing.

Obi-Wan stays with Anakin as he falls asleep, sitting up behind him on the narrow bed in Anakin’s quarters, keeping him elevated to help with his congestion. He runs his fingers through Anakin’s hair as Anakin’s mouth falls slack and he begins to doze as well.

“Aren’t you worried about getting sick too?”

“A Jedi doesn’t get sick.”

“What do you call this then?”

“A minor setback. You’ll be on your feet again in no time. Now, rest.”

When Anakin can’t sleep and makes some truly pitiful noises, Obi-Wan agrees to read to him. Anakin buries his face in Obi-Wan’s robes as he lets the words wash over him. It doesn’t matter what Obi-Wan is reading to him, the fact that he is here, that he cares, is more than enough. Obi-Wan presses a kiss to Anakin’s forehead just before he falls asleep again to check on his temperature.

Obi-Wan is only able to spend a few hours with him before being called back to the front. He manages to escape before Anakin’s cold takes a turn for the gross, all of the coughing and hacking that means that whatever is in his system is finally starting to break up a bit. The few hours together don’t feel like much, don’t feel like enough, but he is able to help Anakin to take care of himself and offer a bit of comfort in a time so often devoid of it.

“Master, is that Master Kenobi’s robe?”

“Yeah, he left it for me.”

“Isn’t it just a standard issue robe? You have like three of them.”

“It’s soft.”

[ghostieeeee]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟐: 𝐂𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐂𝐀𝐓

ᶜᵘᵗ ʰᵉʳᵉ ✄-----------------------------------------

ᶜᵘᵗ ʰᵉʳᵉ ✄-----------------------------------------

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: Possible spelling errors? :D

ᶜᵘᵗ ʰᵉʳᵉ ✄-----------------------------------------

The day had passed by fairly quickly, you spent your breaks cooped up in the library with your friends and Eunchae, and although classes were basically a death sentence, you managed to survive till this point at least. The last ten minutes of the day. But despite the reasonably short time, every minute seemed to drag on to become an excruciatingly tiring sixty seconds.

The classroom has become your penal institution, keeping you locked up for good as a consequence for your naivety and lack of knowledge. It felt restricting, but this was one of the limited classes you share with a friend- your dearest Kim Chaewon.

“I hate this” There she goes again, complaining about the class- she's only complaining because of her lack of understanding over the topic you're currently covering. “I don’t understand why we can’t just study this ourselves, Sir has almost sent me to sleep with this lesson multiple times!” she whisper-yells, avoiding all eye contact with the teacher himself as she jots down notes into her personal notebook.

“It’s school, Chae, most things about school are bound to get boring sooner or later” You feel yourself smile at her annoyed huff, shaking your head lightly out of habit. “There isn't that long left until you're home free”

“Huh? Where are you going after school?”

“My english partner invited me to a coffee shop so we can start our assignment together”

In the corner of your eye, you notice the sudden stop to her note-taking and the turn of her head to face you,”Wouldn’t you have started that in class with them?”

“We were planning a few things. We still need to research more and actually begin to type it out or whatever” you explain, ignoring the strange look Chaewon was giving you.

“Mmhmm… Who’s your partner this time?”

“Aren’t you nosey today?” You stifle a small laugh,”If you must know, I'm paired with Kang Haerin”

“As in the shy popular girl, Haerin?” Her voice was laced with an undertone of uncertainty and concern,”You know this could bring attention to yourself, right?”

“Yes, I'm very much aware, but at least she wants to do the project. I’d rather face minor attention than have to do a whole assignment again. Chae, I was extremely sleep deprived last time, I became almost erratic” You let out a gusty sigh,”It’ll be something quick. We agreed to get the project done as soon as possible, and that's that”

"I'm just looking out for you, you know how much I love you"

"I know, Chae, but I know what I'm doing"

You listen to her sigh. You're almost certain the only reason she hasn't pummelled you to the ground yet is because you're her friend. You have too much of a backstory together for her to just bury, quite literally and figuratively. Three years has certainly been a show in the making when it comes to you. "If this comes back to bite you in the ass I'm here for you"

"You always have been, and I appreciate it a lot. I appreciate you a lot…" You pause to glance at your friend, sharing a gracious smile with each other,"get back to your work"

"Yes ma'am," Chaewon nods, turning her attention back to her note-taking as her wrist goes into immediate overtime.

The next seven minutes dragged on by, making your every movement feel slugged as a result. Students were evidently done with the Monday hassle as most flickered between the clock on the wall and the clock on their phones. They were desperate to leave and confine within the comfort of their homes- preparing for either an early night's worth of sleep or none at all.

However, after what felt like three hours worth of agonsing torture, the same mellow ring of the school bell radiates the air, completely sending the class to carnage. Students hadn't even waited for the teacher to dismiss them. They hadn't even waited for him to finish his sentence before they were already out the door and very well down the hallway.

“Free phone?” Chaewon speaks up, nudging you slightly as she nods to the seat on your left. It was completely empty, the boy you sat next to had vanished,”I guess someone was in a rush”

“That doesn’t mean we should take it though. Who knows what's stored on that thing?” You speak with a slight disgust, putting your notebook into your bag.

“I suppose,” she grins, “but that won't stop me!”

“Hey, hey! That's not your phone to take!” You complain, trying to block her sight of the black cased device.

“I'm not going to keep it, you make it seem like i'm the villain” Chaewon rolls her eyes, her grin having transformed into a misleading frown.

You shake your head, walking past the forgotten possession,”maybe you are the villain, maybe you're not… who knows?”

“That's cruel”

“Maybe?” You stop outside your classroom, hand tightly gripping the material of your bag’s strap. “Time to socialise” you sigh, having already spotted the girl you're meeting with.

Has she told Minji?

“goodluck Y/n, you might need it”

“Thanks Chae” You're both quick to separate- with Chaewon taking off in a hurry to find Kazuha, and you staying to meet with Haerin.

It wasn't uncommon for Chaewon to scurry off to meet Kazuha, they are neighbours afterall, but you're still stuck in the state of wishing someone you know would join you to help ease your mind a little.

Friend or alone, you're still going either way.

“Are you ready?” Turning your head to the meek voice, you find Haerin already looking at you with her same stoic face. That sweet voice had almost no correlation to the way she presents herself outwardly.

“Yeah, i'm ready”

ᶜᵘᵗ ʰᵉʳᵉ ✄-----------------------------------------

Pushing past the glass door, a fresh ambience of crushed coffee beans rade your nose. The warmth from the heaters attacked the chill you had brung in with you. The late October air stood no chance here. The exterior was cloistered and closed, so many tables and such little space, but you suppose that only added to the acquaint charm of the business.

Slightly trailing behind Haerin, you make your stop at the partly busy counter, where a female from your chem class stands, her hands occupied with retying her coffee stained apron. “Hello, welcome. What can I get for you today?”

It was Jiwoo- one of your sister's other friends- they are perfect friends in all honesty, them and another girl called Sullyoon. The three of them are almost always in other people's business for no clear reason. Like you said to Chaewon earlier, you were certain they were working against you with their weird spying techniques.

“Y/n?” You hum to Haerins call, eyes connecting with the barista's apron in front of you as your throat squeezes itself shut momentarily. “I’ll just get whatever Hearin ordered” You almost squealed out.

“Very well,” Jiwoo nods, placing your order through “That’ll be eleven-thousand won please”

“I’ll pay,” Haerin declares, having already pulled out her card and inputted the pin. You had no chance to even get a word in before she had already paid for the order.

“Thank you, we’ll bring your coffees over to you when they're ready”

“Thank you” You and Haerin surprise each other alongside yourselves with the sudden synchronisation to your words. While it was a generic response, and literally anyone could have done that, it was still surprising. Unbeknownst to you both, however, was that Jiwoo had judged this with narrow slitted eyes, her mind booting and reeling in any possibilities of your strange outing. Never has she ever seen you both talk- let alone in unison. As far as Jiwoo knows, this could even be a drug deal, and obviously, you're the sourcer.

Taking your seats at a round, plastic top, table- located somewhat close to the counter- you pull out your laptops, your hand also moving to unsheath the sheet from earlier. You kept the paper in case you ever needed to use her email again- fortunately, for now, you have not.

“What part do you want to follow up on?” Haerin questions, without looking away from her screen, her mouth left to hang slightly agape.

“That sounds creepy” you mumble, pondering over your options. However, your focus lifts at the sound of a small chuckle.

Was that Haerin?

Looking up only confirmed your suspicion. It really was Haerin. Her little chuckle was a first with you, and her widening smile only made her look all that much more like a cat. The corners of her eyes were pinched as she smoothed out her shirt.

“Not in that way. I don't think you’d be able to follow a printed sentence home”

Feeling yourself smile at her lighthearted attitude, even if it may only be temporary, you respond in the same demeanour “Doesn't it technically follow me home?”

“Because it’s in your bag?”

“Yeah” you observe the girl opposite you as her nose scrunches up.

“Maybe you have a stalker…” she almost whispers.

“Should I report it?”

“Maybe… I wouldn't want some random stalker if I were you”

“Two iced americanos?! A third voice intrudes, a voice you’ve heard so many times coming from your sister's room late at night when she's on facetime with her friends. Jiwoos' other partner in crime- Sullyoon. Of course they would both work together in the same establishment.

“Yes, that's us” Haerin responds as her smile retreats back into the shadows of her more introverted personality. “Thank you”

“Thank you” you repeat Haerins' words after Sullyoon places your own drink in front of you. “So… an iced americano, huh?”

Haerins face flushes a dusty red,”I know it’s not everyone's favourite, sorry if you don't like it”

“That's alright, I’ve never had this order before” you speak, holding the beverage between your fingers and palm as you evaluate it through the glass cup provided. You rarely ever hang around long enough to stay inside of a coffee shop, so having a glass container is certainly new to you.

“Oh… well, I promise it isn't as bad as the students at our school make it out to be”

“It’s okay, I trust you, i’ll try it in a minute." Haerin nods, shifting herself back on the purpose of your meeting- the english project.

“That’s good to know, since we’re doing a project together and what not”

“I suppose I have no other choice but to trust you”

“Possibly…” Haerin trails off, quickly glancing at you before she's completely immersed in her own world.

“I’ll start on the words of Shakespeare” You finally answer her question, earning a hum of approval from the brunette.

“Okay, i'll start on modern literature then”

Was it really a necessary idea to give a bunch of high schoolers a project based on the evolution of english literature and the culture surrounding it? Probably not. But are you going to try your best to get the best result possible? Absolutely… with a little help from your new partner, of course.

You just hope nothing bad comes from this…

ᶜᵘᵗ ʰᵉʳᵉ ✄-----------------------------------------

: Dating in a high school full of love thirsty teenagers was never really something you wanted. But of course, things change- and you learnt that in more ways than one. Kim Minji, one of the more popular students. Hong y/n, probably the most invisible person alive. They couldn't possibly be dating… or maybe they could be? You never know what goes on behind closed doors.

ᶜᵘᵗ ʰᵉʳᵉ ✄-----------------------------------------

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 | 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓

ᶜᵘᵗ ʰᵉʳᵉ ✄-----------------------------------------

𝐓𝐀𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: [𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍]

@jeindall777 @feisrants @thefckghost @everydayiloveyves @nasyu-kookies @justdelulumeh @feb14-kid

@ehcyps @imjeyjjey @winteresss @haechansbbg @urwyf3

@idkwhatim-doinghere101 @imahallucination11 @sserajeans @lesleepyyy @jennasluma @kaypanaq

@petruchiosstuff @pandafuriosa60 @haexrin07

[thebucketpail]

When You Accidentally Kill a Clown pt. 5

Pt.1 Prev

Pt.5 (tws; mention of unhealthy eating habits,)

Danny let out a long sigh as he stood up, cursing whatever gods decided to mess with his life. He had just gotten comfortable too! He was in the zone, productive, then this.

“Terry, if you two so much as touch my bed I will kill you.” His roomate, Terry, had just come in loud and boisterous as always, rambling about how Danny had to leave for the night, again. Ancients what was with this guy.

“Yeah, yeah dude I got it, don't touch your shit. Now could you please hurry? She’ll be here in like 2 minutes,” Terry said as Danny, grumpily, shoved books in his backpack.

“You,” Danny pointed at a finger at him, “Have a problem.”

“Uh huh, now move. Come on vamanos,” he replied, ushering Danny through the door.

“And you owe me,”

“Mhhm,” and the door shut in his face. Great. Now he has to find somewhere to stay for the night, preferably without getting mugged. It had been almost two weeks since his terrible awful horrible day featuring the Joker, Red Hood, and a very hangry seagull, and nothing too out of the ordinary had happened. Well, aside from the fact that Danny was being stalked by an ex-crime lord turned vigilante.

Some would say he’s being paranoid and that would probably be fair, Danny had nothing to go off of save for an unsettling feeling of being watched, and the occasional hum of a muffled core. But it was so clearly the hooded man who had taken him for burgers not two weeks ago. It didn’t really matter that much, he just had to keep a lid on his ghostliness is all, but being watched like that was still unsettling.

Regardless, Danny hoisted his bag further onto his shoulder and headed down the hall, he’d probably find a coffee shop or library or something to study in. Classes had only been in session for about a week and a half but the ghost was already swamped with homework. Well that’s what he gets for dumping all his required classes into the first semester.

A brightly colored blur moved in his peripheral vision as he entered a quaint shop. Danny had found this place roughly ten days ago while hunting for some decent espresso. The coffee shop stayed open until eleven at night, one might figure how that would attract coffee addicted insomniacs, as such, Danny had visited this shop every evening usually around 8. So it was a bit of a surprise to see him settling into a nook at 4 in the afternoon. Once Danny was thoroughly satisfied with his setup, he went to order.

“Hey Danny!” Anne greeted from behind the counter, she was busy tying an apron around her waist but gave a small wave anyway, giving a slight nod, “Aren’t you here a bit early? You're usually my closing customer, not my opening,” she joked.

“Yeah, well my roommate kind of kicked me out,so here I am,” They said, smiling as they gestured to themself and the shop at large.

“You want your usual?” she asked, hand poised over the tablet at the register. Their usual was 8 shots of espresso with, what sam called, ‘an ungodly amount of sweet cream and chocolate.’

But at 4 o’clock Danny figured they’d get an early dinner/late lunch instead.

“Actually I’ll have a hot chocolate, dark, with extra cream,” they said grinning, “Oh and add some caramel.”

Anne raised one eyebrow, a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she held back a small chuckle, “Anything else? Food maybe? You look like you haven’t eaten,” and, well, maybe that was true, when was the last time they’d eaten? 6 am maybe? They had a bagel.

“Uuuuuummmmm,” Danny’s eyes scanned the board on the wall behind Anne, “Surprise me? Something with chocolate,” They said. Anne smirked.

“You got it, give me one moment,” Danny moved to the side as she began work on their order. The shop was quiet, save for the loud whirring of the various machines behind the bar. There were a few patrons scattered around, engrossed in their own devices. Which made it all the more noticable, to Danny apparently as no one else seemed to bat an eye, when a scruffy, black haired teenager dressed in red and black stumbled in.

Red Robin’s eyes swept the small shop for a moment before he started moving toward the counter.

“Hey RR, I’ll be with you in a moment,” Anne called from her place at the espresso machine. Danny just stared, mouth probably hanging wide open. Why was Red Robin at their favorite coffee place? And why was everyone here so chill with it?

Danny was pulled from their wondering when Anne deposited their hot chocolate and some coffee cake next to them. They took the food but didn’t move from their place. Seriously? Danny knew plenty of superheroes/ vigilantes (Okay maybe only like two but that's semantics) They should be acting cool about this. But it was just so strange. Maybe this is how Amity Parkers felt whenever they had to watch Phantom have a screaming match with a faulty vending machine, or Red Huntress and Phantom sharing a burger whilst covered head to toe in ectoplasm.

“Your regular five o’clock death wish?” Anne asked, already typing the order into the register, not even looking up when Red Robin nodded. Ancients, did that kid look tired. It was hard to tell with the mask, but he couldn’t have been more than 17. No 17 year old had the right to have such a weary look to their eyes at only 5 in the afternoon. Danny should know, they had sported the same look at his age.

And wasn’t that a thought.

Anne handed off the DeathWish to RR who immediately took a very long drink. Danny was surprised the kid hadn’t chugged it all in one go. He thanked Anne, paid and disappeared out the door, curling himself around the coffee all the while, like it was a precious artifact or something.

“Was that Red Robin?”

“Mhhhm,” Anne replied, “He comes in here before patrol every once in a while. Treats coffee like a lifeline. He’s addicted if you ask me. Once, he ordered three Death Wishes in one sitting. I asked if he was sharing and he just stared at me with dead eyes.”

“oh. Well that’s… something.” Danny said, moving back to his study nook. And Danny thought they were obsessed with coffee. But three death wishes? Three??? At once????? This city's vigilantes were all batshit insane. They'd have to talk to Lady Gotham about her taste in knights.

“You’re telling me,” She snorted. As Danny returned to his English homework. God why did it have to be English homework. Well at least he had chocolate.

About two hours later, Danny almost spit out their coffee when Red Robin came back for more.

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

Notes; Ahhhhhhh, just a little blrb. I was gonna do more but then I didn't feel like it, so have this little encounter while I think of ways to work civilian Jason into Danny’s life.

And If you think I’m projecting my chocolate addiction onto Danny than you are absolutely right.

I Love Comments! I love reblogs! I read them all and they fuel my willpower to write more!

Uuuh dont know what else to say sooo… *Throws glitter and scampers away*

Pt.6

[panic-at-the-fiction]

Jump, Then Fall

Summary: Having been friends with Jonathan for so long it’s getting harder to deny your growing feelings for each other without the fear of ruining your friendship. Jonathan x best friend reader, Friends to lovers, cute and fluffy

A/N: love the fictional trope but personally in real life I’m against dating your friends or at least your best friend. Like bro that is truly awkward if y’all break up cause you got to find a new best friend. Anyway this is my first Jonathan Byers fic and I’m just trying to get back in the habit of writing over Christmas break so hope y’all enjoy and expect more from me soon.

Panic rushed in as you saw the clock beside your bed, you overslept. Not by much, but enough that you could only pray to get out to the bus in time. You ran around your room getting ready, forgoing breakfast and plenty of other things as you checked the time again. Grabbing your bag, you bolted out into the yard as you could just make out the bus at the bus stop a couple of houses down. You didn’t even make it halfway down your driveway as you watched it pull away, leaving you in the dust.

That was it, you were fucked. There was one last viable option, but you would have to catch him first. You grabbed your old rusted up bike and took off down the road to the Byers residence.

It wasn’t but a 10-minute bike ride, a ride you were quite familiar with. You spent half your time over at their house, ever since you were young, your parents could find you there on any given afternoon.

You felt so thankful to see your best friend's car still parked in his driveway, and you ditched your bike on the lawn. You knocked on the door winded from your bike ride and were happy to be greeted by Mrs. Byers.

“(Y/n), sweetie, what are you doing here?” She said, ushering you into the house.

“I missed the bus again, and I was hoping to catch Jonathan and get a ride to school.”

“He’s brushing his teeth. Here come in the kitchen, have you eaten yet?”

“No, I skipped breakfast in hope of saving time.” You sighed as the panic you felt since that morning began to disappear.

“Well, you got time now, so eat.” She commanded as she set you down at the table that still had eggs toast and bacon set out. Will was also sitting at the table eating his breakfast.

“Hey Will.”

“Hey (y/n), late again?”

“Yep,” you sighed as you fixed yourself a plate. “Whatcha working on?”

“It’s a scene from our latest campaign. We came across a salamander creature that almost got us, but luckily, I had a spell that saved us at the last minute.”

“Sounds like quite the quest,” you smiled, continuing to eat and listen as he filled you in on his latest campaign.

“Alright kid, you can finish your story later. You have to go brush your teeth.” Joyce said as she took Will's plate away, shooing him off down the hall.

Jonathan finally emerged into the kitchen ready for school. His hair was still a bit damp, and you tried not to notice. He wasn’t even shocked by your presence in his house. “Overslept?”

“Yep.” You nodded, taking note of how his voice was a bit deeper this early in the morning.

“What about that alarm clock I got you for Christmas?”

“Still slept through it, just by ten minutes, though.”

“I told you I can just give you a ride every day. You don’t have to ride the bus.”

“My parents are too proud to let me accept that offer and too stubborn to get me a car of my own.”

“How did you get here?”

“I rode my bike.”

“The old rusty one that can’t even stand up right?”

“The very same.”

He laughed, just a small little laugh. The same old usual small laugh you got from him, but it still hit you all the same.

“Will, hurry, we gotta go.” Jonathan called down the hall. You snapped yourself back to reality and stood up, thanking Mrs. Byers for the breakfast.

Jonathan dropped Will off at the middle school, and you couldn’t help, but admire how sweet he was with his brother.

He was telling you something now, speaking to you, telling you a story or something, but you were lost. Just staring at him, you do that a lot these days. You two have been friends for years, but you’ve always wanted more, always liked Jonathan. As you’ve gotten older, it's harder to deny how much you wanted to be with him. Even now, as he talked to you, all your brain could hear was “we should be together.”

“So you want a ride home in the afternoon or are you taking the bus back? I mean, I can give you a ride, and you just come back to the house for dinner tonight.”

How he hadn’t noticed yet how dazed you were around him, you had no idea. “Yeah, totally, sounds fun.”

The afternoon passed, and soon you found yourself laying on Jonathan's bed, ignoring your homework and choosing to instead stare at the ceiling.

“Have you figured out problem number 4?” Jonathan asked from where he sat on the floor beside the bed.

“No,” you laughed.

“Are you even trying?”

“Nope, I gave up when we started.”

He sighed, laughing as he tossed the books aside and plopped down on the mattress with you. “This math class is going to kill me. Who needs math anyway?”

“We do, apparently.”

You smiled, turning on your side to face him. He was smiling at you just the same, with his hair lightly falling into his face. You could feel your heart speed up as you reached out and brushed his hair out of his eyes. You loved moments like this, just you and him together where you’ve always been.

Things have been different for a while now. You both could feel it. The little brushes of hands had become a bit more frequent, comfortable silence in the extra bits of closeness like this. This couldn’t be one-sided, you thought.

Oh what a dumb thought because it was the last straw to push you forward as you lightly kissed Jonathan before you could change your mind.

You pulled away in shock, both of you staring at each with identical expressions. Both of you set up and slightly away from each other as you process.

“Did I just?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“And we just?”

“Mmmhm.”

“I have been thinking about that all day.” You sighed, almost relieved.

“Really?” He seemed surprised.

“I mean, yeah.” You sat for a moment before you got the courage to look over at him. “Well say something.”

“I don’t know what to say. I… I mean, you’re my best friend (y/n).” Jonathan stood up and started pacing. “I mean, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about you that way, but I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I mean, you’re my best friend!”

“Well, maybe I want to be more than just your best friend. I’m sorry I shouldn’t have just kissed you randomly, but I think you want more too.” He didn’t respond and continued to pace.

You stood up and grabbed his hands. “Jonathan, will you just look at me.” You could see the worry in his eyes, you’d known him long enough to know he feared what this might mean. “Don’t forget, I can read your thoughts.” You joked. “Better you just say them out loud and save us both some time.”

“You know I like you too, but I would rather not ruin our friendship. Other than my mom and will you’re all I got. I mean, we’ve been best friends since we were kids, since as early as I can remember.”

“So? I have loved you since as early as I can remember. I would rather not mess this up either, but no one’s ever been there for me like you have. You mean a lot to me and I need you in my life, so I’m not going to let this get ruined. No one has ever cared for me the way you do.” You still held his hands in yours, tracing circles as you smiled reassuringly.

“And I liked to think I’ve been there for you, too. So I know it’s a bit risky, but I’m asking you to take a leap of faith with me. Jump, then fall into me.” Doing your best to smile, but a small bit of doubt creeped in. What if this was all in your head, and you pushed him too far this time and this wasn’t what he wanted.

Before those thoughts could carry you away in a downhill spiral, you felt his hands cup your face as he pulled you in for another kiss. Not a light brush like before, but a real deep kiss.

He pulled you in close, your hands resting on his chest as he kissed you. Only pulling away just enough to get air as you both rested your foreheads together.

“Just jump, then fall.” He repeated quietly. “Means you’ll catch me right.” He laughed, that same laugh that had you dazed just this morning. “Because if you're just going to drop me, I should just go.” He said, smiling as he attempted to pull away.

“Oh no you don’t” you laughed as you tugged him back into another kiss.

[a-crumb-of-whump]

A New Beginning #5: Buzz Cut

Masterlist

Content: Talk of eating habits, [mentioned] starvation, mould, conditioned whumpee, vampire whumpee, multiple caretakers, human caretaker(s).

Takes place about a week and a half from now.

-

Carlos hated his hair. After so many years of neglect and starvation, it was falling out in clumps and extremely matted. While he was living with his previous masters – or Maria and David, as Ryker had told him to call them – he was so focused on surviving that it didn’t seem like a big deal to him. Now, however, he couldn’t stand looking at himself in the mirror, knowing what he’d see when he did.

Adam was the only one around this morning, being Ryker had gone into work early. After what felt like hours of mustering up the courage to emerge from his bedroom, he silently padded out to the living room and fiddled with the hem of his shirt as he knelt down on the floor by the man’s feet.  

“Hey, man,” the human greeted. He reached forward to press pause on his show, ready to put his full attention onto the vampire. “what’cha doing on the floor?”

Carlos swallowed, mentally scolding himself for already messing it up.“I- I wasn’t sure if I was allowed onto the couch with you. I can just- I can go back to my room if you w-want me to. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“Nonsense,” Adam shook his head, petting the spot beside him on the couch. “Come sit. Is there something on your mind?”

Carlos obediently did as he was told. He climbed up onto the furniture and curled up as best he could inside his brand new hoodie. Adam had made a wonderful choice with this one – it was among one of his favourite pieces of clothing.

“Am I, uhm… am I allowed to ask for something?” he asked quietly. “It’s been playing on my mind a lot. I understand if I’m not, as you have both already given me so much, b-but I just… I…” He paused to suck in an anxious breath. “I’m making a fool of m-myself. I’m sorry.”

The vampire half expected a slap to the face, or some sort of punishment for being so entitled. However, Adam did quite the opposite. He smiled, and gently reached out to pat him on the shoulder.

“’course you can ask for stuff. What can I do for you?”

Carlos’ eyes brightened hopefully. “I was hoping you wouldn’t, uh- you wouldn’t mind if I cut my hair? It makes me sad when I see it and R-Ryker said… he said it was okay to ask for things.” As soon as the words spilled out, he clamped his mouth shut again and lowered his head, waiting anxiously for Adam’s response. Please don’t be mad at me.

But once again, he was met with a smile. “Totally!” the human grinned, reaching out to lightly ruffle his dark, matted hair. “Is there something in particular you wanna do with it?”

“Shave it?” he tentatively whispered, as if trying to gage his reaction as he said it. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to make it this far into the request, and much to his surprise, Adam seemed absolutely delighted.

“Awesome! I actually have some clippers in the bathroom from back when Ryker had a buzz cut - would you like to do it now? It’ll take like, ten minutes.”

 Carlos nodded eagerly, already scrambling off the sofa. “Yes, please!”

-

Admittedly, Adam was relieved when Carlos had asked him if he could shave his head. It was filthy and matted and smelled awful, and they were having to change his pillowcases every couple of days just to make sure they were always clean for him. At least now, he’d be able to rest comfortably and not have to worry about the clump of hair at the back of his head.

It was another small but exciting step towards a new beginning, and he was excited for Carlos.

“Alright,” he began as soon as he had everything set up and ready. “Sit down for me and we’ll get started, shall we? I’m gonna start at 3 in terms of length so you can get a feel for how short you really wanna go, and then we’ll keep going from there. Sound good?”

Carlos nodded, excited eyes watching through the mirror as Adam ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times and examined the extent of the mess before he began. It was a lot, and the more he was finally able to look up close, the more he felt sick.

“Jesus christ – is that mould?” he muttered below his breath. “How long has it been since someone took care of your hair for you?”

When he looked up, he realised the vampire’s entire face had gone bright red. “Uhm… Ryker used to brush my hair for me regularly, b-but I don’t think anyone has touched it since then. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault by any means. It’s just horrific that you’ve had to live like this for so long. I mean – I’ve seen some extremely neglected hair over the years, but this is… holy shit.”

Carlos ashamedly hung his head. “I know.”

Instead of accidentally embarrassing him further, Adam let go of his hair and grabbed the scissors off the sink before carefully beginning to have a go at whatever achievable clump of hair he could find. It didn’t take him long to come to the conclusion that he’d have to take it a bit shorter than what he had originally planned. Though he had a feeling Carlos wouldn’t mind.

“How you feeling so far?” he asked after a few minutes had passed. There was already so much hair on the ground around them – Adam was suddenly grateful that he put a towel down before beginning.

For the first time in the week that he’d been here, Adam saw him giddily swinging his feet as he looked at himself in the mirror; a big, genuine smile on his face. It was the best thing the human had see all week, and he immediately smiled right back at him.

“I’m good,” he whispered. “Thank you, sir- Adam. Thank you, Adam. Do you think Ryker will be happy with it?”

“’course he will be, but that hardly matters so long as you’re happy.”

Carlos grinned, tilting his head back to look up at the human as soon as he took the scissors away from his head. “I am happy. I know it’s probably a small thing to most people but… it isn’t to me.”

“Oh, trust me; having complete control over your body after so long without it is so freeing,” Adam agreed. He ruffled the vampire’s hair up again and smiled. It was an absolute mess of a cut right now, but it would look a lot better after he took the clippers over it. “I fuckin’ bawled the first time I got to dye my hair. Spent like, three days staring at myself in the mirror because it was the closest I’d ever gotten to being me.”

Carlos tilted his head a little. “Really?”

“Yeah.” The human gave him a smile through the mirror. “Having freedom can be overwhelming, but you got Ryker ‘n’ I to help you through it. We’ve both been in similar situations.”

“I’m sorry.”

With a shrug, the human turned the clippers on and began to take it over his head; making sure to get it as evenly cut as possible. “Ah, what can you do? We’re happy now.”

“Wha’dya think?” he eventually asked, brushing the remaining bits of hair off his shoulders and head. “Are you happy with it as it is or would you like to go a little shorter?”

After a little hesitation, Carlos shook his head and shakily reached up to run his hand across his head. He looked so mesmerised by it. It must have been such a relief finally having such an awful mop of hair chopped off – Adam certainly felt it, and it wasn’t even his hair that was coming off.

He finally managed to whisper a small “I love it” and in turn, the human grinned. It was like watching his younger self finally coming out of his shell all over again. He remembered the utter relief he felt when he finally began to do all the things he’d wanted to do for years.

He loved knowing he could give Carlos that same feeling.

-

Carlos was most excited to show Ryker his new haircut. He spent the entire day sitting by the door, waiting for the moment his car pulled up in the driveway. Then when it finally did, he scrambled to his knees and bowed his head; waiting patiently until the door opened, as he did every evening when Ryker had work that day.

Despite remembering what Adam had said earlier that day about Ryker’s opinion not mattering, the vampire let out a large breath of relief as soon as he said he loved it. The human helped him up onto his feet and cupped his face in his hands, examining the new haircut with the biggest smile on his face.

“It looks fucking awesome,” he commented. “Are you happy with it?”

In turn, Carlos nodded against his gentle hands. “Yeah! I don’t feel so disgusting anymore. I can even look at myself in the mirror and smile now. I’ve never been able to do that.”

Ryker’s smile widened. “I’m so happy for you, buddy. That’s a huge step. We’ll change the sheets and the pillow cases again tonight and then that won’t have to happen again for another week or two.”

“Me and Adam already did it!” he beamed. Then his face faltered a little. “Well, he did it. I wasn’t strong enough to do much.”

“That’s okay,” Ryker assured him. “You’re already gaining a lot of your strength back. Won’t be long before you’re lookin’ after us.” He gave the vampire a grin. “Do you know where Adam is by any chance?”

All of a sudden, Adam stuck his head out from the kitchen and waved with his free hand; the other holding some sort of flat utensil with a handle. He remembered David using them when he cooked what he called ‘hamburgers’.

“Right here. Cooking dinner.”

Ryker smiled. “Smells delicious! I completely forgot to eat today, so I’m starving.”

Carlos frowned at that. How does one just, forget to eat? It’s the highlight of his day – one of the only things that gets him out of bed in the mornings. Although he supposed humans have to eat a lot more than he does. Perhaps it’s difficult to remember every meal.

He shivered at the thought. He would go hungry for however long if Adam and Ryker needed it, but that didn’t mean he’d like it. He hoped it would never have to come to that.

As he headed off to his room, Ryker gently ruffled Carlos’ newly-shaved head with a smile before praising him one last time for finding the courage to get his hair under control. In return, the vampire wrote down his praise in his special colouring book to remember it whenever he didn’t feel like he was doing a good job, as he had being doing all week. The page was nearly full already, despite his small handwriting. Ryker and Adam praised him a lot—

—and he clung to every word as if it were the last he’d ever hear.

-

Taglist: @whumpsday @emcscared-whumps @whump-blog @pigeonwhumps @sacredwrath @thingsthatgowhumpinthenight @the-magpiesystem

[quietblueriver]

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

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. If you like any of these, or the ones that I sent, we can recommend more.

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.”

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.

[unknownfacelessfanfictions]

Part 6: Late Mornings

Fandom: Star Trek: Prodigy Pairing: Commander Tysess x OFC Words: 2K Summary: Sometimes all you need, is a little bit of "us-time"

Body Language Masterlist

WINTER WRITING PLAN

Warm. Soft. Safe. Ophelia pulled the blanket higher, up to the tip of her nose, and buried her face deeper into her pillow, which smelled wonderfully lovely of the new detergent and fabric softener she had bought the other day. A more than contented sigh escaped her and she didn't even think about getting up.

It was one of her first completely free days away from the Dauntless in over a year and Ophelia had decided to take full advantage of the next two weeks for which the Dauntless had returned to Earth and do nothing. By all appearances, however, she was alone with this approach. Indeed, as Ophelia snuggled deeper into her bed, looking more like a human burrito than anything else from the outside, the hold of the arm that had snaked around her waist during the night tightened to pull her closer to its associated body.

The small smile that had been there before grew a little wider. Tysess and she had, in her opinion, come a long way in their relationship and as of late her Andorian was even more than content to stay with her overnight. In the beginning, it had taken a bit of back and forth before they had managed to both be satisfied, partly due to cultural and interracial differences.

For example, Ophelia had found out early on that Andorians usually slept in a huge pile, at least among family. Objectively, it also made sense. Andoria was an ice planet - well, moon - so it was logical to share body heat. According to Tysess, this tradition was not as widespread as it had been a few hundred years ago, but it was still quite common.

At first Ophelia had agreed to try it, but after a short time they both realised that it didn't work that way. Ophelia moved too much in her sleep and always managed to escape the body heat that Tysess offered. The next morning she had apologised, somewhat ashamed, but Tysess had only smiled. In time they had come to the compromise that he could hold her as long as she didn't move too much and would otherwise let go of her, as to avoid hurting any of them.

Another hurdle to overcome was the difference in temperature habits.

Tysess, as an Andorian, was obviously used to cooler temperatures than Ophelia, who had grown up in Colombia, in a region where the temperature rarely went below 20 °C even in the cool months. Her quarters had been correspondingly warm, and when Tysess had entered them for the first time, his antennae had curled from the heat, whereas after ten minutes in his quarters, her teeth had begun to chatter.

In the end, they had agreed to set their temperature to about 16°C each when the other came over. This meant that the room was still warm enough for Ophelia to walk around without a jacket, but not too warm for Tysess to have sweat running down his forehead.

Now that they were living together in a flat, not permanently, only for those two weeks, because they wanted to see, if living together was possible at all, the first thing Ophelia had done, despite Tysess's protests, was turn down the heaters. Her flat was near Vancouver, where it got quite chilly in winter. Accordingly, Tysess had protested strongly against turning down the heat for his own good, but Ophelia had not backed down.

"You live on a ship where the standard temperature must feel like a daily trip to the desert for you. Every day you bow to that heat and you don't complain." She had her arms wrapped around his middle. "Let me do that for you please." Though he had still made faint protests, they both knew that his resistance had crumbled and it had done so the moment he had looked into her pleading eyes.

Now as she lay wrapped thickly in her blanket in her partner's arms, Ophelia decided it had been worth all the arguing and trial and error. "I know you're awake." Her smile widened a tiny bit more when she heard the raspiness in Tysess's voice. A classic morning phenomenon with him, she had discovered. When Ophelia gave no reply, she felt a slight vibration in his chest, which was pressed against her back seconds before she heard a slight chuckle from him. "Love, I know you're not asleep."

Ophelia still didn't answer, her smile involuntarily widening as she heard the rustle of the sheets and blanket behind her and waited to see what Tysess was up to. For a few seconds nothing happened. Then all at once she felt velvety ovals nestle against her scalp and a sigh escaped her. It was absolutely not her fault that his antennae were so wonderfully soft. Absolutely not.

Closing her eyes, she enjoyed the feel of the tips of his antennae as they slid over her skin and tangled in her curls. Normally Ophelia tucked her curls away in a shawl or bonnet, preferably satin, overnight so as not to harm the hair, but this night she had a different technique, rubbing in new oils that existed specifically for this purpose, which allowed Tysess to roam through her hair in the morning for the first time.  Something he seemed to enjoy by the looks of it.

However, as much as she loved having her hair open, and as much as Tysess seemed to enjoy it as well, she missed her braids. Not only were they more practical, but they were also an important part of their relationship. She thought ruefully of her courting ring, which lay on her bedside table and was usually braided into her hair.

She had felt bad, but Tysess had just shaken his head in amusement and said that she could manage without it for a little while; after all, her scalp needed to be allowed to rest. Nevertheless, she had an appointment with her hairdresser next week. This allowed her scalp enough time to relax, but also ensured that she didn't feel so naked for too long. Her ring had become such an integral part of her everyday life that she didn't feel comfortable without it, even if she didn't really notice it otherwise.

"Ophelia." He drew out each syllable of her name. "We need to get up. We've been invited to Admiral Janeway's Christmas dinner." Ophelia had to stifle a groan, this time a frustrated one. Of course Tysess would find an opportunity to ruin this moment. Sometimes she wasn't sure if she was really dating an Andorian or a Vulcan after all. There was a reason Noum called him Tuvok Junior behind his back. However, it was also one of the reasons she loved him, so she left it at that.

"Ophelia." A grumble escaped her and instead of complying with his request, she turned and wrapped herself around his body. Literally. As she entwined her legs with his and locked them behind his, she wrapped her arms around his torso and tucked her head under his chin. "Don't want to get up," she murmured, breathing in his scent contentedly. "You're warm and soft."

Again she felt the vibrations of his chuckle in his chest. "I don't think anyone's ever called me that before." "Then the others haven't appreciated you properly." "Do you really think I've let many others get that close to me . "Then I should consider myself lucky." "Mhh." Tysess tightened his grip around her, now pressing his face against her hair rather than his antennae, stroking her back slowly. "Five minutes." "Ten." He gave an amused sigh and Ophelia felt the breath on her skin. "All right. Ten minutes."

For a full ten minutes Ophelia reveled in the blissful feeling of warmth and safety and the sensation of Tysess's antennae on her scalp. Unfortunately, her partner seemed to have a much better sense of time than she did, because after almost exactly ten minutes, he began to stir and free himself from her grip. "No," she muttered, however, despite her attempts, Tysess managed to free first his legs and then his arms. "We said ten minutes, Love," he replied amusedly, pressing a kiss to her forehead before completely escaping her grip and sitting up.

Instantly Ophelia began to shiver at the loss of her living hot water bottle and wrapped herself in her blanket, as if in a cocoon. Tysess laughed again, stroked her head and left the bedroom. Ophelia twisted her mouth into an offended pout and pressed her face further into the pillow as she pulled the blanket up to the tip of her nose. That would be all she needed, just to get up because Tysess, her personal hot water bottle, had slipped away.

Five minutes later, she toddled down the corridor to the kitchen, a little grumpy and sleepy-faced, dressed only in her pants and one of his thick, warm jerseys. Ophelia felt that she was shivering, perhaps due to the fact that she wasn't wearing proper sleeping pants, but she didn't care at the moment. She grumbled softly to herself as a very particular scent hit her, instantly lifting her spirits.

"Is that coffee I'm smelling?" Ophelia poked her head around the corner to look into the kitchen, which had been separated from the living room only by a counter. There stood Tysess, who had apparently been tampering with the coffee machine, in front of some pans that were sizzling with a wonderful smell. Distracted by her question, he turned and smiled slightly. Unlike her, he was wearing light clothes, a T-shirt and sweatpants, clothes that had seemed a little strange on him at first, as she had never seen Tysess in anything other than his uniform, except for one or two jumpers with uniform trousers.

"You seem a lot like the admiral in that respect." Smirking, he set a steaming cup down in front of her. "Neither of you can stand the day without this vile brew." Grinning, Ophelia climbed onto the counter and clasped the cup with both hands, hoping to warm it. Her Andorian noticed, however, and shook his head. "Why don't you put on something warmer?" She just stuck her tongue out at him and took a sip from her cup, eliciting a satisfied groan. "The drink of the gods."

Tysess turned back to the pans. "That's open to debate." "You just have no taste." "Then why am I with you?" " Now and then, every blind hen finds a grain of corn." Tysess turned sideways and she could see his smile. "Oh, is that so?" "Mhhhm." Ophelia was unable to reply in words as she tried to hide her grin in her cup.

"Then I should consider myself lucky." Tysess turned back towards the kitchen. "Mhh," Ophelia agreed, setting the cup down and hopping off the counter to wrap her arms around him from behind. "What are you doing?" "Breakfast." Ophelia rolled her eyes. "I can see that. But what?" "I wanted to try something," he explained, his hand reaching over his shoulder to pat her head. "Andorian breakfast, with ingredients from Earth. Not easy, but not impossible either."

Ophelia smiled and propped her chin on his shoulder. "I love you, you know that, right?" Tysess eased away from the pans and turned to her, wrapping his arms around her as well. "I know that." Smiling softly, he leaned his forehead against hers, "I love you too." "Like I said, even a blind hen finds a grain of corn once in a while."

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@bigblissandlove1

@akamitrani

@indignantlemur

[welcome-to-green-hills]

I don't know what else to put in your inbox at the moment, but do you have any new headcanons for any of the Wachowskis?

I absolutely have a few to share, my dear!❤️✨ I really, really miss making headcanons here. I do apologize if these aren’t the best, I’m still recovering from burn out from Uni. Let’s see what I can come up with...

Family vacations are an excellent way for the clan to bond. It’s one of Tom’s favorite ways in bonding with his kids. Tom does all of the planning: he makes hotel reservations, plans the activities, packs the snacks, he even goes through all of the effort and packs everyone’s clothes for the trip (Everyone seems to do it last minute). While the kids adore going on trip, they hate the early morning hours they have to get up at in order to get to their destination.

Maddie is very sporty and loves the outdoors. She loves to go on hikes and morning runs with her kids. When it’s her day to plan family activities with everyone, it usually involves nature runs, rock climbing, and swimming. Tom will join them on occasion, but he’s often tired after the morning run. He’ll sit in the car to cool off while the kids and mom have fun.

After a tragic accident at the only Olive Garden in the state of Montana, the Wachowski family is banned from entering in every eating establishment. They are denied entry no matter what state they are in. However, the ban can be lifted if Tom and Knuckles apologize.

Tails is not allowed to touch the Roomba and microwave. Once was enough.

Tails absolutely loves to go dumpster diving for spare parts. He finds just about everything that he needs in order to make his invention. The problem with this is the time that he likes to go at. Tails wakes Tom up at 3am to go to the Greenhills Dump to fill the back of the pickup truck with items that he needs. This is a once a week ritual that Tom and Tails have formed together.

Whenever Knuckles leaves the house for the day, he always makes sure to return home with a rock to give to Maddie and one to add to his rock collection.

On stormy days, Sonic likes to sneak small animals into the house to keep them safe and dry from the rain. This has been a habit that Sonic formed when living in the forest. The rain was usually brutal and not safe to be out. He would bring them into his cave to wait out the rain. Sonic has brought home small birds and critters for months into the house until Maddie caught him. She helped him construct a bird house to put outside so that the birds and small animals had shelter during the storms.

Due to living ten years in the forest, Sonic know how to do various animal calls, as well as understand what each call is. This is how he communicated with the fauna back then.

He may look cute and fluffy, but Ozzie cusses like a sailor. The only one that understands his barking is Sonic. Sonic and Ozzie will bark at each other for hours.

Knuckles deathly afraid of pigeons.

Tails has severe anxiety and stims when he’s nervous.

Sonic fears the ghosts that live in the forest. That, and a few other things.

Each of the Wachowskis have a dark secret that they keep from each other (well, mostly. Tails knows and will gladly tell you them if you give him mints). Tails chases his tails when no one is watching, Sonic is secretly the king of a nursery of raccoons that hang out by the garage, Knuckles cannot enter the same room that a pigeon is in, Tom is a die hard Downton Abbey fan and has seen all of the specials, and Maddie has a tattoo.

Ear rubs are reserved between Maddie and Sonic only. No one else is allowed to give him ear rubs. However, you can give him head pats.

The Wachowski family celebrates Hanukkah, not Christmas. Sonic and Tom get the biggest kick out of it.

This happens in the Wachowski household more than you think that it does. However, this happens more with Tom and Sonic more than it does with Sonic and Tails.

More importantly, Tom and Maddie love their sons regardless of their past. The two love and accept all of them. They are proud to be called Sonic, Tails, and Knuckles’ parents.❤️✨

I hope that you enjoy my headcanons! Thank you for the ask!

[sannflwrr]

How To Get Out of the Friend Zone: A (Chaotic) Guide by Jisung (Ch. 4)

Author: sannflwrr

Pairing: Jisung x MC

Genre: Frenemies(-ish) to Lovers

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: mentions of smoking, weed, drugs, alcohol, homophobia (homophobics are not allowed on my page), some sexual themes, and of course - angst

Summary: Bae is obsessed with making the most of her time during college. She has a very colorful group of friends who make living life recklessly fun, and a dance team that throws all sorts of unparalleled events in her way. Along the way, she falls (hard) for many people, but what will it take for her to realize everything she’s wanted has been in front of her the whole time?

RULE 2: DON’T ALWAYS BE AVAILABLE.

Brunch with Karina is always entertaining. Every time Bae meets her individually, it’s like something new has happened to the girl. She always has a new story to tell. Even though waking up at 7 on a Sunday morning isn’t her ideal - it takes Bae a solid 30 to get out of bed, and then another 20 to get ready, which leaves her ten minutes to walk over to the restaurant. Karina’s usually the more punctual one, so Bae finds her already at a table, waiting for her expectantly. She’s tired, but seeing Karina makes the life return to her face. 

“How has the semester been treating you?”

“Could be worse.” Karina chirps. “I’m doing okay, surprisingly. How about you?” 

“I’m…managing.” It definitely could be worse, she agrees. “You hear about Jisung’s new girl?” 

“Aeri? Yeah.” Her friend sighs. “Her name sounds so expensive. I wonder if she’s rich.” 

“Yours also sounds pretty expensive.” Bae counters. “She might be. I spoke with her the other day, she gives me rich vibes.” 

“Are you two friends? That’s so funny.” 

“Not really.” She frowns. “How’s that funny though?” 

“Oh considering…” The girl across from her pauses, furrows her brows, then shakes her head. “Ah, never mind. I’m hungover.”

“Did you go to a party?” 

“I drank with Chenle. So, no.”

“Just you two?”

“Yeah.”

“He likes you Karina.”

“He likes the idea of me, Bae.” She shakes her head. “You’re so illiterate when it comes to men. All men love a challenge, especially men like him. He likes the idea I’m unattainable. He wants to see if he can break that, as sick as it is.” She’s right, god, she’s always right. Karina’s the only person she knows who has her head screwed on. “It’s whatever. I like the card that he always has on him.” 

This makes her laugh. Bae wishes she could be like Karina, and not care so much. Karina claimed it was an art she perfected over the years. Being so nonchalant isn’t easy, but if you do it often enough, it becomes a habit, a lifestyle. If only it would come sooner. Bae was sure that whatever she was doing right now did not contribute to the art of nonchalance. Every time Yuta texted her, it felt like her heart was going into cardiac arrest, or like her brain was going to explode. Pathetic, really.

“I wonder what she sees in him.” Bae huffs. “Like, seriously? Jisung? Of all people?” 

“He’s cute.” Karina responds. “He can be funny…sometimes. And he’s not really a douchebag to girls.”

“He’s a douche to me.”

“Yeah, well…” Karina looks like she wants to say more, but she cuts herself off when the waitress approaches. It’s already too early in the morning, so Bae settles for a coffee and a nice stack of pancakes. Karina orders some posh lavender tea and waffles. After the woman leaves, she resumes. 

“Why do you care so much anyways?”

“I don’t.” Does she? The question caught her by surprise. Maybe Bae does care a little. “I just feel like she could do a lot better. Aeri’s really sweet.” And really pretty. 

Karina smiles. It’s not one that Bae can decode, which makes her shift in her seat. If anything, Bae is getting the sense that her friend doesn’t believe her. Why should she care? She doesn’t. Bae really doesn’t care. 

“Yeah, I don’t care.” She adds for finality. 

Karina shrugs. “Okay, whatever.”

“I really don’t.”

A small smile passes over her friend’s face. “Who are you trying to convince?” 

“I think I’m in love with Yuta.” Bae says instead. She lets out a sigh. And that’s exactly why she doesn’t care. Because she’s in love with Yuta. She just thinks Aeri could do better than that douche of a man. 

Karina’s mouth opens once, then closes slowly. Then she glances down at the table for a second, then back up at Bae. “Interesting.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“It was the better option to what I wanted to say originally…yes.” 

Bae narrows her eyes. “Feel free to share with the class?”

“He’s not the one, Bae.”

“Yeah, maybe that was the better option.” She breathes.

“I think you’re making a mistake.” Karina blinks a few times. “Does he like you?”

“He has to, right? I mean, we’re always together.”

The face Karina makes doesn’t make her feel any better, in fact, it creates an odd sensation in her stomach, nowhere remotely close to butterflies. “Do you know something I should know?”

“You know everything I know.” Karina tells her. Across from her, she crosses one leg over the other. “He does not seem like he wants a relationship.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“Bae, I hope I am.” Her eyes turn to watch the waiter handle the pancakes on their table. Once they leave, she turns back to look at Bae, concern lit in her brown eyes. “For your sake, I truly hope I’m wrong.” 

She’s starving, so she digs in. But the pancakes slid slowly down her throat, maple syrup leaving a sticky aftertaste that makes her wonder if it was something in the food or just her own subconscious warning her about something she couldn’t see. 

Bae did know one thing though. Karina was never wrong about men.

Her conversation with Karina echoes in her mind from then on out, following her through class, and even into the dark hours where she stares up at the blank wall of her bedroom. She begins to see Yuta on Thursday and Friday nights - no more, no less. She has his class schedule memorized better than her own. Bae feels like she’s on a rollercoaster, constantly in a state of he loves me, he loves me not. So extreme that she even downloaded one of those emotion tracker apps, just to see how off the rails she’s gone. Breakfast with Karina was the first time she ever admitted that. That she was in love with Yuta. At the same time it felt right. There was no other emotion to describe it. It had gone past a silly little crush. It didn’t help that he fucked her brains out every Thursday and Friday night of each week. That gave her the rest of the week to go ballistic and over analyze every little text and thing he had said to her that week. He likes me. He doesn’t like me.

This went on for another two months. 

In those two months, she saw the others less. The amazing thing about her friends is that they were incredibly low maintenance. During breaks, they hardly spoke to each other, unless it was to wish for the holidays. With the exception of Karina, she spoke to her on the regular. Bae supposed it was different with women. She didn’t have the urge to miss her guy friends like she did with Karina. It definitely was different with women. 

It was a Thursday night, the clock was nearing 2 in the morning. She sat in Yuta’s mattress, sheets curled around her lap, with a computer sitting in front of her. Behind her, she hears his small laugh, muffled in a pillowcase. Bae asks him what’s so funny. 

“Five minutes ago, you were not…working on an essay.” 

“This is due in…ten hours.” Bae responds with a grin. “I don’t know why professors decide to make deadlines in the middle of the day. It could be its own ring in hell, honestly.”

Yuta laughs again. When she turns back, she can see the faint outline of his face from the light on her screen. “You’re amazing.”

Her stomach dips, like how one feels driving over a small hill really fast. She sees Karina in the back of her mind for a moment, reminding her not to take it seriously. As soon as that warning comes, it’s discarded immediately by the other part of her, more delusional, more hopelessly in love with the idea of what it could mean. What they could be. 

“Restaurant week starts on Monday.” Bae says to him. It’s a thing they do in the city, a custom menu for select restaurants, allowing people to try the best at a discounted price. She usually only went with Karina - Chenle occasionally - this time she wanted to try something different. “Do you have plans?”

“Depends. Aeri might want to get lunch. It’s cheaper.”

“Would you want to get dinner?” She turns her gaze back to the computer.

“Dinner?” He repeats.

“That’s what I said.”

“Just us?”

“If that’s what you want.” Her heart is thundering in her ribcage, Bae prays he can’t hear. 

“Where were you thinking? I’ve heard Giorgio is good.” 

“I’m fine with Giorgio.” She wills her breathing to slow. Bae had expected him to turn the offer down. She expected it to come down in ruins. He had not. 

Something felt lighter in her soul. Like a weight had been lifted. Bae suspected that it was the fear of rejection, she never liked to make the first move with men. Even though this would hardly be considered the first move, in Yuta’s case it was different. This would be the first time they hung out, just the two of them, outside of his apartment. This meant it was something. This meant he liked her. Enough where he would want to see her outside of his room. 

He likes me, she thought. 

Giorgio happened. Giorgio happened and it left Bae with a smile at the entrance of her apartment. They spent a while in the restaurant, laughing about…Bae can’t even remember she was too busy staring at him. They left with his name signed on the check. He dropped her off promptly at her doorstep, Bae had expected him to say something more to her, but he didn’t. No matter, she supposed it wasn’t a big deal. Making plans about a second date during the first one wasn’t an indication that it went badly. 

Right? 

Thursday and Friday nights continued, without a single mention of something like Giorgio’s to follow. Bae was beginning to become confused…that had been a date right? He had been sweet to her, flirted with her even, paid for the entire meal too! A total of fifty dollars. Men don’t just drop that kind of money on girls they don’t like, right? Maybe Karina was right. She really could not read men and their intentions. The rollercoaster she was on only became more and more dangerous. She could sense the drop approaching, yet couldn’t tell how far down it would go. 

“I’ve been canceling on him.” Bae says loudly, to Karina. They’re at a party, seconds prior they had taken a shot with Chenle, who magically disappeared. The music is loud, really loud - she can feel Britney Spears in her veins, injected with the alcohol and whatever joint she shared with Karina earlier that night. Bae is gone, so gone, so nonsense begins to spew out of her without any apprehensions. “It’s true. My professor has deadlines on Fridays, so mostly I use that time to get my work in.” 

“That’s good!” Karina screams back over the music. “That’s good, right?” 

“Yeah, I think so.” Her hand reaches for another cup of the jungle juice they’re serving. It’s citrusy, and tastes more like juice than alcohol. Bae likes it. “I think I’m getting over him.” Probably the fattest lie she would ever tell under the influence. 

“Thank god.” Her friend giggles. “I was hoping you would come to your senses. He’s a terrible choice.” 

“Do you know him?” 

“Kind of.” She shrugs. “Not as well as Jeno.” The brunette pulls out her phone. “But like…I did text him when you told me you were doing the whole restaurant week thing with him.” 

“You did what?” For a moment, the music stops screaming in her ears. “Karina, please tell me you’re lying.” 

Across from her, she’s giggling. Bae doesn’t see what’s so funny, enough that she puts down her drink and straightens her posture. “It’s nothing serious, Bae. I kept your name out of it, promise. I swear on my mother.” 

“I don’t see how you could’ve—”

“Look, you can take a look at the messages yourself. I just…I really wanted to know if I was wrong about him, y’know? Like the whole Jungwoo thing was cute, but I’ve never seen you like this with a man before. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting involved with someone who wouldn’t treat you in a way you didn’t deserve.” She shoves the rim of her cup in between her teeth, handing her phone to Bae. 

“I’m glad you don’t like him though.” Is what she thinks Karina said, with the cup in her mouth. 

“I don’t want to read this.” She says, but already her eyes are on the screen. 

“I just asked if he was interested in you, because I noticed the two of you were hanging out a lot.” Bae feels Karina cup her face with both of her hands, cup still in between her lips. “Truly a douche right? Pays for everything, flirts with you, still wants to hook up with you and he says no? Women are better off single these days.” 

The text reads: Hahaha yeaa no, I’m not really looking for a relationship rn lol. Bae can feel the color draining from her face, feel the alcohol and the buzz fade fast from her veins. She’s sobering too fast, too suddenly. 

She gives Karina her phone back, then takes another drink of the jungle juice. “You shouldn’t have asked him. I didn’t want to see that.”

“I did it for you, mi corazón.” Karina’s never dense, but it must be the alcohol and the rush that is completely blindsiding her to the face Bae wears. She keeps dipping in and out of English and Spanish. Bae forgot the girl has a proficiency certificate in the language, her own limited knowledge from high school is the only reason she can partially understand what the girl is saying. “You’re over him! Isn’t that amazing? I figured this could be that final push, because he’s an asshole. I didn’t like him this whole time.” 

“Karina, seriously. Why would you get involved like this?” 

“I was worried about you, Bae. Can’t you see? I didn’t intend to interfere, at all. I wasn’t even going to show you this - honestly - but you mentioned not liking him anymore, I couldn’t resist.”

She won’t stop talking. Bae’s head won’t stop spinning. Everything is moving too fast, too fast for her. He doesn’t like her, he never did. How stupid was she to think that for a second, maybe he had? 

“I mean, it’s Jeno’s friends we’re talking about. They’re literally the worst kind of men you could never date, let alone get involved with. When you said you liked him, I was genuinely shocked…like Yuta, really? He’s probably the worst out of them all…” 

“You’re drunk.” Bae breathes, taking the cup from her hands. “I think you should stop drinking.” She steps back, bumping into someone’s shoulder. It’s Jaemin. 

His eyes are bloodshot, not from crying. He’s probably high, and knowing him, it’s definitely not a probability.

“You stay with her, please.” She tells him in his ear. “I need to leave.” 

“Leave?” For a moment, something in his eyes flicker. The more sober version of Jaemin, that observes. Maybe he’s not as gone as Karina is, he usually never is. “Are you okay?” 

She laughs. “No. I’m not.” If she stayed a moment longer, Bae probably would’ve started stress crying, so she grabbed her bag and left for the front door. 

chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5 (coming soon)