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brujahinaskirt · 1 year

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Just some lil' thangs you might not notice about the level of detail RDR2 puts into Arthur's interactions with horses if you aren't personally experienced with horses:

[Sorry if this has been done! I couldn't find a post like it in recent tumblr history, and hope I can at least add some thoughts that haven't been analyzed to death already!]

(First, a note about me: I was raised on a quarter horse ranch and trained by a cadre of old-school cowboys in the Western tradition. Some of them were excellent teachers and some of them were crabby-faced bastards who thought "horsemanship" = engaging in a constant war with your horse... which gives me a little insight into positive and negative horsemanship styles on display in RDR2.)

(Second, thanks to fellow horsegirl @mangocats for helping me compile this list!)

(Third, a simple note to say that although I playfully use the term "horsegirl" in this post, the notes here apply to any gender. Same goes for the use of terms like "horsemen," which is not commonly used in the Western equestrian world to indicate a rider's real gender.)

Now, without further ado:

Press X to Calm. Arthur uses a tried-and-true low-stress, gradual escalation method of approaching and calming a spooked horse that begins with establishing physical contact with one hand and slowly increasing contact until the horse is fully calm and is once more amenable to human direction & commands. This is usually a preferable method to getting a frightened horse under control imo, but it's a "soft hand" method, and not something you always see in machismo-loaded equestrian circles. I've written about this a little in another meta post, so I won't get too deeply into it here.

Overall Horsemanship Style. You'll notice that while he does occasionally drive them hard in emergencies such as escaping the law or chasing a train, Arthur never "forces" his horses to comply with commands; in other words, he doesn't use his strength to try and bully a horse into doing something, like crossing a river, or physically punish a horse to "desensitize" it. "Forcing" horses to do things using tack designed to create discomfort or using raw bodily intimidation + fear & pain-motivated negative reinforcement is a tragically common tradition in old-school Western riding (and still advocated by some popular TV equestrians whom I think are straight-up animal abusers... if you know you know). It's dismal, but for a lot of the cowboys I know/knew, when a horse isn't obeying, you need to "show it who's boss." Arthur never approaches animals this way. By contrast, especially for the time period, he is exceedingly patient with horses and animals in general. We can even see this in his dialogue to wild horses; when they gradually calm down after the initial "breaking in" process, Arthur usually says something companionable like, "See, we're friends now."

And a sub-point on that: Horsemanship Temperament. Arthur never gets mad at or yells at his horse. Even when he gets chucked to the ground, he'll yell DAMN, THAT HURT, and then it's back to trying to calm the spooked horse. Which is exactly the right attitude to have. (Though if you've never been hurled face-first into a pile of sun-baked manure because your horse saw, idk, a twig on the road, you might not appreciate how even-tempered a character Arthur is for never succumbing to the temptation to yell, "COME ONNNN GIVE ME A BREAK IT'S A STICK YOU SILLY BITCH!")

Horse responsiveness. The horse emotional cues in this game are incredible, from their reactions to other animals and weather events to their reactions to Arthur. You can see the horse's neck muscles tense and relax when being calmed, their eyes changing in size, their head drop and raise in response to the reins, and their annoyance seeping through with stomps and pinned ears well before they start to spook. When Arthur speaks to his horses, you can even see a subtle ear flick backwards as they listen to him. When he gives certain commands (such as a mild squeeze of the knees to speed up a bit), a calm and attentive horse will often issue an affirmative snort; this is incredibly lifelike and essentially a "roger roger" between horse and rider. I was also impressed that Arthur uses his thighs and his knees to cue his horse more than his heels. Usually you just see the dramatic heel cues in in video games, but in real life, a rider gently but firmly squeezes their knees/thighs far more often than laying into their horse with boot heels, which is a fabulous way to get sent to the moon. One thing I would have liked to see is more riderless idle horse animations. Lazy or bored horses do a very classic pose where they rest their weight on one side, cock a hip out, and jauntily kick a back hoof up. It would have been right at home at the hitching posts in RDR2, and the horses are otherwise so lifelike, I find myself missing this little pose.

Historical bits. As players, we don't have much choice with this, since Rockstar matched bits to saddles rather than letting us customize them. With that disclaimer out of the way: Arthur uses a wide range of bits, some of them much harsher than others, designed to offer more control over a difficult horse's head through pressure points within the mouth. This is historically sound and far from obsolete in modern horsemanship, though I would certainly avoid using some of the harsher bits in RDR2 on my horses to avoid hurting them accidentally. That said, it's important to note that "harsh" control bits (like those wickedly straight-shanked bits you see with some of the cooler saddle styles) aren't instantly or automatically painful. While many of us modern horsegirls may frown upon the just-for-the-hell-of-it use of many styles of old-school, Wild West bit, in the hands of an experienced horseman with a good sense of appropriate rein pressure (which we can assume Arthur is), even a curb bit should not be a tool of pain. In the hands of a novice, however, some of those bits would absolutely hurt a poor horse's mouth and are typically reserved for troublesome (potentially dangerous) animals who may need to be curtailed quickly. I'm assuming Rockstar chose them for style more than characterization... but I do wince when I see those hard stops with the straight shanks, every time.

Horsetalk. We all know Arthur baby talks horses, and that his babble to his horse increases in affection with bonding level and varies a little depending on the horse's sex. But he also does something peculiar and frankly delightful with his vocal modulation on certain horse chatter lines. In those moments where he seems to go a little vibrato, warbling his voice as he talks ("waiaiaiaiaiaiaiat! come bahahahahack!" he calls after a fleeing mustang), Arthur is actually mimicking calming/positive horse sounds (usually a friendly nicker or a greeting whinny) in an attempt to communicate in horse language. While I think a TON of horsegirls have secretly nickered at our horses when no one else is around the stable, making horse noises at your horse is not a "traditional" training technique, and imo is something other gang members would definitely make fun of him for. It is also very adorable. I wanted to add that while horses are excellent at noise commands (like whistles, clucks, kisses, etc.), they usually aren't very good at identifying spoken word commands, including their own names. Therefore, the majority of the talking Arthur does to his horse is just free companionable chatter, much like we babble to our house pets. The command is in the cluck, the leg pressure, the yah, the rein slap; it's not the spoken, "Come on, girl, here we go!" That's just Arthur being a horsegirl.

Saddle checks. If you pay close attention, in cutscenes and in the map, Arthur will occasionally reach down and test various pieces of his saddle. This is particularly true with checking the cinches (those big straps that loop behind the front legs and under the belly), which good riders often do, as saddles can adjust during a ride. Straps that are too tight or too loose will cause a horse discomfort, since they change the way the saddle rests upon them and distributes the rider's weight. You can even watch the saddle shift when Arthur mounts and dismounts, reflecting the changed distribution in weight! This honestly floored me the first time I saw it. Rockstar really consulted people who know their stuff.

Bad Habits. IMO, Arthur's a little slouch-backed in the saddle. This is noticeably worse if he's hungry or sleepy, but even well-fed and rested, his shoulders drop and curve out his spine more than is ideal. This won't hurt his horse, but it will come back to bite him directly in the lower back as he ages, and I argue it's probably biting him in the ass a little now. (More on that below.) Arthur's "behind the horse" etiquette isn't particularly lifelike. In RDR2 (as in life), sometimes idling or benignly messing around behind a horse will cause them to randomly kick, and any equestrian knows not to hang out aimlessly in the kick zone. IRL, if you're about to walk close behind a horse, it's good etiquette to reach out and gently lay a hand on a horse's hip to let them know you're going to pass behind them before you step into the kick zone. I would have liked to see an animation for this, but I'd guess this would have been a real pain to animate without "locking" Arthur in place (as with the petting and brushing animations), so I can't really count this against him in good conscience. He also holds his reins in a full fist rather than between the appropriate fingers. This is a novice mistake, but I'm guessing this is an animation choice more than a characterization one, because I can't imagine getting those wobbly rein physics to rest perfectly between a model's wee little fingers. Which brings us to...

Reins. Arthur keeps a pretty tight (though not oppressive) grip on the reins when he has a horse in motion, facilitating quick communication from rider to horse and increased emotional response from the horse, and he tends to use both reins when he isn't holding something else. This increases control and often allows for clearer communication between horse and rider in comparison to the laxer "rein knot" one-handed Western style. More on that point: Arthur sometimes holds the reins in one hand. This is not lazy horsemanship, but rather a mainstay of the Western riding tradition; holding the reins in one hand allows for a rider to keep one hand free for whatever they might need... usually rope/weapons. Using two hands, one rein in each, does deliver much more refined control (especially with a nervous or inexperienced horse), which is why you often see Arthur switch between one- and two-handed riding. Rockstar also makes the clever choice to make reins “stretchy” so they move with the neck and simulate rider give and restraint, rather than having them just flop around at a static length. This makes reining feel a lot more dynamic and responsive, in my opinion.

Bareback vs. Saddle: To Rockstar's credit, riders' carriage when bareback is entirely different from the saddle carriage animations, and displays a lower center of gravity.

This note is a bummer, but it is, I feel, an important one to know. Arthur is WAY TOO BIG to ride a significant number of horses in the game. Horses are not bikes or cars. In real life, it's extremely important to consider a rider's weight and height and general carriage when matching them with a horse, especially for long-distance rides... and unfortunately, Arthur is prohibitively huge. If I saw a man Arthur's size astride that teeny little Morgan, boots tips damn near dragging, I'd give him a piece of my damn mind. That said, it's just a video game, so if you love that white Arabian or that sweet little Morgan, ride without shame; you are not hurting a pixel horse! But if you're into max realism or a horse an experienced rider like Arthur might conceivably choose for himself, go for something larger, leggier, and stronger. Though Rockstar fictionalized their breeds a little bit, I think one of their taller well-balanced styles like the Dutch warmblood, standardbred, Hungarian, Andalusian, or even one of those svelte Americanized Belgians suits Arthur much more comfortably. Online's Kladruber would also be an excellent choice for Arthur. (Ain't nobody saying SHIT to Arthur Morgan on a heavy breed like a Shire, though they aren't well suited for everyday long-distance all-terrain riding, and I feel sympathy pains about that leg spread just thinking about it. Speaking of...)

Real talk about Arthur's "swagger": Though I'm 100% sure it's a dominance thing for some crusty ol' cowboys, most equestrians don't saunter around Like That TM because they are listening to Rod Stewart croon If You Want My Body And You Think I'm Sexy at all times. That "swagger" is just... well... to be blunt, it's sort of what happens to your gait after you spend all day with your legs straddling a big animal moving on rough terrain. Hang out with some adults who have ridden horses daily since they were wee beans and they'll tell you allllll about what it can do to your posture. Contrary to cowboy jokes, it's not so much about being bowlegged (which is massively exaggerated as it pertains to horseback riding) as it is about lowering one's center of gravity to compensate for things like muscle strain, spinal compression, and lower back pain. Due to the high impact nature of riding, many career horsepeople develop chronic back problems and "swaggers," and for some it's eventually more comfortable to ride than to walk. Not saying you can't hc an Arthur who struts his stuff, of course! Just saying that, for those of you who might struggle to reconcile Arthur's blisteringly low self-esteem in his physical appearance with his "swagger," here's a horse world answer.

Knights Templar'ing it. This is another bummer for a ton of cute fanfic scenes, but riding two-to-a saddle is really not good for a horse. It's not just about raw weight, but about the distribution of that weight and where the pressure rests on a horse's back/organs. A bean like Little Jack sitting right in Arthur's lap isn't going to add too much stress to a horse big enough to carry a tanky dude like Arthur comfortably, but a whole second adult sitting behind a saddle is a very different story. Imagine the difference between carrying someone piggyback versus having someone stand on your spine! It's all about the position. Larger breeds can tolerate riding double for a while, but it should not be done for long distances, and it definitely should not be done if a rider expects to need heavy exertion from the horse. Adults riding double doesn't happen too often in RDR2 (usually just during an emergency), so this isn't a critique of Rockstar or Arthur; it's more so a helpful realism note for fanworks. An experienced horsegirl like Arthur is sure not to ride double casually. Pro-tip: If you want someone to teach your (non-bean-sized) OC how to ride a horse, consider having the teacher controlling the horse from the ground via a lead/lunge line while your OC sits in the saddle.

Oof, that smarts... When Arthur picks up hay bales with short sleeves on/bare hands, he makes a soundless "OOF OOOH EEEE OUCH" face. The first time I saw this, I absolutely lost it with glee. Anyone who has moved hay (or straw; they're different!) with bare arms knows how prickly and scratchy and itchy it is, and it's loving little touches like this that make RDR2's horses feel so darn real.

That's all I can think of for now! I hope this list was at least somewhat helpful, even if it's far from an all-encompassing resource on horsey stuff in RDR2. Happy riding, meatverse horsegirls & virtual horsegirls, and remember to always thank your horse :)

#rdr2 #red dead redemption #arthur morgan #horsegirl gamergirl hours #long post #redmeta

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uma1ra · 4 months

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SUBHAN'ALLAH, THIS TEXT CONTAINS VERY INFORMATIVE KNOWLEDGE FOR ALL!! READ & SPREAD IT AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE, IT WILL BE SADQA-E-JARIAH FOR YOU AND ME.

1-Akhi - Brother

2-Ukhti - Sister

3-JazakAllah khair - May Allah give you Ajar/Sawab for your deed.

4-Ma'Shaa'Allah - As God has willed.

5-HayakAllah - May Allah give you life.

6-BarakAllahu Feek - May Allah put baraka in what you are doing.

7-Wa feeka barakallahu - and May Allah bless you. (in response to Barakallahu Feek)

8-Wa iyyakum - And to you

9-Alhamdulillah - Praise be to Allah

10-Allah - God

11-Allahu Akbar - Allah is Most Great

12-Amanah - Trust

13-Assalamu Alaikum - Peace be upon you--the "official" Islamic greeting.

14-Assalamu Alaikum wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuh - "Peace and the Mercy and Blessings of God be upon you" Extended form of the above.

16-Astaghfir Allah - I seek forgiveness from Allah (used when mentioning something that goes against the standards of Islam)

17-Ayah/Ayat - Qur'anic verse

18-Bid`ah - Innovation, addition to the religion's essentials

19-Bukhari - One of the most noted compilers of hadith. His collection is 20-known as Sahih Bukhari

21-Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Rahim - In the Name of Allah, the Most Gracious, Most Merciful

23-Da'wa - Invitation (for humankind to Islam)

24-Du`aa - Supplication

25-Eid - Islamic holiday

26-Fatwa - Islamic legal ruling

27-Fiqh - Islamic law as interpreted by scholars

28-Fitnah - Corruption and disorder, also temptation

29-Hadith - A report of a saying or deed of the Prophet

30-Haj - Pilgrimage

31-Halal - Allowed (per Islamic law)

32-Haram - Forbidden (per Islamic law)

33-Hazrat/Hadrat - Honorable

34-Hijab - Modest way of behavior and dress (including head scarf for women)

35-Imam - Leader

36-Iman - Faith

37-In Shaa Allah - If God wills. (Used when talking about a future event)

38-Injeel - The scripture sent down to Prophet Issa (Jesus)

39-Isnad - Chain of transmitters, the list of people who successively narrated a given hadith

40-Jannah - Paradise

41-JazakAllah Khair - May God grant you what is good. (Often used instead of "Thank you")

42-Jihad - Striving for Islam, whether by peaceful or violent means

43-Jinn - Unseen beings, who, like humans, are given the power to choose between right and wrong

44-Kafir - One who denies the truth. Literally, one who "covers" the truth (sometimes applied to non-Muslims).

45-Khalifah - Caliph: Leader of Muslim nation

46-Khilafah - Caliphate

47-Khutba - Sermon

48-Kufr - Denial of the Truth, rebellion against God

49-La Ilaha Illa Allah - There is no deity but God

50-Ma Shaa Allah - What God has willed! (Usually used to express wonder at Allah's creation)

51-Madhhab - School of jurisprudential thought

52-Makruh - Detested, but not forbidden (per Islamic law)

53-Mandoub - Recommended, but not required (per Islamic law)

54-Mubah - Neither forbidden nor commended. Neutral (per Islamic law)

55-Mushrik - One who commits Shirk

56-Muslim - One who submits to Allah and is a follower of Islam; also, name of one of the most notable hadith scholars. His collection is known as Sahih Muslim

57-Nabi - Prophet

58-Qur'an - The Words of Allah conveyed to us by the Prophet

PBUH - Peace Be Upon Him. Same as SAW

59-RAA - (Radia Allahu Anhu/Anha.) May Allah be please with him/her

60-Ra-sool - Messenger (Prophet to whom a scripture is revealed)

61-Rasool Allah - Messenger of God (used to refer to Prophet Muhammad)

62-Sahaba - Companions of Prophet. Singular is "Sahabi"

63-Sahih - "Sound in isnad." A technical attribute applied to the "isnad" of a hadith

64-Salaam - Peace. An abbreviated version of the Islamic greeting

65-Salaat - Prayer

66-SAW - (Salla Allahu Alaihi Wa Sallam.) Peace Be Upon Him

67-Sawm/Siyam - Fasting

68-Seerah/Sirah - History of the Prophet's life

69-Shahadah - Bearing witness that there is no god but Allah and that Muhammad is His Messenger.

70-Shari'ah - Divine Law

71-Sheikh - Scholar (or any elder and/or respected man)

72-Shirk - Associating partners (e.g. helpers, other gods) with Allah

73-Shura - Consultation among Muslims

74-Subhan Allah - "Glory be to God"

75-Sunna/Sunnah - Tradition of the Prophet

76-Surah/Sura - A Chapter in the Qur'an

78-Tafsir - Interpretation

79-Tawraat - The scripture sent down to Prophet Musa (Moses).

80-Ulama - Religious scholars

81-Umma - Nation, community.

82-Ustadh - Teacher

83-Wassalaam - And peace. It means "goodbye"

84-Zakat - Required charity

#islam #quran #islamic #muslim #islamicquotes #pakistan #islamic group #muslim community #muslim countries

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queenshelby · 21 days

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The Law Student (Rewritten)

Part Six: Green Genes

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (20) & Reader (30)

Note: This plays in 1996, just before Cillian drops out of law school.

Several days had passed until Thursday finally came around and, to you, it seemed as though, for the past few days, Cillian tried to make a point to be seen by you with Siobhan. It felt as if each time you set foot in the school building, there they were - sitting in the same corner spot, hands intertwined on top of the table. He was always sending mixed signals in class, sneaking glances at you as if bursting with secrets – secret encounters, conversations, stolen kisses; whereas, afterwards, he was always quick to walk by Siobhan's side.

Watching him kiss her goodbye and whisper sweet nothings into her ear fueled your innate jealousy – fueling a burning sensation in your chest, an anger that pricked at the back of your neck.

The sensations, admittedly, were concerning – confusing even, because this wasn't the type of feeling you expected to experience. You felt disgusted at the thought of being so attached to, possessive of someone who, only a week ago, knew little more than your first name.

Yet here you were – fixated on these particular glimpses of the boy, each slightly more intimate than the last and, by the time he entered the lecture room for his tutoring session, you were almost vibrating with apprehension and the desperate need to sort through your tangled emotions.

Silence enveloped the room as you awaited the arrival of your student, and each second stretched into an eternity, further fraying your nerves. When you finally heard light footsteps coming from the hall outside, you glanced up to meet a pair of deep-blue eyes that pierced right through you, paralyzing your breath within your lungs.

"Hey," Cillian murmured, resting his knapsack onto his chair and directing an intense gaze toward you; a gaze that seemed to ignite a fire in the pit of your stomach.

"You are late ," you replied, your voice thicker than intended, and glanced back at your notes, attempting to ignore the flush spreading across your cheeks and the rapid beating of your own heart.

"Sorry, I lost track of time," Cillian's husky voice reverberated through the almost-empty room, and you couldn't help but notice how flushed his forehead remained.

"It's fine ," you sighed and averted your gaze, your thoughts ensnared between the apparent sexual tension between you and the of frustration building up within you. This boy was your student, and you were his professor, yet the boundary between teacher and pupil had grown thin.

As you glanced at Cillian, your eyes met his, and the sheer intensity in them evoked something within you-an urge to explore their depths until quenched, to satisfy your hunger.

"Now tell me, did you do the prescribed reading for the cases I have given you?" you asked coolly, trying to mask your tumultuous feelings. Cillian hesitated, shuffling his documents awkwardly.

"Well, most of it," he confessed, averting his gaze. "There was just so much material, and I had some assignments to prioritize," he added defensively.

Your irritation grew. Not only could you not fathom the idea of succumbing to this boy's sweet temptation, but you also resented his most recent lackadaisical attitude towards your class.

"You had assignments to prioritize?" you heard yourself repeat, incredulous. "Cillian, if I didn't know any better, I would assume that you are not taking this course seriously anymore after what happened between us. You haven't engaged in class all week and now-, " you began to say just as Cillian interrupted you.

Cillian looked up, startled. "No, I am taking it seriously Y/N," he assured you, inadvertently calling you by his first name. "It's just that-well-there's a lot going on right now. Personal stuff, you know."

You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "You mean you have a girlfriend now, so your studies are less important?" you asked, unable to fully conceal the jealousy in your voice and this was something Cillian picked up on right away.

"Are you jealous?" he asked, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.

The words hung in the air, and you felt your face grow hot. "Of course not," you lied, trying to remain calm and collected. "I'm just, you know, never mind," you stammered, and Cillian looked at you skeptically, as if he could sense the lie behind your words.

"So you are not jealous of me dating Siobhan?" he questioned you further, biting his lower lip playfully. His tone was flirtatious, baiting you towards losing your composure and giving away your true feelings.

However, your years of experience as a lawyer had taught you how to navigate delicate situations without losing your edge. Therefore, you responded to Cillian calmly, remaining composed.

"No Cillian, I am not jealous of your girlfriend. I am just concerned that your personal affairs will compromise your academic performance," you said plainly, avoiding his gaze.

He chuckled quietly, seemingly amused by your response. "Alright , if you say so." His voice carried an undertone of skepticism, and the way he looked at you made it clear that he didn't quite believe you.

Cillian let the topic drop, and the rest of the tutoring session went smoothly, with the two of you discussing legal concepts and case studies. Yet, even as you delved into complex intellectual discussions, you couldn't help but feel a persistent burn of jealousy in the back of your mind.

You pushed that pang of jealousy aside once more , focusing on the topic at hand.

Finally, the tutoring session ended, and Cillian packed up his belongings, offering a small, cryptic smile as he left the room.

That smirk ignited a spark in your mind, causing you to question his motives and intentions. But Cillian had left already, and you had no choice but to bury your thoughts for the time being.

***

The following day, after work, you were invited to meet up with a gathering of colleagues for drinks - the type of event you generally avoided. You disliked the cliquish environment and superficial banter. Still, tonight you found yourself agreeing to join them. Perhaps, you subconsciously sought some form of distraction; which always seemed in short supply recently.

The topics discussed over drinks however were far from interesting for you. Thus, after having listened to their recounts of court victories, academia bragging and tedious office gossip, you decided that it was best to step outside and call it a night.

The cold abruptly slammed against your skin, but the crisp air felt invigorating as you pulled out your Nokia to call a taxi home just as, out of the blue, you received a text message from your best friend Emma who was looking to catch up later that evening.

"Two for one drinks at Soho. Live Music. 9pm." was all Emma's message read, and although the idea of more socializing sounded exhausting, you also knew that a couple of drinks with your best friend might be exactly what you needed to take your mind off things.

You sent a quick reply and made your way to the small little bar in Cork where, much to your surprise, there was quite a crowd of young students.

"What is going on here?" you asked Emma who stood there, by the door, already nursing a drink.

"Some band's last gig, I think. Although, from what I have heard, they haven't played together for months," Emma shrugged her shoulders, gesturing towards the stage where a group of young musicians were setting up their equipment.

You glanced at them curiously and, sure enough, you spotted a familiar face on stage.

"Oh Jesus," you muttered under your breath, recognizing one of the guitarists and vocalists as none other than Cillian, his eyes closed tightly in concentration as he tuned his guitar.

Emma cast you a puzzled glance, suspicion forming in the furrow of her brow. "Do you know them?" she asked, and you hesitated, struggling with how to explain your connection to Cillian without divulging the drama that had unfurled between you two.

"Um, sort of. One of them is a student of mine," you finally settled on, which was technically true.

"Which one?" Emma's interest was piqued, and she looked over towards the stage with a mixture of curiosity and excitement.

"The one on the guitar, wearing a black t-shirt. His name is Cillian," you answered, feeling a bit self-conscious as you said his name out loud.

"He's quite a good-looking kid," Emma remarked and you cringed at the fact that your best friend had just referred to the man you slept with as if he was a child.

Before you could protest however, the band began to play, and Cillian's voice rang out, strong and melodic. You couldn't help but watch him, his movements fluid and graceful as he strummed the guitar, his lips curving into a soft smile as he sang.

He seemed to enjoy the stage and had a presence there which not many people possessed.

"He sure is talented," you murmured to yourself , impressed by his abilities and, luckily for you, Emma did not hear you above the music this time.

The sound was electric, and the crowd moved closer to the stage as Cillian and his band continued playing. Their energy was captivating, filling the room with an intoxicating mix of anticipation and excitement. The night grew young, and the alcohol coursed through your veins, making it harder to resist the sway of his voice, your body moving instinctively along with the rhythm which is when you and Emma made some rather drunk acquaintances.

Emma, in her natural charismatic state, struck up a conversation with two young men – both of whom appeared quite taken with her charms, and as you observed them interact, you found yourself unable to help but feel ever-so slightly pleased by the notion. Not because you despised Emma nor her company, but rather because it provided you with a welcome reprieve from the uncomfortable thoughts and feelings that had been consuming you for the past few days.

One of the men, named Jason, started talking to you, complimenting you. He was tall, blonde and handsome, and under normal circumstances, you would find him attractive. But somehow, your mind kept wandering back to Cillian on stage, his instrument in his hands, and the way the music flowed from him as if it was an extension of himself.

Jason noticed your distracted behavior and leaned in, whispering suggestive comments in your ear. The alcohol in your system made you feel bold, and you entertained the idea of going home with him, using it as a way to distract yourself from Cillian. But you also knew to be better than that. This was not your style and, much to your dislike and discomfort, when the music came to an end, the blonde stranger made a move on you.

He leaned in, invading your personal space and wrapping an arm around your waist in a possessive manner, attempting to plant a kiss on your lips. However, you quickly pushed him away, exclaiming, "No, thank you," as you gathered your bearings, removing the stranger's arm from your waist.

Your actions caught the attention of several patrons, but the stranger seemed unfazed, continuing to proposition you.

"She said no, dude," Emma intervened firmly, placing a hand on the man's chest and, even though the admirer took Emma's message as a warning, he still refused to relent.

"Oh come on , don't be like that," he persisted, his words slurring together as he continued to advance towards you, expecting a different answer from you this time.

"Listen, I am really not interested , okay? So just please leave me alone." Your voice was firm and clear, despite the hint of irritation seeping through, and you couldn't help but notice Cillian observing the scene from the stage, concern etched onto his face.

He had spotted you just moments earlier when you drew some unwanted attention towards you, arguing with the stranger and it was now that, for the stranger, in rejection stung and, in an attempt to regain control, the man grabbed your arm, pulling you in close. "Come on. Just give me a chance," he hissed, leering down at you.

But before he could pull you any closer, a sudden flurry of movement caught everyone's attention: Cillian, having jumped off the stage, strode purposefully towards you with a determined look on his face.

In one swift motion, he pried the stranger's hand off of you, pushing him roughly away. "Back off, man!" Cillian snarled, protectively placing himself between you and the aggressor. "She doesn't want you to touch her!" he told the much older man , whose eyes widened in shock as he looked at Cillian with disbelief.

"Who the hell are you to tell me what she wants?" the man sneered, puffing his chest out as if he was trying to assert his dominance over Cillian.

Cillian's gaze did not waver, and he held his ground, standing protectively in front of me. "That's none of your business," he retorted, his voice low and firm. "Just leave her alone and find someone else to bother."

The stranger's face contorted in anger, and he took a threatening step forward and, without warning, leashed out at Cillian with his fist, hitting his face.

"Oh my god!" you and Emma gasped at the same time, but Cillian didn't budge. Instead, he clenched his jaw and threw a punch back, hitting the stranger's nose.

"Stop it," you yelled, trying to pull the stranger away from Cillian as the two continued to tussle, drawing the attention of everyone in the bar as they watched the scene unfold before them. Emma, trying to act as a voice of reason, pleaded with the stranger as well, to which he just thrown a dismissive glower and puffed up his chest in defiance.

Cillian's nose was bleeding and the stranger's jaw was turning blue already as, finally, the security guard intervened .

"Hey! Hey! That's enough!" The bouncer loudly shouted, stepping between the two men, and separating them. "Break it up, now! BOTH of you, outta here!"

With the fight broken up, Cillian retreated to your side, his eyes locked on yours, but you couldn't hold his gaze for long. The adrenaline was wearing off, and embarrassment flooding through you, having caused such a scene.

"God, I am so sorry," Cillian apologized, concern evident in his voice.

"Did he hurt you? Are you alright?" he gently reached out to touch your cheek, and you flinched at his touch, a silent reminder of the events that just transpired.

"I'm fine, Cillian," you assured him while Emma handed you a pile of napkins. "But you are not. Your nose is bleeding," you pointed out, concern lacing your voice as you stared at the blood trickling down his face.

"Oh, that's nothing new," he waved off your concerns, trying to downplay the severity of his injury. "It's been broken a couple of times before," he winked, revealing the slight grin, and you couldn't help but stare at cheerful expression of a person who had just been engaged in a physical altercation, and yet stood there, as charming as ever.

"Come on, let me clean this up for you," you told him firmly, leading him to the bathroom, despite the lingering embarrassment trickling from your every pore and, despite all that had transpired, Emma couldn't help but chuckle.

The bar's washroom was tiny, hidden late at night like this, most booths were occupied - users smoking in secrecy or friends freshening up after a drink or even two. It smelled of sweat and cheap perfume, and the harsh light cast shadows across the grimy mirrors.

But despite its poor condition, the sink was thankfully empty as you wet a handful of paper towels, pressing them against Cillian's wound.

"We are in the girls' toilet Y/N," Cillian stated as his blue eyes smiled at you.

This instructive observation did very little to pacify the raging tempest that subsumed your senses as you looked back at him. "No shit, Sherlock," you retorted sarcastically, rolling your eyes. "Now hold still," you ordered, pressing the makeshift compress gently against the bridge of his nose.

Cillian complied, scrutinizing you closely beneath the dim light of the bathroom's fixture as you attended to his wound. Despite the tense situation, a certain warmth spread throughout your core, reciprocated on his end as his gaze deepened and softened.

"You shouldn't have intervened," you found yourself whispering to your student, clinching the napkins more rigorously over his injury lest the emotion stuck in your throat escaped audibly.

Dismissing your words, Cillian gestured carelessly with his free hand as he reassured you, "But I couldn't just stand there and do nothing," he said as regret clouded his features, and the gravity of the consequences of his impulse weighed upon his conscience.

"Well, thank you," you finally offered him, grudgingly, as you finished tending to his injury. The sincerity in his deep blue eyes forced down your prim hostility. "I really am grateful for what you did." However, you still struggled with the irrational, nagging feeling of embarrassment that remained lodged in your throat, gripping you and refusing to let go, unwilling to exhale the frustrations which consistently surfaces whenever you were near Cillian.

The atmosphere inside the small, dimly lit bathroom had undoubtedly changed and, if it wasn't for Cillian's brother Paddy barging in unexpectedly to check in on the two of you, you may have gotten sidetracked by the young man that insisted on ignoring the unspoken boundaries between professors and students.

"Come on Cills. Time to go. The bouncer wants you out of here," Paddy said, looking between Cillian and you. There was a stern expression on his face, and his glare led you to believe that any argument from either Cillian or you would go ignored.

A bit reluctantly, you both nodded your agreement before, with careful treads, you made your way back towards your friends - Emma appearing absolutely mesmerized.

"Holy crap. I can't believe what just happened," Emma exclaimed, eyes wide with astonishment and, as she remained quiet, which was something that Emma rarely did, you finally allowed the tension to seep from your body, feeling your posture start to relax, and the weight of the past few hours lifting.

"Is he okay?" she eventually asked while Cillian and Paddy sneaked out, waving at you contently.

"Yes, I don't think his nose is broken," you told her and she laughed a little, that surprising tinkling sound that came unexpectedly.

"What a crazy night. But honestly, I'm glad I got to witness it," she concluded and her line of sight moved back to Cillian who just left. She then raised her brows at you, obviously intrigued by your young and mysterious protector.

"He seems to really care about you, Y/N. And he probably has a little crush on you too," she murmured thoughtfully, watching him disappear into the crowd.

"Don't be silly, Em. He is just a student. Nothing more , nothing less," you replied dismissively, taking a large sip of your drink.

Despite your words, Emma shot you a knowing look, her eyes gleaming with mischief and suspicion. "Sure, if you say so," she said with a wink.

"Anyways, let's get going. I think we've had enough excitement for one night," you suggested, eager to end the conversation and avoid further speculation about your relationship with Cillian.

***

Meanwhile, as Paddy drove him and his brother home, Paddy too ought to address the elephant in the room. "So, you wanna tell me what's going on between you and that woman at the pub?" Paddy asked, peering at Cillian from the driver's seat.

Cillian sighed deeply, running his fingers through his unruly locks. His clenched fists squeezed the denim of his jeans, drawing his knuckles white. "I have no frigging clue what you are talking about, Pad," he admitted truthfully. "She's my law school professor, and that's it."

However, as Cillian defended himself, Paddy only raised an eyebrow at his older brother, doubting the legitimacy of his claims.

Paddy turned onto their street, pulling the car up to their modest home and switching off the engines while continuing their conversation. "Cills, you and I both know that's never 'it' with you. Every woman you show interest in turns into a complicated fucking mess and you are clearly interested in her. So, I'll ask again. What's going on with you and this particular woman?" Paddy questioned seriously.

Cillian remained silent for a few moments, staring out the window into the darkness beyond. He knew his brother was right, as much as he despised admitting it.

"I don't know, Pad," Cillian finally replied, turning his gaze back to his brother. "We kinda hooked up once and things just got complicated now," he trailed off, leaving the implication hanging heavy in the air.

Paddy raised his eyebrows, surprised by the revelation. "Wow, okay," he said, pausing for a moment to let the news settle. "You actually slept with your fucking teacher?" Paddy finally burst out, incredulously. "I mean, she is super hot, but Jesus man. You do realize that's a whole piss pot of trouble, right?"

Cillian frowned. "Of course, I know that, Pad," he replied, sinking lower in his seat. "But it was the best sex I've ever had and I really fucking like her, you know ? I can't help it."

Paddy shook his head, letting out a low whistle. "Fuck bro , I don't even know what to say to that," he admitted, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. "Look, I'm gonna level with you here, Cills. I know you've been struggling lately, and I think you need to focus on your future. Getting involved with your teacher isn't going to help with that."

Cillian sighed heavily, leaning back in his seat. "I know, I know," he agreed. "But it's not that simple, Pad. I don't even want to be at fucking law school. I hate it and she just makes it a little more interesting," Cillian admitted to his brother , feeling a stab of guilt at the thought of disappointing his family.

Tags:

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@heidimoreton @nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter @smailaway @sophiaaguirred @blondie-22

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy x y/n

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alicedopey · 9 months

Text

The Wound Licker

Fandom: The Gray Man

Genre: AU, Dark, Smut-ish

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Plus-Size reader

Warnings: Dubious consent (groping, kissing) coercion, blackmail, Lloyd (he is a villain so he is a menace) These warnings are not to be taken lightly. Read at your own risk.

Words: 3879

Summary: You go back to school for a reunion and meet a good old friend, Lloyd Hansen.

A/N: This fic was written for Roo’s HalloCream Extravaganza thrown by @darkficsyouneveraskedfor. Got the prompt: You run into an old friend but they’re nothing like the person you remember. I’m awfully late and I’m really sorry. Bear with me on this please because this is the first time I’m posting a dark fic.

The main building of Harvard Law School was just as your remembered it; big, majestic, impressive, pompous… a golden cage which gave you so much, even though it was not your choice in the first place. You couldn’t deny that it offered you the status you had though and that was enough.

Taking a deep breath, you fixed your dress, secured the strap of your handbag on your shoulder, squared up your shoulders for good measure and climbed up the stairs that led to the main entrance.

When you entered, you spotted the few tables aligned and the usual members of the welcoming committee that were sitting behind to greet all your fellow former students. You walked to the first one and put a smile on your face.

“Good evening. Welcome to the 2008 class reunion. May I have your name, please?”

You recognized one of the girls who attended many classes with you, but it was not surprising she did not remember you. None of them did – that is, until you stated your name.

“Y/N Y/L/N.” You knew when it clicked in her brain. The glimmer of recognition in her eyes, the spark of interest, the wide fake smile. Each time, this wicked name fell out from your lips, it was the same hypocritical and unbearable number.

“Y/N, of course!” She exclaimed joyfully. “We had lots of classes together, remember?”

She handed out a sticker with your name on it. The temptation to pretend you did not remember her was strong but you just nodded and smiled as usual. You took the sticker and put it on your chest before entering the huge room where the reunion was taking place.

Inside, the crowd of former students were intently listening to the speech of the man you referred to as your father. His posture shifted and you knew he had probably spotted you the moment you came into the room and he would enjoy giving you a lecture about being late.

You drew near the stage and managed to find a spot hidden between two tall big guys. Out of your father’s sight, you took the time to admire the decorations and you had to admit the Harvard Law School Association had once again outdone themselves to live up to the school’s reputation and show off as much as they could. Not that Harvard was not one of the best universities, but the way it had been forced on you made it impossible to truly appreciate the value of the place.

A round of applause concluded your father’s speech and you joined them half-heartedly. Another famous alumnus took his place as you made your way to the bar to get a drink. The variety of cocktails they offered was enormous and tempting. You finally opted for a Moscow mule and checked the seating arrangements to find your table. A smile appeared on your lips when you read the name of the person who would be seated next to you and you felt a little bit better as you took the direction of your table.

Your smile widened as you saw him standing at the table, waiting for you. He had grown bigger; the hairdo had evolved and there was that weird furry thick line above his lip. But it was him.

“Lloyd Hansen!”

“In the flesh, cupcake.” He replied confidently with a smirk on his face. His overconfident tone surprised you but you smile when you heard the old nickname. He embraced you without any warning and you awkwardly hugged him back. It was nice to feel his toned chest against you and his hands softly caressing your back. It was a first since you’ve known him though. He was not usually that cuddly.

After a few minutes, he finally gave you some space even if his hands lingered on your ample hips.

“Look at you, Cupcake. You’ve…grown.” He squeezed the tender flesh. You couldn’t help feeling embarrassed but one look at his appreciative stare and the kind of embarrassment you felt shifted. Was he flirting with you? That was a first too. The two of you were quite close at college but it never turned flirty that way.

“And you’ve grown…a moustache.” You retorted, trying to change the subject.

“You like it?” He made it wiggle exaggeratedly.

“It suits you.” It did, strangely enough even if it gave him a strong porn movie director from the seventies vibe.

“Ladies love it. The tickling.” He winked and you found yourself giggling and hitting his chest playfully. What was wrong with you now?

He squeezed your hips once again. “I’m surprised you’re here, Cupcake. You usually never come to those reunion things.”

“I was asked to.” More like ordered to, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Ah! Daddy didn’t want you to miss his important speech.” He snorted.

You frowned at his condescending tone. Even if he was right, he was clearly mocking the situation and you did not like it one bit. You did not remember him using this tone with you.

You took a few steps back and crossed your arms in front of your chest in a defensive stance. Lloyd’s arms fell limply on his side. His jaw ticked but he must have sensed you were upset because his tone was softer when he asked his next question.

“So… what have you been up to since graduation?”

“I’m a lawyer now.”

“Oh. Filling up your parents’ shoes, then? Wanna become a judge too?”

You winced. “Not exactly. I mostly work on civil cases: divorces, custodies… I even volunteer to help people who need counselling but can’t afford it. I know this doesn’t sound prestigious but I love it.” You concluded in a more confident tone. You were proud of what you had become, no matter what your parents or others could think.

Lloyd smiled and inched closer. “I’m not surprised.” He raised his hand to tuck a lock of hair that had escaped from your ponytail behind your ear. “You were always so nice, willing to please everyone. Willing to please me.”

Your cheeks got hot under his praise and actions. A pleasant shiver ran down your spine as his hand found his way to your cheek. You leaned into his touch and castigated yourself instantly. What was wrong with you? What was wrong with him?

He had never behaved this way before, at least not with you. He had quite the reputation back then but your relationship had always been friendly and innocent. Not that it was unpleasant but it made your feel uneasy. You were not used to this kind of attention. Once again, you stepped away from him.

“What about you? What have you been up to?” He smirked, clearly having sensed your discomfort. You tried to ignore it. “I bet you’re working with the police or something. You clearly were a man of action.” You remembered he was not a fan of all those laws but when it came to practicing, he was there.

“I tried but it was too boring. I was recruited by the CIA and I’ve worked for them for a few years.”

“Wow, CIA”. Your eyes widened. “That’s amazing. What are you doing now, then?”

“I’m still working with them but let’s say I’m a free agent. They call me for special missions.”

“Like when they desperately need help and no one else can do it?” You asked with a smile, still impressed but a new smirk appeared on his face and your smiled faltered.

“What I do can’t be taught so you could say that. See… looks like we’re doing the same job. Helping those in need, just like we used to help each other in college.”

You full smile returned. Those were fond memories. Two misunderstood persons finding solace in each other.

The arrival of the waiters with the hors d’oeuvre put a stop to your conversation and you took your seats next to each other.

To say you had a bad time during the dinner would be a lie. The discussions with the other former students were nice and the meal was delicious. Llloyd was a pleasant company. To you, at least. He could be quite sharp and mocking with the other guests. He was blunt and even almost gross in his replies. That was new. You had heard about this side of him but had never witnessed it and it was… upsetting.

When it came to you though, he was as charming as possible. Very tactile, even. He constantly put his hand on your arm when he talked to you, his arm was nonchalantly thrown over the back of your chair which allowed him to touch your neck and shoulder. The signals were clear and after trying to resist, you let yourself drown into them, no matter what the outcome would be. It was nice to be the center of attention for something else than your name, their name, his name.

Overall, you had a great time. Then your father chose to come around and greet everyone. All of the students at your table raised from their seats at his approach and you felt obligated to do so as well. You watched him talking smoothly to everyone, slipping some advices here and there like a real mentor. You sighed, clearly exasperated by his little show.

“Hansen! Glad to see you there!” He held out his hand and Lloyd shook it firmly, answering with a simple. “Y/L/N.”.

No Sir, no deference, Lloyd did not seem impressed by his little show either. If your father saw it, he did not act like it and finally turned towards you.

“Glad to see you managed to leave your lost causes for a while to be there…even late.”

No hello, no happy to see you. Typical. Well, two could play that game.

“It’s not for everyone to work with criminals, Father.”

“It’s not for everyone to have higher ambitions, dear.” His patronizing tone made you sigh. “You should follow his path.” He added, pointing to Lloyd. “This man could teach you a few lessons.”

You frowned at his words and sat back down on your chair; defeated, hurt and furious. He ruined it. He ruined everything. This place where you were having a good time suddenly became a place to run away from. You strongly wanted to be back home and in your bed.

“This thing is boring.” Lloyd snorted as he sat back down next to you. “I’ll tell you what, Cupcake”. He lightly pinched your cheek to get your attention. “The hotel where I’m staying has a pretty good chef who makes the most amazing desserts. Maybe we could enjoy them together.”

You watched him doubtfully. “I don’t know Lloyd. It’s nice but I’m pretty tired…”

“Come on, Cupcake.” He cajoled you. “Aren’t you up for some sweet treat? You, me and some exquisite chocolate mousse. For old time’s sake.”

He clearly knew how to tempt you. You really needed this sweet boost and the idea to spend some time in his company was truly enticing. It was also very clear that his proposal was not innocent but some little excitement in your life could not be that bad.

“All right, let’s go.”

He leaned on you to kiss your cheek – rather the corner of your mouth. “Good girl.”

For the second time this evening, a pleasant shiver ran down your spine and you felt your cheeks warm up once again. It was just a kiss!

You cleared your throat to hide your embarrassment. “Do you mind if I use the ladies’ room before we go?”

“Be my guest.”

You gave him a small smile, put your shoulder bag on and stoop up swiftly to make your way towards the restroom.

The place was deserted but it was not surprising in the middle of dinner time. You were about to get into a bathroom stall when someone pushed you against the nearest wall and a pair of lips attacked yours. You tried to free yourself from your assailant when you felt something hairy tickle your upper lip. Lloyd. The said person glided his tongue against your lips and you gladly granted him access as you gripped his shirt. The kiss was wild and savage, there was no gentleness and you liked that.

Soon, too soon, the need to breathe got strong and your lips had to get separated.

“I couldn’t wait any longer”. Lloyd’s breathed against your mouth.

“I’m not complaining”. You breathed back and closed your eyes in bliss as Lloyd sucked your neck while his hands kneaded the soft flesh of your thighs. He hooked one of your legs on his waist and your nails sank in the flesh of his neck, pushing him further against yours. He groaned and bit your skin in response. You let out a wispy moan. Your hips were starting to oscillate against his and he was too eager to reciprocate, making him you feel how hard he was in the process.

In the back of your mind, you heard the hinges of the door cringe and soft feminine giggles. You did not care. If anything, it riled you even more. He could take you right there while everybody was watching and you would not care one bit. There was nothing that could put an end to this. Except the ringing of his phone.

Lloyd grumbled and tore himself away from you. He fumbled in the pocket of his pants and extirpated the smart phone.

“Give me a minute.” He told the caller sharply.

You looked at each other, breathless and turned on. Lloyd winked at you. “I need to take this.” He stroked your swollen lips with his thumb. “I’ll meet you at the entrance hall, okay?”

You simply nodded, too stunned to find your voice. Lloyd nodded back and left. You heard his cold “What do you want?” before the door closed after him.

Flustered, you went into the bathroom stall to relieve yourself, washed your hands, fixed your dress and make up before walking out.

The welcoming committee was not here anymore, they were probably enjoying the festivities. You rummaged in your purse to check the time on your phone. 9:30 PM. It was not that late and yet, you felt as if it was midnight after the evening you just had.

You waited patiently and kept checking your phone again, and again, and again…

Fifteen minutes later and still no Lloyd in sight. You could not spot anyone or anything outside so you went back to the banquet hall.

You spotted Lloyd who was in a deep discussion with another man you couldn’t put a name on. The guy had a cocky and overconfident posture but Lloyd did not look like he was impressed, quite the contrary. You were approaching them slowly when something the man said made you stop in your tracks.

“I didn’t know you were hitting that, Hansen. I mean, I thought you were over the desperate ugly chick kink. Looks like you hit the jackpot with her though…and a fat one on top of that!”

You waited for Lloyd’s answer with belated breath. “Jealous? You should try them sometimes, gives you more meat to eat.” He sneered.

“Please, Hansen! We all know you are doing this to get to the father like you used to do when we were in college. I don’t understand why you keep up with this little charade though. I heard you were quite successful, no need to make yourself suffer anymore.”

You closed your eyes, ashamed and humiliated.

“Mind your own business, Cooper.”

Cooper did not appear to be done though. “Ah so there is something else going on. Tell me…”

You did not bother listening to the rest of the conversation and left the room very calmly as not to draw attention to yourself. You managed to keep this even pace until you were back in the hall then you rushed outside, only stopping when you reached the gate.

Your breath was erratic and you were shaking, the chill weather of this spring night hitting you for the first time. Your vision was blurred due to the tears that had started to well in your eyes. NO. You thought, wiping them away furiously before they could roll down your cheeks. You would not cry. Lloyd Hansen was not worth your tears. Your father was not worth your tears. This fucking name was not worth your tears.

Ragefully, you tore the sticker from your chest and wrinkled it before throwing it on the floor.

Taking deep breaths to calm yourself, you rummaged in your purse once again to retrieve your phone and open the Uber application. Time to go back home and forget everything in front of a sitcom on Netflix while eating some chocolate or ice-cream. Probably both. You would enjoy your sweet treats after all, even alone.

“Bailing on me, Cupcake?” Lost in your own torment of emotions, you had not heard Lloyd coming after you. Your whole body went rigid when he put a hand on your shoulder. You turned around abruptly and took a few steps back. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m tired. I’m going back home. But I’m not worried for you, I’m certain you will find another desperate ugly fat chick quickly.” You spat.

Lloyd tilted his head on the side and a smile stretched his lips. “Oh Cupcake, it’s not like you to eavesdrop on people.” He tutted. “Besides, those were his words, not mine. Made him regret saying them by the way.”

He clenched his right fist and you noticed his bruised knuckles.

“Doesn’t change the fact you agreed with him.”

He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Desperate ugly chicks will give you everything you want because they know beggars can’t be choosers but you Cupcake, oh you…” He tapped the tip of your nose with his pointer finger. You grimaced. “You don’t beg and you are not desperate. You give and ask for nothing in return. You were always so nice with me, always listening to me, helping me. Hell, I think you would have licked my wounds if I had asked you. I never thought someone like you could exist, I was fascinated by this, by you.”

You rolled your eyes and took another step back. “More fascinated by my father, if you ask me.”

Lloyd chuckled. “Your father was a nice bonus but I did not truly know who he was before I met you so you can’t put this on me. Now...”

“But now you want me to put in a good word for you.” You cut him off harshly. “In case you haven’t noticed, my father and I are not on speaking terms. Find someone else.”

He smiled but an evil glint appeared in his eyes. You shuddered. “Oh, my sweet Cupcake, you haven’t figured it out yet?” His fingers played with the fabric of your short sleeve. “Your father asked you to come because I ordered him to.”

“What?” You whispered incredulously, clutching your phone against your chest. You tried to step back but his strong grip on your sleeve made the fabric crack so you gave up and glared at him instead. “What nonsense is this?”

“It’s not nonsensical at all, Cupcake.” He winked and kept playing with your sleeve. “In my line of work, I got to meet your father several times and I also got to find out all the non-so perfect things he was tangled into. He asked for my help many times and I did help but I’m not you like you, Cupcake. I can be a giver but I take in return. I asked for you.” He concluded with a smile.

A laugh fell out from your mouth at that. “You do know we are not in the Middles Ages, right? My father can’t sell me to some man like cattle to pay his debts.”

“Who said anything about selling? All I’m asking is for you to come with me tonight. We’ll see where we go from here.” His hand let go of your sleeve to caress your arm.

You recoiled from him as if you had been burnt. “Don’t touch me.” He gripped your arm this time and you gasped from the pain, dropping your phone on the floor. “I said don’t touch me or I’ll…”

“You’ll…what? You’ll scream?” He sneered. “And what? You’re gonna tell them I assaulted you when they rush here. Who’s gonna believe you? Huh?” He shook you by the arm and you tried to escape his grip again but to no avail. “We’ve been flirting all night and the rumor that we were caught nearly fucking in the ladies’ room has already spread. You’re the slut of the night, Cupcake.”

You glared at him once again, utterly disgusted. Then it hit you. How come you had not seen it before? Lloyd hadn’t changed, he had always been like this and chose not to show it to you until now because you refused to please him, like you always did. “You’re sick.”

An evil smirk curled his lips. “Didn’t seem to bother you when my tongue was down your throat or when you were rubbing against my dick like a cat in heat.”

He pulled you against him, imprisoning your arms against his hard chest and tilted your chin up with his other hand so you would look at him. “Now you’ve got two choices. You come with me, we have some fun and your father gets to keep his perfect public face or your refuse and I’ll expose his scams. Believe me, they’re numerous.”

You sniffed disdainfully. “If you think for a second, I care about my father’s successful career or my mother’s for that matter, you’re clearly mistaken. Let them be ruined.”

“Oh, but you are forgetting one very important thing, Cupcake.” He stroked your chin. “You are all sharing the same name. You, above anyone else, should know the importance of it. Your career will be ruined too.” He concluded with a sardonic smile.

“Think about it: no more family cases, no more helping those in need…what will they do without you?”

Horrified, you closed your eyes to try and escape the reality of the situation, his mocking smile, his taunting voice. This fucking name. A curse more than anything else, a burden that hard ruined your whole life and kept doing it. Devoid of any choice once again all because of a man. There was no chance to escape from it. You couldn’t contain the tears of rage and frustration that rolled down your cheeks this time. You fell Lloyd’s lips against your skin, kissing the tears away in a tender but mocking gesture. Then, he embraced you and made you sway with him gently.

“What do you say, Cupcake? Up for some sweet treat with your very good friend?”

You nodded against his chest, too defeated and enraged to speak.

“That’s my girl”. He purred, kissing your forehead. “I knew you would take the right decision, always trying to please me. You are my perfect little wound licker. Too perfect to let you slip away from me once again. You are mine now and I will never let you go.”

Tagging: @naaladareia (Thanks for the support love)

#rooshallowcream #rooshallocream #writing challenge #lloyd hansen x plus size reader #lloyd hansen #the gray man #fics #plus size reader

181 notes · View notes

timmymyluv · 2 years

Text

to conceive an heir

warning(s): cursing, dirty language, degradation, oral (f/m receiving), breeding, creampie, choking, teasing, semi-public sex/voyeurism, unprotected sex (always have protection plz) , kind of toxic relationship, power dynamics (Dom/sub, emperor/empress)

summary: paul atreides seems to control every aspect of the empire except his distant empress. having yet failed to conceive an heir, you take things into your own hands. basically a self indulgent throne sex/breeding kink fic/blurb. no beta we d!e like men

word count: 2.7k words

"Where the fuck is my wife!?"

Paul's commanding voice echoes through the high ceiling throne room, gripping tightly on the armrests of his throne as he fumes in anger.

All of his advisors and council members looked around anxiously, staring at each other in fear as they knew nothing would get him more riled up then anything that concerned you.

Ever since you had consummated your marriage on your wedding night and crowned as Emperor and Empress the following morning, you have seen nothing of your husband.

You had grown up side by side under the same tutors, as your father was a Duke from a nearby kingdom of similar lineage and prestige. From wearing matching bibs when you ate messily at the table as toddlers, rolling down the temperate grassy hills of Caladan and sneaking out from humdrum tutors, the ring on your finger and your names bonded by law have set you two apart further rather than bring you together as intended.

Nothing would have prepared you for the turn of events that resulted in you becoming Empress of the entire Galactic Empire, nor with Paul by your side as the Supreme Emperor of all of society.

Nonetheless, you did your duty. Even so, you enjoyed escaping the hollow, ceremonial trappings of the royal court and doing your charity and social events outside the city.

You had spent the past morning visiting a local orphanage and the school conjunct to it, as schoolchildren of the common folk adored you and threw petals at your feet as you walked by. If Paul was to neglect his responsibility to you as a husband preoccupied with the obligations of an Emperor, you will not fail to attend to your role as Empress.

Feeding the children pouring soup into disposable bowls with your handmaidens was sharply interrupted when one of his men, Duncan, whispered in your ear that your husband the Emperor demanded your return back to the palace. It was an order, not a request.

Begrudgingly escorted back to the throne room, you drag your feet through the hollow halls, pacing impatiently as your handmaidens and your bodyguards struggle to meet your agile pace.

The moment Paul feels your presence even while looking away, he narrows his eyes at you suspiciously as you approach him meekly, avoiding his darkened eyes shooting daggers at you almost literally.

“Where have you been, Empress?!” He slouches on his throne, venom laced in his voice, and you resist the temptation to roll your eyes at him. Referring to you by his title, alone? Seriously?

“I was fulfilling my role as Empress by visiting the orphanage-”

“And you did not even have the courage to let me know before you left?”

You pause.

“I left a note on your bedside, Your Imperial Majesty.” You explained offhandedly, praying your long obsidian sleeves can hide your fiddling fingers.

Paul scoffs at you, his curls disheveled on his face and hiding his eyes. A bubbling disdain and enmity for his childish, unreasonable behaviour towards you, not only did he avoid you on every turn, but expected you to be at his beck and call.

Seeing red as you stand alone in the spacious throne room, bare, cold stone with minimal windows as you shrunk in the magnanimous size of the room.

As Paul looked down at you from his stainless steel engraved throne on plain concrete from the hills of Arrakis, the distance between you two are even greater and a reminder how you are always subservient to him.

"Is it a crime for me to know where my legally wedded wife is? I don't even know where my woman is, how can I rule a damn kingdom."

"I'm not just your woman. I am my own person." You bite back maliciously, voice laced with venom.

"You have failed as an empress. You have failed our kingdom. You put the entire Galactic Empire at risk for your negligence, for your refusal to provide an heir. You make our entire future futile."

As a wave of shame overcomes you as your face warms in embarrassment yet the cool of the darkness of the throne room creates goosebumps on your back.

Fumbling with the golden necklace on your collar, carelessly pulling on the rare gemstones that lock the elaborate setting of your cream white straight silhouetted dress.

His eyes widen in panic, yet a flash of lust and arousal appears on his usually, well rehearsed stoic expression as layer by layer falls to the ground with a loud thud.

" What the fuck do you think you are doing?!" He nearly stands up from shock against his throne, yet restrains himself and tightens his grip on the arm rests of his throne.

As the top sheer layer of the pleated white dress, your slim tie knot ribbon chemise dress is yanked off your shoulder as you step over the pile of your garment and you stand in front of him bare.

Step by step with sequenced footsteps, you raise your head proudly as you walk up the staircase towards him.

"Then take me."

"What!?" Paul nearly screams at you in ridicule of your plans, yet his want, his desire for you overtakes him as you see a glimpse of his arousal between his legs.

"Right here. I want you to fuck me right on your throne."

"You are a queen, an empress yet you want to be fucked senselessly like a common whore, like a rabid dog." He snickers mockingly, firmly gripping your bare hips against his rough fingers with a piercing grip you're sure will leave bruises for days.

Just as you lean in to sit on his lap, he suddenly jumps up, towering over you with his dark curls and piercing hazel eyes of swirls of green and gold. Paul harshly smacks his lips against yours, tongue swirling in your warm cavern, dominating over yours.

Your eyes shut in pleasure and pain as you lose yourself in the feeling, moaning as your lips mold into his.

Feeling dribbles of wetness between your thighs as you bare skin contrasts his military uniform that covers his entire body. Your fingers brush against his shoulder blades as you circle your arms on either side of his head, tilting your head to follow his ministrations and gain steady footing as he forcefully contorts and melds into you as if you could bleed into one flesh.

Sliding down from your waist down to your butt, pinching and squeezing before he rociforeously slaps against your skin, gaining a high pitched shriek from you.

Paul brushes lightly against your clit before squeezing in a couple of fingers into your clenched folds.

"You're so fucking wet already. Do you like being fucked like the whore you are!?" He antagonizingly teases you with a mischievous grin, clearly satisfied with seeing you cower over him like putty in his hands.

Resting your forehead against his medalled shoulders, sweat forming on your brow as you attempt to muffle your pleasured cries, increasingly leaning towards him with buckled knees and wobbly joints.

"I can't hear you. What did you say?!"

"I want you to fuck me like a whore, like your whore."

Fondling your nipples and massaging your chest as he tentatively ponders over his next move, waiting for your areolas to harden before his mouth sucks eagerly on your breasts before doing the same on the other and switching places.

As his hands wander around your body, feeling every inch of his skin from his fingertips to leaving crescents from his blunt nails, he gradually makes his way down to his knees in front of you.

"What are you doing?" You bewilderly ask, whining in complaint at the loss of his fingers from your area of pleasure.

Parting your lower lips with his fingers before dipping in and out against your walls, he presses the flat of his tongue before he dives into you like a starved man, squelching, slurping, wildly drinking from you and pleasuring you until you'd see white.

Oh, what a sight. Imagine if any bystander would see their emperor, fully clothed and on his knees in front of his naked empress, his wife, writhing and pulsing with teary eyes and a gaping mouth crying and begging for more.

"More, more-"

"More what?!" He mockingly teases you, his voice reverberating against your warmth.

"I want your tongue on me. I want you to mouth fuck me."

Playing and pulling your clit as his mouth consumes you wholly, your essence dripping down his chin and spilling out his mouth, his pleasured groans and grunts vibrating against your cavern until he hits the very spot you've never discovered, unleashing an unabridged, unrestrained pleasure like you've never seen before.

Screaming, weeping, screeching, moaning so loudly, harshly until your throat went hoarse and you feel a stinging pain around your neck, seeing white like a string unleashed, pulled apart so far apart like galaxies scattered across the sky.

Crying his name over and over again like a prayer on your altar, blessing him with your holy water, your blessed essence, your sacred liquid, reaching your pleasure and losing consciousness until you regain your awareness on shaky knees and exhausted limbs, resting your head against his chest as he stands beside you with arms around your waist.

Taking slow, careful breaths before you push him down to his seat, ignoring the stinging sensation of your bare knees against the hard marble floor.

"You have to let me return the favour, Your Majesty." Your low, hoarse voice sounds sultry and seductive, even as your lightheadedness makes you flighty and clumsy.

Groaning in overwhelming lust, rolling his eyes back in pleasure as you tug off his buckles from his grey tailored pants with shaky fingers.

As the heavy, weighted cloth hits the ground, you lean forward eagerly with a wide mouth as your tongue swirls around the bottom of his pink, throbbing cock.

He groans with tight shut eyes as he reaches forward to pull on your hair forcefully, firmly tugging and scratching against the base of your scalp as you take him in fully into your mouth, moaning deliriously as his cock hits the back of your throat.

Circling and massaging both your hands against the base of his lengthy, girthy cock, twisting, pulling and circling to the sound of his pleasured cries and squeaks.

"Ah, fuck, how is your mouth so good? How the fuck did you do that!?"

As your nose hits his pelvic bone as you reach deeper and deeper, mentally noting to yourself in surprise at your unusual lack of gag reflex. Feeling your own pleasure pooling between your legs, you gobble, throb back and forth against his length until he comes explosively, generously filling your warm mouth with loads and loads of his thick, white essence.

As you reach the end of your gobbling and swallowing, you pull back and open your mouth as you rest your tongue against the bottom of his cock, relishing in his release before you eagerly drink up every drop.

His curls messily sticking to his forehead drenched in sweat as he rests an arm over his eyes as he recovers from his pleasure, he opens his eyes and meets you with a menacing, forceful look as he leans over to pull you over his lap.

Twirling your around to have your back facing against him, he pulls you down by your hips to sit on his thighs , next to his already hardening length.

"Since you want to be such a fucking tease, we'll do it this way."

You never want to admit how much you wanted this and you never knew. You never knew how much you wanted to be humiliated, insulted, treated so carelessly, so harshly unlike the glass figurine you were in a gilded cage in your ivory tower.

"Fuck me like this, you do the damn work. Face forward on this throne for everyone to see. Look at their empress, jolting, splintering, piercing herself in half on her Emperors cock."

Lowering yourself inch by inch on his length as either of your knee caps rest over his legs, you wince in slight pain before a wave of overwhelming passion and pleasure overcomes you.

"What are you waiting for, slut?!" He spits darkly at you, impatient with frantic, bouncing knees as you whips your thighs in punishment for leaving him wanting for so long.

You cry and babble as you grasp his forearms for support as you weakly try to find you footing. His fingers snake around your neck tightly, under your jaw and around your throat as your breath hitches and your arousal continues to grow.

The loss of air circulation no longer fills you with panic or fear, but excites you with a foreign glee you never knew you could even feel.

"Look at how desperate you are for my cock, how it's the only thing you think of, you live for. How it's the only thing keeping you alive. Like you were made for my cock, for my pleasure."

Raising up your knees and standing up slightly to position yourself over his standing cock, you slowly but surely adjust to his length before starting a constant rhythm riding his length.

You speed up as the symphonies of your moans and groans blur into one incomprehensible sound.

"Look at me. Then look there. Let them see their empress at work. Their empress creating the future, creating the future of the kingdom."

"The galaxy will be secure when you give me so many fucking heirs we'd fill every damn room in this gigantic palace. Beg for every single drop of my cunt, slut."

"I want you walking around butt naked, heavily pregnant and swollen, round with my child every waking second. You're either pregnant or I'm getting you pregnant when you're not."

You cried out loud in wanton list at the prospect, at the possibility of conceiving a child on this very throne. The future of the empire created for perhaps no one or everyone to see if they happened to pass by the empty throne room.

"Please, please- more."

"Beg." Always firmly, he commands as he impatiently begins thrusting upwards to meet your wavering hilts, as you increasingly slouch towards him as you begin to reach your second peak.

His fingers brush forward to your clit once more, ignoring your desperate pleas at how sensitive and rare your pussy felt after agonizing hours of brutal assault but he kept going, kept plummelint, kept fingering you until you would go numb.

"I want your baby. I want a fucking future emperor or empress right now, in my womb!" Raw and hoarse your voice went as you slammed down his dick until you could feel his tip brush against your cervix and you saw white just as he released into you.

You both relaxed and collapsed, defeated yet satisfied in your pleasures and fulfilled lists and desires. His chin rests on your shoulder, slightly ticklish with the faint feeling of growing facial hair underneath.

"I'm sorry. I should be treating you better- I should have never been so controlling-" Paul breaks the silence, recovering from his highs in horrified discovery at how brutally he treated you when he was consumed by his anger and lust.

You pull up weakly with your arms on his shoulders to get off his dick, whining at the loss of the physical bulge that he would brush over possessively as he spliced you open on his throne, with the teasing possibility for everyone and anyone to see with no restraint.

"Sh.. don't be sorry. You are right. I have failed to do my duty, and I really just want to spend more time with you. we definitely should seriously try for kids, not just because of the empire, but I want to talk about that with you. Besides, it was really hot." You shush him with a finger on his mouth, looking down shamelessly as you cover your body with your arms in the sudden realization at how clothless you were, yet your cheeks redden at your admission of something you had never said out loud, yet his smug smirk assures you otherwise.

"Oh yeah, you like that? I'll fuck you senselessly and for hours, days even months or years on end till I get you so pregnant, swollen with my child and bursting with milk. Get ready for that."

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schraubd · 11 months

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How To Train Your Writer

Right now, on a purely technical/stylistic level, ChatGPT is an okay writer.

It's not great. But it's not bad, either. It's better (and again, we're talking purely technical here -- leaving aside factual hallucinations and the like) than some of my students, and I teach at a law school. Of course, even when I taught undergraduates I was inordinately concerned that many of my students seemingly never learned and never were taught how to write. So there has always been a cadre of students who are very smart and diligent, but just didn't really have writing in their toolkit. And I'd say ChatGPT has now exceeded their level.

The thing that worries me most about ChatGPT, though, isn't that it's better than some of my law students. It's that it will always be better than essentially every middle schooler.

Learning to write is a process. Repetition is an important part of that process (this blog was a great asset to my writing just because it meant I was writing essentially every day for years). But part of that process is writing repeatedly even when one was is not good at writing. Writing a bunch of objectively mediocre essays in middle school is how you learn to write better ones in high school and even better ones in college.

ChatGPT is going to short-circuit that scaffolding. It is one thing to say that an excellent writer in, say, high school, can still outperform ChatGPT. But how will that kid become excellent if, in the years leading up to that, they're always going to underperform a bot that could do all their homework in 35 seconds? The pressure to kick that work over to the bot will be irresistible, and we're already learning that it's difficult-to-impossible to catch. How can we get middle schoolers to spend time being bad writers when they can instantly access tools that are better?

There might be workarounds. I've heard suggestions of reverting to long-hand essay writing and more in-class assignments. There might be ways to leverage ChatGPT as a comparator -- have them write their own essay, then compare it to a AI-generated one and play spot-the-difference. I think frankly that we might also be wise to abolish grading, at least in lower-level writing oriented classes, to take away that temptation to use the bot. I don't care how conscientious you are, there aren't a lot of 14 year olds who can stand putting in hours trying to actually do their homework and then getting blown out of the water by little Cameron who popped the prompt into an LLM and 45 seconds later is back to playing Overwatch. And again, that's going to be the reality, because ChatGPT's output just is better than anything one can reasonably expect a young writer to produce.

In many ways, large language models are like any mechanism of mass production. They displace older artisans, not because their product is better -- it isn't, it's objectively worse -- but on sheer volume and accessibility. The art is worse, but it's available to the masses on the cheap.

And like with mass production, this isn't necessarily a bad thing even though it's disruptive. It's fine that many people now can, in effect, be "okay writers" essentially for free. It's like mass-produced clothing -- yes, most people's t-shirts are of lower-quality than a bespoke Italian suit, but that's okay because now most people can afford a bunch of t-shirts that are of acceptable quality (albeit far less good than a bespoke Italian suit). The alternative was never "everyone gets an entire wardrobe of bespoke Italian suits", it was "a couple of people enjoy the benefits of intense luxury and most people get scraps." Likewise, I'm not so naive as to think that most people in absence of ChatGPT would have become great writers. So this is a net benefit -- it brings acceptable-level writing to the masses.

If that was all that happened -- the big middle gets expanded access to cheap, okay writing, with "artisanal" great writing remaining costly and being reserved for the "elite" -- it might not be that bad. But the question is whether this process will inevitably short-circuit the development of great writers. You have to pass through a long period of being a crummy writer before you become a good or great writer. Who is still going to do that when adequacy is so easily at hand?

I'm not tempted to use ChatGPT because even though my writing takes longer, I'm confident that at the end my work product will be better. But that's only true because I spent a long time writing terribly. Luckily for me, I didn't have an alternative. Kids these days? They absolutely have an alternative. It's going to be very hard to get them to pass that up.

via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/zlrha2Q

#artificial intelligence #writing

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fortheloveoffanfic · 1 year

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Prettier When You're Mine

Andy Barber x Reader

Author's Note: Its starts off slow but I promise it goes somewhere. Summary: One year into working with a young, bright and beautiful junior prosecutor, Y/n, who bears an almost uncanny resemblance to Andy's late wife, Laurie, he finds himself developing feelings for her. Though, when she brushes off his advances, Andy proves that he'll do whatever it takes to recreate his family. Disclaimer: 18+ This work contains dark themes, including stalking, dub-con, infidelity and manipulation. Read at your own discretion. Masterlist Playlist

Chapter 1

One year into working with a young prosecutor that bears a striking resemblance- in more ways than just the physical- to his late wife, Andy decides to take destiny into his own hands Warnings: possessiveness

Andy had never fancied working with the junior prosecutors, those fresh faced law school graduates with only clinic hours under their belt; they always tried too hard not at all, and often, showing them the ropes felt like having a tail that was easy to trip over. Simply put, they annoyed him. That was why he was so happy when he'd been bumped up to Assistant District Attorney- it meant no more working with the newcomers.

But she, she was brilliant; she could think quickly and analytically, and could argue circles around the best defenders. When he'd first been asked to let her sit second chair for him, Andy had been adamant in his reluctance and had only given in because in the end it had become an order not a suggestion. It had worked out significantly better than he'd expected though; Y/n was young, only a year and a half out of law school, but she'd proven that her inexperience was hardly an issue. Since then Andy had made a habit of requesting that she sat second chair whenever he went to trial.

"I think we should get an expert witness," she declared suddenly, prompting Andy to tear his tired, burning eyes away from the painfully bright screen of his laptop.

"You don't think rebuttal will be enough?" He straightened up a little, though was still slumped against one side of the chair, and propped his elbow on the leather upholstered rest.

Y/n shook her head. Fiddling with the top of her pen, she casually explained, "I don't. Everything we have so far is circumstantial."

"We have the report from ballistics," Andy noted pointedly before backtracking, "But we can't place her and the gun in the same place at that time."

"Nope," Y/n's lips popped and after a minute, she groaned, leaning forward so she could plant her head on her folded arms, resting on the long glass table central to the board room where they'd camped out for the duration of the case.

With a look of amusement, Andy shook his head, a little bemused by her frustration. She was cute, he often thought- that was another reason he liked working with her. Though, cute might have been a glaring understatement. Y/n was gorgeous, and Andy liked to think that she was well aware of the fact. It was in the way she dressed, those tight skirts that left little to the imagination, and her low cut blouses that his eyes occasionally dipped into. Andy usually tried to keep his eyes to himself, but she didn't make it easy and he'd be lying if he said he didn't give into temptation and enjoyed the sight a little more than he should have.

He couldn't count how many long nights had been spent with her name bouncing off his bedroom walls while, with only the memory of her as his company.

"Maybe you should get home," Leaning forward so his chest would be pressed to the lip of the long table, Andy touched her forearm, gently rubbing his thumb along the side of her wrist. "We'll pick up tomorrow."

Y/n sighed as she lifted her head, not seeming to mind that he was pretty much holding her hand. "No," she licked her lips and retired against the back of the plush chair, reaching for her phone and consequently pulling her hand out of reach, prompting Andy to resign to his own chair as traces of disappointment ebbed at him. He liked touching her; she felt….good. Safe.

Familiar; as if he were meant to do it.

"I'd probably just stay up working on it anyway. Do you wanna get dinner?"

His heart leapt at her offer, but he easily maintained his debonair as he shrugged. "Sure," he checked his watch, rubbing his eyes upon noting that it was just past nine, "I think the only delivery we'll get right now is pizza."

"Then pizza it is!" She declared with a tired chuckle as she opened the app to place the order. They'd had dinner together enough times for them to come up with a pizza order that complimented their differing palettes and for her to not have to ask what he wanted before confirming the order.

"You'll get the next one."

It was the way she smiled when she said it, that pretty glimmer in her eyes and the teasing edge in her tone. Usually, Andy would be able to convince himself that Y/n was just nice, but he was tired and could have sworn that she'd meant something more when she said that. There was clearly an expectation.

The next one. Maybe it was an invitation to ask her out.

Maybe she just meant the next time they worked together.

Maybe-

"Are you even allowed to have this?" Y/n teased when he set an open beer in front of her. There was a rule against unauthorized alcohol at the office, but it was also common knowledge that more senior employees sometimes kept a bottle of whiskey along with a couple glasses locked in their desks. Beer that was cold enough to drink though, that might have been more complicated, particularly because putting it in the communal fridge was asking for a call to the Human Resources.

"Allowed might be a strong word," he chuckled, taking a generous swing of his beer as he sank into his chair across from her, "But there's nothing that says I can't have a mini fridge in my office."

"Perks of being the boss," she joked, bringing the bottle to her lips though not yet taking a drink.

Andy huffed and corrected pointedly, "Almost the boss."

Y/n scoffed, finally tipping the bottle so a few initial sips of the golden hued liquid would trickle past her burgundy stained lips. At the taste of it, she hummed, "This is good," she regarded the bottle curiously, "I don't think I've ever seen it anywhere before."

"Its craft," he explained with nonchalance, "From this brewery upstate," then in a lower, more somber tone, as long past, fond memories washed over him, Andy added, "My wife and I used to make a day of it during the summer, but now I just have it delivered."

Y/n went quiet for a moment and bent her head and began apologetically, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“Its okay,” Andy cut her off, trying to reassure her with a faint grin, which she eventually returned, though beneath it, he could still see the twinge of remorse. Or, it could have been pity. In that way though, among a few others, Y/n reminded him of his wife. She was so empathetic and could connect so easily with anyone- something that he always struggled to do. Their smiles were similar too; small but bright enough to illuminate even the largest and darkest of rooms. They had the same dark, hypnotizing eyes.

There were a lot of similarities, actually. Too many to be purely coincidental

According to Y/n’s employee file, their birthdays were only a couple days apart too.

They ate in awkward silence for a handful of minutes, and then, presumably when she couldn’t stand it anymore, Y/n spoke up, “You’d be good at it,” he flashed her a confused stare, “The boss, I think you’d be a good boss; Andrew Barber, District Attorney- has a nice ring to it,” she leaned forward, still holding a slice of pizza in one hand while resting the opposing elbow on the table. Her dainty heels had been discarded a while ago, and she’d tucked her legs under herself, giving off the impression that she was just a bit taller than she actually was. “Do you ever think about it?” Y/n probed.

After everything, that probably wasn’t even in the cards for him anymore.

Andy shrugged, feigning an air of indifference, “I think about a lot of things.” As they both brought their bottles to their lips, his eyes met hers, and he couldn’t tell if she got the subliminal flirtation in his words.

Setting the bottle down, she licked her lips, “How mysterious,” she teased and again, he couldn’t quite read her eyes. Was she flirting? It seemed like she was.

He couldn't tell, so he didn’t try to. Instead, Andy waited until Y/n resumed her work, using one hand to browse a document on her laptop, to get back to work himself, once again flipping through the police report. They worked through the rest of dinner and then for about an hour after they’d cleared up in comfortable silence, with the exception of trading tidbits about the case before them.

When Andy checked his phone next, he found that it was quarter to one in the morning; he hadn’t even realized so much time had passed. Not that he was complaining- Y/n though, was immediately alarmed. Quickly, she started gathering her things; shoving a couple folders into her handbag, closing down her computer and finally reaching for her shoes. She said something about being worried about the bus and while she hadn’t expressed it, she must have been at least a little scared to walk all the way to the bus stop at that hour.

Three blocks with only dim street lamps and stray headlights acting as the only light. Newton was typically fairly safe, but there was no telling what could happen to young women who chose to walk the streets alone.

He'd never let Laurie walk alone that late at night. Or walk at all.

So Andy offered her a ride; without his active intervention, the odds had simply fallen into his favor. Y/n resisted at first, adamant about not wanting him to go out of his way, but Andy was insistent, citing that he’d rather go out of his way than risk something happening to her. Besides, he wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to see where she lived- he'd been resisting the urge to drive by the place himself, often thing that it might come across as....creepy.

And that was how he ended up parked across the street from a small, run down but clean, convenient store in the thick of Newton. Y/n had just informed him that she resided in the loft above it and the thought of that simultaneously upset and amused him; on one hand, he hated that her abode was so obviously unworthy of her, but on the other, the thought of being the one to whisk her away from such a sad little life was thrilling.

He could be her own, personal hero, which would fit with her obvious admiration of him.

“Thank you,” she smiled warmly, shifting slightly in the warm seat of his luxurious Audi to face him, “I really appreciate this. I would invite you up, but its so late.”

“Its no problem. And maybe next time,” Andy returned softly. Truthfully though, if she had actually invited him, he would have readily said yes; he thought he’d do anything she asked.

A handful of seconds worth of silence ensured and then, Y/n awkwardly reached out to hug him. Without hesitation- perhaps even too eagerly- Andy reciprocated. He just wanted to be close to her; have the fragrance of her jasmine perfume that was so similar to Laurie's and coconut shampoo tickle his senses, feel her chest against his, and have the weight of her in his arms. "Thanks again," she rasped.

With his palms flattened on her back, holding her in place, he resisted the urge to nuzzle her face, "It was my pleasure."

It might have been his words, or the fact that the moment was over, but Y/n pulled away a little and dropped her arms. Still, he maintained a loose hold on her shoulders. She was so, so, beautiful, he thought. Like a photo from a magazine or a star from television.

Or the homage of a goddess, sculpted by the Greeks.

Without thinking much of it, Andy lifted one hand to cup her cheek, but instead of leaning into his touch the way he anticipated she would, Y/n flashed him a curious gaze. Her own hand rose to circle her fingers around his wrist, though only to lead his touch away from her face, "Good night, Andy."

Embarrassed, Andy reclaimed his hands and replaced them on the wheel. Clearing his throat, he tried to manage a smile but only managed a tense splitting of his lips. "Good night, Y/n," he returned softly as she got out of the car.

He watched as she crossed the street quickly, not even offering as much as a backwards glance before disappearing through a doorway at the side of the little convenience store. Even after she’d disappeared into the darkness, Andy lingered at the curb, still nursing his earlier embarrassment; how had he misread the signs so badly? She’d bought him dinner, made all those flirtatious remarks while they worked and then had gone as far as initiating physical contact- only change her mind in the end.

Was it really just in his head? No, that couldn’t be right. He was sure of her advances

Glancing at the darkened industrial windows that faced the street, Andy sighed heavily. “Maybe she’s just shy,” he muttered below his breath, peeling away from the sidewalk and merging into scarce traffic. Maybe she was just waiting for him to take a little initiative.

That he could do.

#chris evans #chris evans x reader #chris evans x you #andy barber #andy barber x you #andy barber x reader #cevans #fanfic #prettier when youre mine

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alpaca-clouds · 6 months

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(The concept of) Canon is like an Onion

It has layers.

Okay, I just gotta be the fandom elder here, because there is a thing that is kinda bugging me. And that is the tendency of especially younger fans of stuff to point at all sorts of suplementary material (artbooks, interviews with creators/actors, articles in magazines and what not) and go: "See, my interpretation of this and that is totally canon!"

And the thing is that... it is a bit more complicated than that. Because what is and isn't canon... Well, it is something people argue about a lot. But the general thing is, basically this. Canonicity can have multiple levels - and the top level of it is basically just the text itself.

Like, older fans of the Star Wars Fandom might still remember Lucas' five (or was it even six?) levels of canon. And those were just based on actual stories. It had become a necessity back then just based on the fact that a lot of the extended universe stuff was at times contradictory - even with the stuff that Lucas himself had done. So according to Lucas, the main canon was just the stuff he had been a part of creating. And then there were levels of things going from "most canon" to "least canon" basically.

But yeah, generally speaking: Canon is the information given within a story itself. You can argue about additional story material maybe being canon (like tie in novels to a movie, for example), but generally even those are not... necessarily canon to the main-thing itself.

I know that these days there is this big thing happening of creators just being very, very accessible to fans. So, the temptation is big to tweet or mail or comment on a twitch of your favorite media's creator/your favorite character's actor/whatever and be like: "I have this theory/analysis. Am I right?" Which is... fine. But you also have to keep in mind that stuff that people privately say is not necessarily authoritatively.

As some of the followers of this blog might know: My OG fandom is Digimon. And boy howdy, can I tell you stories about Digimon's "Word of God". Because... look people, if it is not a book, there is not a singular creator. And the people who were in charge of Digimon, had at times very, very differing ideas from each other.

With Digimon Adventure/02 I interviewed several of the writers. And guess what: I at times got opposing opinions from them. And those opinions were also differing from what the producer and the director said in official interviews and sublementary materials (like artbooks or the novelization).

Two examples are Sora's age and Hikari's crest. Sora is shown to have her birthday in movie 2, which is set in March. Given how Japanese school law works, this would make her 10 during the events of Digimon Adventure and 13 during DIgimon Adventure 02 (because the cut-off date is April 1st). According to Reiko Yoshida, who wrote that movie, this is true. According to the producer, however, no actually the movie is set in April, she is 11 during the events of the first season. And the other fun one: What does Hikari's crest of "light" actually mean. We asked five different people involved and got five different answers.

And the big thing is, that you cannot assume that someone, who is engaging with media, does also engage with ALL THE INTERVIEWS and FOLLOW EVERYONE INVOLVED ON SOCIAL MEDIA. Because most people don't.

I see this happening a lot especially in regards to people interpreting the canonicity of ships - and character sexuality.

Let me use an example where I totally agree with the person in question: Isaac from Castlevania. According to his voice actor Isaac is queer. I totally absolutely read the character this way, no question. But... technically it is never confirmed in the text. So if you come away from it not reading him this way, yeah, that is totally understandable. You do not need to know everything every voice actor said.

And if stuff within the actually story itself is kept vague, you cannot just go and say: "Person XY who also was involved in creating media X said this, so this is the only correct opinion." Because if the text does not confirm it, it is not necessarily "canon" and either interpretation is valid.

And if there is multiple entries as source material, also try to think of what people will usually think of, when you say "Fandom X".

Like, to get back at my own fandoms: Yeah, no, most people will not know about the novelization of Digimon Adventure. Most people will also not have played the Wonderswan games (that also at times outright contradict the primary text in form of the anime). Or with Pirates of the Caribbean: Most fans have never read any of the tie-in novels. Heck, most people do not even know they exist. Meanwhile, also a ton of people do not consider movies 4 and 5 canonical to the Gore Verbinski trilogy, given that again those movies outright contradict some of the stuff stated in the trilogy.

What I am trying to say: Canonicity is, if anything, a spectrum, not a binary. So for the love of all the gods, please stop the entire: "Well, the guy who did the storyboards for three of the scenes in this show agrees with me, so I am right," stuff. I know it is tempting (believe me, I KNOW). But... If it is not in the text, other interpretations are valid.

Also, headcanons are always valid. Always.

#canon #canonicity #fandom #fandom culture #digimon #digimon adventure #digimon adventure 02 #castlevania #castlevania netflix #pirates of the caribbean #star wars

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 8 months

Text

By: Ricky Gervais

Published: Feb, 2008

I loved Jesus. He was my hero. More than pop stars. More than footballers. More than God. God was by definition omnipotent and perfect. Jesus was a man. He had to work at it. He had temptation but defeated sin. He had integrity and courage. But He was my hero because He was kind. And He was kind to everyone. He didn't bow to peer pressure, or tyranny or cruelty. He loved you. He didn't care who you were. He loved you. What a guy. I wanted to be just like Him.

One day when I was about 8 years old, I was drawing the crucifixion as a part of my bible studies homework. I loved art too. And nature. I loved how God made all the animals. Yhey were also perfect. Unconditionally beautiful. I was an amazing world.

I lived in a very poor, working-class estate in an urban sprawl called Reading, about 40 miles west of London. My father was a laborer an my mother was a housewife. I was never ashamed of poverty. It was almost noble. Also, everyone I knew was in the same situation, and I had everything I needed. School was free. My clothes were cheap and always cleaned and ironed. And Mum was always cooking. She was cooking the day I was drawing Jesus on the cross.

I was sitting at the kitchen table when my brother came home. He was 11 years older than me, so he would have been 19. He was smart as anyone I knew, but he was too cheeky. He would answer back and get into trouble. I was a good boy. I went to church and believed in God--what a relief for a working-class mother. You see, growing up where I did, mums didn't hope as high as their kids growing up to be doctors; the just hoped their kids didn't go to jail. So bring them up believing in God and they'll be good and law-abiding. It's a perfect system. Well nearly. 75% of Americans are God-fearing Christians; 75% of prisoners are God-fearing Christians. 10% of Americans are atheists; 0.2% prisoners are atheists.

But anyway, there I was, happily drawing my hero when my big brother Bob asked, "Why do you believe in God?" Just a simple question. But my mum panicked. "Bob," she said, in a tone that meant "shut up." Why was that a bad thing to ask? If there was a God and my faith was strong, it didn't matter what people said.

Oh...hang on. There is no God. He knows it, and she knows it deep down. It was as simple as that. I started thinking about it and asking more questions, and within the hour, I was an atheist.

Wow. No God. If Mum Had lied to me about God, had she lied to me about Santa? Yes, of course but who cares? The gifts kept coming. And so did the gifts of my new found atheism.

The gifts of truth, science, nature. The real beauty of this world. Not a world by design, but one by chance. I learned of evolution...a theory so simple and obvious that only England's greatest genius could have come up with it. Evolution of plants, animals, and us...with imagination, free will, love, and humor. I no longer needed a reason for my existance, just a reason to live. And imagination, free will, love, humor, fun, music, sports, beer and pizza are all good enough reasons for living.

But living an honest life--for that you need the truth. That's the other thing I learned that day, the truth, however shocking or uncomfortable, in the end leads to liberation and dignity.

I hope I haven't offended anyone with this article. Okay, that's a lie.

#Ricky Gervais #atheism #i love jesus #leaving religion #religion #truth #religion is a mental illness

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mirkwoodshewolf · 1 year

Text

Guardian angel; Matt Murdock x teen daughter reader

*Author’s note*

Okay this little idea randomly popped into my head over the weekend so I decided to post it up here and see what you all think. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, we NEED MORE DAREDAD FICS!!! Seriously this man DESERVES happiness *ted talk over*

Now the way I picture this fic is like PRE S.1 like just before the events of the first episode of the series. The early days of Matt being daredevil or in this case the Man in the Mask aka the Devil of Hell’s kitchen.

Warnings: fluff, some angst, teen pregnancy (protection was used but remember kids wrap it before you tap it), some chaotic religious aspects shown but not acted upon,

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things

@waddles03

@psychosupernatural

@queensdivas

@queen-paladin

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

@gay-and-ready-to-cry

@austynparksandpizza

__________________________________________________________

I knew I couldn’t hide this forever. It was only a matter of time before he got too suspicious or worse found out about me and Austin’s…..I took a heavy breath as I bounced my leg anxiously and rubbed my hands over my face.

I heard my phone rang and across the screen was my favorite picture of Austin playing his acoustic guitar and my name for him flashed across the screen, “The King” with three heart emojis and a king emoji. He was asking for a Facetime which I accepted.

“Hi baby.”

“There’s my best girl.” I blushed as I ducked down.

“You know what that nickname does to me.”

“And I’ll still say it an infinite amount of times just to see you get flustered every time.”

Austin Callahan, probably one of the cutest boys at St. Maria’s Catholic School. Captain of the swim team and the basketball team, honor student, and the nicest guy in the world who loves listening to Elvis music as well as all the oldies rock and roll? Could there be any other dream guy?

Not only that but we had been friends since we started our High school year until just last year at homecoming, he admitted to having feelings for me as he gave me a handmade rose he made from one of the napkins (I still have it to this day in my pencil cup on my desk at home). From there our romance began to shine.

Of course being in a relationship, there was no hiding it from my dad. Well when your dad is a lawyer like Matthew Murdock of “Nelson & Murdock” obviously you can’t hide anything from him. Believe me I’ve tried in the past and he finds out every time.

Which is why I’ve taken up residence at my all-time bff Maddie’s place. It’s not much (Hell’s kitchen never is) but it’s home, nevertheless. The reason why I’m sleeping over at my friend’s house almost indefinitely is because—I’m pregnant. Yep, 17 years old and I’m pregnant just short of a month and a half.

Past couple of weeks I’ve been getting really sick, like even just the smell of Hell’s kitchen’s smog is enough to make me puke my guts out. I also began to realize that I hadn’t gotten my period yet. So one day after school with Maddie at my side, we went to the local doctor’s office, told them about my symptoms and my late period and after some blood work and a pregnancy test, I came back positive.

Austin was the first person to tell and he was shocked at first but he took me by the hands, looked me in the eye and swore to me that he wasn’t gonna leave me like his daddy did him and his mama. I was at least thankful to God above that I had the support of my friends and Austin, but the biggest hurdle was yet to come. My dad.

My dad is not just a Man of the Law, he’s also a Man of God. Not like holy religious that he beat the script of every verse of the Bible into me, or told me everyone is a sinner and everyone is going to Hell should they not repent (thank God). But he did raise me to be a good Catholic girl ever since my mom died of cancer when I was only 2 years old.

He told me to always be aware of my surroundings, know the temptations, and don’t let anyone take advantage of you. And just like that I gave into temptation and now I paid the price (before you say it YES we did use protection).

“How you feeling sweetheart? You ducked out of Chemistry class pretty quick.”

“I’d rather not relive that. I tried so hard to keep it in but that crap that Hilary was wearing as perfume became too much. I mean really there’s a reason why you don’t put on perfume in a classroom especially in a chemistry class. Can’t perfume catch fire or something?”

“Some can. But that scent she claimed she bought from Paris, she’d be a human candle if she got one knick of a Bunsen burner.” I laughed and said.

“Maddie gave me the homework for that class, god I still don’t get how you can understand all that stuff.”

“It’s not that hard really. I mean, we found good chemistry right?” I rolled my eyes and told him.

“That has literally got to be the worst cheesy pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

“Can’t blame me if I’m crazy positive about you.”

“Stop!” I whined as he laughed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I swear I’m done now.” He said through his adorable laughter. “So you at Maddie’s again?”

“Yep. Thankfully my dad seems to buy into the fact that we’re doing a project together for history class and I just keep falling asleep here.”

“Wait but didn’t you guys finish that project last week?”

“Yeah but my dad don’t need to know that.”

“Babe. How long are you gonna hide your pregnancy from him?”

“I was thinking….maybe by the time our kid’s out of high school?” he raised his brow at me. “Okay, okay fine! I’ll…..I’ll tell him tomorrow after school. Will—will you be there with me?”

“Anything to take the tension off. It took two to tango after all. Plus I met your dad before, I know he’ll be okay with this.”

“I just….” I trailed off looking down at the ground sadly.

“What? What is it (Y/n)?”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Babe…..”

“No, no Austin just—just listen for a second. Sure my dad’s cool, he’s a kickass upcoming lawyer. He’s not embarrassing, he’s not overbearing when it comes to us being Catholic, but what if he doesn’t want me anymore? Teenage pregnancies are frowned upon and as soon as I start really showing the signs, those hens are gonna cluck.”

“Then let them cluck. It’s not any of their business. This is about us, about you. Our child. Yes we’re still kids and yeah we’re still in school just about to get into adulthood, this is our life. If you still want to have this baby, I’m in. But if you change your mind down the line, I’ll support that too. Because we’re in this together baby girl.”

“How did I ever get so lucky to get you as my boyfriend?”

“Believe me, if anyone’s lucky it’s me. How I ever managed to convince you to be my girlfriend is a miracle that only the good Lord knows.” I smiled and said to him.

“Goodnight king.”

“G’night pretty mama.” He couldn’t help but say in his best Elvis impression. I smiled and kissed my hand before blowing him a kiss and he did the same for me before winking at me and we ended the facetime call.

“I swear the way you two talk to each other makes me want to puke out butterflies and rainbows.” Maddie’s voice said. I turned and she came in with some tomato soup, saltine crackers and pickles.

Another strange thing during my pregnancy is that every now and then I’m getting these cravings for the weirdest shit. Like just the other day, I had sliced orange slices as a side dish for my mashed potatoes and everyone knows how much I loathe oranges (even the smell of them has made me gagged for years). And yet I needed them, or I guess the baby needed them.

“Well that is if your strange food combos don’t make me first. You know how I’ve hated even looking at pickles.”

“I know I’m sorry. But you’re the best for getting some for me.” I said as I took a sliced pickle and put it between two crackers and ate it like a sandwich. Maddie gagged and turned away as she turned on her tv and switched it to MTV to see our favorite show Ridiculousness was on.

“Ohhh I love this one with Sage. The Jeremy category makes me die everytime!” I exclaimed.

“I know right! But you also can’t beat when Ryan Sheckler came on the show and the animal stalkers category. That cat one still makes me think it was a weeping angel.”

“Right!? I swear all cats are the weeping angels familiars. I don’t care what any whovian says prove me wrong.” I said after slurping up my soup.

“So were you like for real about not telling your dad about the baby?” I dropped my spoon back into the bowl and set the tray aside.

“I thought you said you’d work on your snooping in on other people’s phone calls?”

“I did but when it’s a call this serious about my future godchild, I should have some say in it. And Austin’s right, you gotta tell your dad.”

“I know I should but…..do you remember what happened when Katelyn first came out as bisexual. Her parents completely disowned her and now she’s living with her cousin MJ in Queens. I got no other family to go to, what if my dad isn’t cool with…..I mean yeah I’ll have Austin and you but—”

“I get it. Really I do. I’ve seen how close you and your dad are, hell I’d trade my dad for yours any day.” I playfully shoved her.

“Your dad’s sweet.”

“Yeah sweet like a fly buzzing around me every second. Constantly in my business, wanting to look through my phone, I swear he’s the definition of a helicopter parent.” I looked down as I placed my hands over my lower abdomen where the baby was slowly growing. “Hey,” Maddie wrapped an arm around me and I looked up at her, “Your dad loves you. He’s not like those crazy parents we’ve seen that come to preach about the Lord’s will or the End of the world. He won’t give up on you, I can just feel it.”

“I hope your right Maddie. I really hope so.” I looked at the clock and saw that it was just after 10:30pm. “I’m getting kinda sleepy, think I’ll turn in for the night.”

“Yeah I’m gonna head to bed myself. Night (n/n).”

“Night Mads.” We hugged each other and she went across the hall into her room while I snuggled into my bed in her sister’s room (she had left for college in LA so it’s been used as a guestroom) and tried to get some sleep.

Time ticked by and while I was asleep and my eyes were shut, my brain was just buzzing with so many thoughts, fear and anxiety. I got up from the bed and opened up the window that was near the fire escape and decided I needed some fresh air.

The cold autumn night wind blew over my thin pajama bottoms. I almost wish I had grabbed a hoodie or her sister’s old fleece blanket before scaling up onto the roof. I sat along the edge and just stared out into the city as I listened to the sounds of the sirens that passed by, the occasional stray dog barking or people shouting at each other.

“A bit cold to be up here by yourself.” A voice said behind me. I jumped out of my skin and was surprised to see the latest vigilante that had been rumored to be running around Hell’s kitchen.

Unlike the Avengers, this man is said to be brutal against his enemies. Unleashing his untamable wrath on the scum of Hell’s Kitchen but he never kills them (if you ask me from some of stories I hear, I’m surprised they aren’t dead).

The upper half of his face was covered with a black mask with no holes for his eyes. Seriously how is he able to see through that material? His whole attire was black with a skin-tight black shirt showing off every bit of muscle on his upperbody, thick black pants and black combat boots.

“Coming from the guy wearing a skin-tight t-shirt.”

“You’ve got a quick wit.”

“Smart-mouth Murdock some of the kids call me at school. That’s why I’m co-Captain of the debate team.”

“Co-captain? I would assume you’d be captain.”

“Well there’s always someone clever than you, not to say he isn’t a good captain but he can be an asshole at times.” He turned to me. If I could see under the mask, I’d assume he’d be judging me for my foul language. “Pardon my French.”

“I’ve heard worse. Mind if I sit?”

“I’d assume you’d be out there knocking out bad guys. You know kicking ass and taking names.” He let out a scoffed chuckle.

“I prefer not to take names. That’s one difference between the Avengers and me. I would prefer my name to not be publicly known. Not for my sake but for the people around me.”

“I get that.” I replied softly. “I mean look at Captain America. He shouldn’t even bother with a mask cause everyone knows his name. And don’t get me started on Stark’s public announcement, “I am Iron-man”. No wonder why those aliens came for us if the heroes are publicly announcing to the world ‘hey we’re the big and strong Avengers and you can’t do anything about it’. And next thing you know BAM! Aliens are flying in kamikaze style and nearly blowing us all to hell.”

“A bit cynical for one so young.”

“Sorry. I get snippy and cynical when I’m anxious or stressed.”

“And why’s that?”

“I—” I trailed off. He slowly scooted closer to me and said to me in a soft assuring manner.

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. But I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener. Plus with the mask you won’t get any judgmental looks from me.” I picked at my nails as well as stroking my lower abdomen with my pinkie and ring fingers.

“The whole aspect of catholic guilt it—it’s eating me alive.”

“Catholic guilt?”

“You don’t want to hear this. This is just dumb teenage drama that all adults try to pin us with even when we’re going through some really hard and tough shit. It’s not always just teenage drama we have our own problems that you folks don’t seem to get and—” I went on a ramble until I felt him ground me by placed a hand on top of my shoulder.

“Hold on now, take a deep breath.” I turned to him and even through his black mask, I could almost feel the gentleness of his eyes as he had his body fully turned to me, giving me his full attention. I slowly but sharply breathed in through my nose before exhaling shakily.

I did this a couple more times until they became deep, steady breaths.

“There we go. I could hear your heart racing erratically and you were on the verge of a panic attack.”

“You—can you really hear a person’s heartbeat? Or are you just messing with me?”

“It’s a long story but I have enhanced senses that allows me to hear better than most.”

“Wow. That is both dope and freaky at the same time.”

“I apologize if it’s invasive. I don’t mean to do it on purpose.”

“Call me crazy but I believe you.” A slight smile came at the corner of his lips.

“So shall we get back to that spill on catholic guilt?” I bowed my head.

“I was kinda hoping you’d forget about that.”

“I don’t mean to push. But I just feel like you want to talk to someone about this. Someone who isn’t a friend.”

“It’s……my dad.”

“Your dad? Wait he—he doesn’t hurt you, does he?”

“No nothing like that. He’s the best. I swear he’s like my best friend, well after Maddie but still he’s sweet, he’s caring, he’s compassionate. He raised me all by himself for so long that I—I’m afraid he won’t be with me anymore.”

“I’m sorry. I mean eventually we all have to die at some point in our lives. But I’m sure that won’t be for a long, long time for your dad. Unless he’s—”

“I’m not talking about losing him to old age or cancer. I’m talking about that he’ll never speak to me again!” I snapped.

God this pregnancy already has got me so antsy that even the slightest thing in my already stressed out mind, can make me explode. He froze in his spot and it looked like his body was tense at my sudden outburst.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered burying my face into my hands. “The truth is I—I found out just a week ago, that I’m…..I’m a month and a half pregnant with my boyfriend’s baby.”

If I could see under his mask, I’d bet his eyes are bulging out from underneath the satin material.

“Yeah. Pregnant at 17. Go ahead and make assumptions, call me names.”

“You’re sitting next to a guy who goes around wearing a skin-tight shirt and a mask that beats up bad guys late at night. As far as I’m concerned, I am the last person who should be judging you.” He adjusted in his spot as he asked me, “Does the father know?” I nodded.

“Yeah. He was the first person to find out after my best friend. And he’s been nothing but supportive. Even though we’re just about to graduate high school, he’s willing to help out with anything.”

“It’s just you’re afraid to tell your own father about your pregnancy.”

“Don’t get me wrong he’s a great guy. Like I said never once raised a hand to me, was fair in his punishments when I needed them. And he’s not like those so called ‘preachers of God’ that you see out in the streets proclaiming the Lord’s Will and the End of the world. But—he always told me to be careful especially around boys.”

“Were you careful?”

“Yes! Austin had the condoms and everything! But it still happens you know.”

“No I know. I remember my days in health class.” I shook my head shamefully.

“I just…..it’s always just been me and my dad. My whole life he’s always been there for me. Whenever life got tough, no matter how busy he was, he always took the time to check up on me. Even if it’s just a quick hug or a peck on the nose before calling me his ‘guardian angel’. What if—what if he hates me? Or decides I’m not his sweet guardian angel anymore but a shameful harlot of Lucifer?”

Tears stung behind my lashes and I harshly tried to wipe them away but that caused them to start falling down my face. I curled myself inward before choking out.

“I need him now more than ever but I—I feel like he won’t be there for me this time. That when I reach my hand out for him, he’ll turn me aside and I’ll be drowning in the unknown world of parenthood. The guilt, the anxiety, forcing us to drift further and further apart from one another until I…..” I sniffled and wiped more tears as well as my nose with my sleeve. “I feel so alone.”

I felt his hand gently stroke down my hair before it moved down to my back, his gloved hand rubbing soothing circles on my back.

“He won’t abandon you. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Yes I can.”

“How?” I choked out as I looked up to him. I saw as his jaw tensed up before he said.

“Because…because I have a daughter.” I looked at him surprised. Of course, superheroes and vigilantes can have their own lives they don’t have to be full-time superheroes 24/7.

But who would’ve thought that the Man in the Mask aka the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was a parent.

“You’re a……”

“She’s just around your age. And she means—the world to me. I would want her to be able to come to me for anything, to not be afraid to speak to me. But if she ever did feel the same fear you are now, then I’ve failed as a father.”

“No I—I’m sure you didn’t. It would have nothing to do with your parenting skills, it’s just…..I’ve had friends who had parents just as loving as my dad is. But when they admit to something that goes against their religious code, they disown them or try to repent their sins.”

“But you said your father isn’t like those types of people, right?” I nodded. “I won’t lie. He will be shocked at the news, but give him time to process things and he might just surprise you for what he has to say.”

“I know I should tell him. I can’t hide at Maddie’s forever. But there’s still a lingering voice in my head telling me that when I do tell him, it’ll be the last time I ever see him. I’d give anything to shut that voice up.”

“If you’d like, I could have a word or two with that nagging voice in your head.” That brought probably the first real laugh out of me ever since finding out about my pregnancy.

“I hope those words aren’t with your fists.” He softly laughed.

“No, I mean a real talk. I’d tell it, ‘Alright you negative worm. Stop filling this poor girl’s head with scenarios that aren’t true. Go make like a tree and get out of here!’”

“It’s leaf. It’s make like a tree and leaf.”

“Right that’s it.” I shook my head as I kept laughing.

“You know, you’re not what I’d thought you’d be like.”

“Mean and scary?” I nodded. “Oh to most I’m terrifying but—I have a soft spot for those that are lost. Don’t tell anybody though. Can’t have the scum of Hell’s kitchen thinking I’m too much of a softie.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“As is yours. Now you promise me you’ll tell your father in the morning?”

“Yes. First thing after school.”

“Good.” He said patting my knee. “It’s late, you should get some sleep. You’re not just sleeping for yourself anymore now.” I rubbed my lower abdomen. As he walked away and stood along the edge of the roof I told him.

“Thank you.” He turned to face me and gave me a soft nod before leaping off the roof and he disappeared into the night. I scaled back down the fire escape and re-entered Maddie’s sister’s room and got back into bed.

As promised after school I stood by mine and dad’s apartment and took a deep breath in before exhaling.

“You sure you don’t need me to go in with you anymore baby? You know I don’t mind.” Austin told me.

“No sweetie, I—I need to talk to my dad about this alone.”

“Okay. If he shows leniency, give me a call later?” I nodded. He leaned forward and we kissed each other before he continued on his way home. I took another deep breath and entered the apartment and headed for the elevator.

Once the elevator dinged on our floor, I walked down the hallway until I reached the apartment room. Taking out my key I took another deep breath in and muttered.

“Okay, he won’t get mad. He won’t get mad. Just—tell him the truth. He’ll understand. He’s cool, he’s my dad and he loves me.” I placed the key into the lock, turned it to the left and heard the click and opened it up.

“Uh-huh, yeah. Alright yeah we can make it. Yes of course, thank you. Yes and have a good afternoon to you too, bye.” I heard my dad’s voice say as I walked through the front hallway until I got to the spacious (as spacious as a New York apartment in Hell’s kitchen can be). “Well look whose returned. Finish your project already?”

“Dad I—I gotta tell you something.” I came right out with it.

“Okay, and what would that be?”

“Can we sit down on the couch?” he nodded before walking from the kitchen to the living room as we both sat on the couch.

“Is everything okay? Are you okay? Did someone hurt you?” he asked as he reached his hands out to cup my face. I took his hands and held them between us.

“I’m fine dad. Physically I am.”

“And what about emotionally?” he asked concerningly.

“Dad, I…..I lied to you. I wasn’t at Maddie’s for a project.”

“You-you—you lied to me? Then where were y—you weren’t at Austin’s were you? (Y/n) we’ve talked about this you’re not old enough to sleepover at a boy’s……”

“Dad I wasn’t at Austin’s either. I was at Maddie’s just not for a project.”

“Okay then I’m lost. (Y/n) sweetheart you’re starting to scare me. Whatever it is you can tell me, you know that right?” he asked as he scooted himself as close as he could get to me and wrapped his arm around me.

“Dad I—the reason why I was at Maddie’s was because I……I’m—” come on just say it. I swallowed a large lump in my throat and felt my leg beginning to bounce anxiously. “Promise you won’t get mad.”

“Go on.”

“You didn’t promise.”

“That’ll depend on what news I’ll be hearing. If it’s something illegal you know I won’t be happy.”

“Not really illegal. God I don’t know why I can’t just say it! Why can’t I tell you that I’m a month and a half pregnant!? I—” my mouth stopped as I realized how I had said it. I looked at my dad anxiously and saw how he just sat there flabbergasted.

“Y-you-you’re…..” he leaned back against the couch and just sat there limp like a ragdoll.

“Daddy? Are you—okay?”

“Just….need to process this.”

“Okay.” I muttered as I fiddled with my uniform skirt. We sat there in silence for a few minutes before he finally spoke out.

“Is it Austin’s?”

“Yeah. I swear dad we used protection but it—” he held out his hand telling me he didn’t need to hear anything else. Oh shit this is it. He’s gonna flip his lid, he’s pissed now. Way beyond pissed!

“And you’re sure you’re really pregnant? How did you even get an appointment and why wasn’t I notified?”

“Maddie has an aunt. Her aunt Claire performed the test and she was sworn to secrecy to not notify you.” He rubbed his hands against his face as he let out a deep sigh, his leg bouncing rapidly. Whether in anger or anxiety I couldn’t tell.

“Baby girl, why-why wouldn’t you tell me when you first found out? Why did you go through all of this trouble to lie to me about it?” my heart ached with guilt as tears began forming in my eyes.

“I’m sorry daddy. I—I was scared. Scared that you’d disown me or kick me out with no remorse or hesitation. Everytime I wanted to tell you, my brain kept showing me all the possibilities of you never wanting me to be in your life ever again. That you’d hate me or never say you had a daughter.”

I couldn’t look at him anymore so I closed myself into the edge of the couch and sniffled as I wiped my tears away. I felt dad’s hand gingerly stroke down my hair before coming down to lift my chin up.

I noticed how he had taken his red shades off and placed them on the table. Very rarely does he ever take them off, even around me but when he does, it’s always because he wants to connect with me (even though he’s blind). His unfocused gaze was staring in my general direction as he said to me.

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Y-you’re not?”

“No. I’m—taken by surprise don’t get me wrong. But it takes more than you getting pregnant at 17 for me to ever, ever, ever, think about disowning you or telling you you’re no longer my child.”

“Really?” I whispered.

“Yes.” He said giving me a nod. “So don’t ever go thinking like that again, okay?” my lip trembled as I nodded. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” I choked out.

“Okay.” I immediately hugged him as tightly as I could as I buried my face into his shoulder. His arms immediately wrapped around me as he chuckled softly.

“Oh daddy I’m so sorry I hid this from you!” I wept.

“I know you are angel. It’s okay now, it’s okay.”

“It’s just….I love you so much and I thought you’d—”

“Hey none of that now. There will be no more talk about the paranoid ‘what if’s’ in this apartment. There will never come a time when I tell you to get out of my life or that you aren’t my daughter anymore.” He said as he had me look up at him and he wiped away my tears. “You’re the most important person to me angel, and nothing will ever change that.”

I buried my face into my dad’s shoulder again and hugged him once again.

“I love you daddy.”

“And I love you my little guardian angel. I love you so, so much. And nothing will ever change that.” He said giving me a reassuring squeeze before kissing my forehead as many times as he possibly could.

56 notes · View notes

quietblueriver · 10 months

Text

Right on Time (Ch. 5/6)

Almost at the end!

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

Day 28

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

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

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

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

“Seven letters. Pastry. Third letter R.”

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

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Day 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dr. Lawrence?”

Her lips quirk as her head dips lightly in acknowledgement.

“Please, call me Margaret.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Water would be great. Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you for telling me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“On your anger?”

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

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

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

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

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

Day 16

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

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

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

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

“I think Bake-Off sounds nice.”

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

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

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

“How’s Vincent?”

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

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

She does know, as she did it very intentionally.

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

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

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

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

“I know. Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 18

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

“Why did you renounce?”

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

“Can I ask why you want to know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

Margaret twirls her ring again.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s hard to believe, I know.”

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

“I’m gay.”

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

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

“How does it feel?”

She thinks for a moment, takes stock.

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

Day 21

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Beatrice,

Thank you for this life.

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

Ava

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

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

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

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

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

Day 22

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. I’m not sick.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Up and at ‘em, hot stuff.”

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

Day 26

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

“One moment!”

“Take your time.”

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

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

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

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

“No, no. It’s lovely to see you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As well as you’d expect, I think.”

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

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

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

“Me too.”

“Beatrice…”

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

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

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

“Have you forgotten the transfer to Malaysia?”

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

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

Things have changed. But not enough.

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

Her voice shakes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She drags her eyes back up to Superion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 28

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

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

“Seven letters. Pastry. Third letter R.”

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

Day 32

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 34

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

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

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

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

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking…”

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

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

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

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

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

The other girls titter, and Beatrice says nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, mother.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay to be angry, Beatrice.”

“I don’t know if I can forgive them.”

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

Day 35

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

“Do you have a minute?”

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

“Of course. Would you like some tea?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“There’s a plan to move it.”

“Yes.”

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

A wry smile breaks across Jillian’s face.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jillian’s mouth closes again, and she continues.

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

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

“Can I think about that?”

“Of course.”

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

Day 39

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 41

“Are you ready for this?”

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

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

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

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

“Camila, I can’t. I can’t do this.”

“Beatrice, we’ve barely started.”

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

She’s started and now she can’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Camila blinks at her and then bursts into laughter.

“I’m sorry. Painfully heterosexual?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“About being gay?”

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

“Yes, about being gay.”

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

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

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

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

Camila hums. “Yes. And RuPaul.”

Day 44

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

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

Beatrice runs.

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

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