#just a bean and her suspenders
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felt real cozy today ☕️
#me#outfit#just a bean and her suspenders#sweater and skirt#redhead#dark academic aesthetic#corset#hair bow#floral tattoo#girls with tattoos#milkmaid
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Bulletproof (6/10)
Part Summary: It's three months after the attack on the compound and you lost your invincibility against bullets.
Chapter word count: 2.6k+ | Tags: Light Angst, Still UST, Still gay
Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Gender Neutral Reader
Next Part | Series Masterlist
-
The sound of the doorbell at “Café Lumière” reverberates around the room, your heart reacting before your head can even register it. It's the softest of sounds, but it pulls you like a siren's song. Every fiber of your being is acutely aware of that door, with both trepidation and hope hinging on its every swing.
Steam curls up from the frothing milk, whispering past your fingertips as they work on a delicate latte art. Your focus is unwavering, yet as the door chimes again, your heart skips. You risk a glance, your hope suspended for that split second, only to crash back down when it's not her.
Louisa's eyes, which have been watching you mischievously for some time now, find yours.
“Clock's ticking,” she teases, nodding toward the ornate clock hanging precariously on the wall. “Not 3pm yet.”
You feign confusion, but your playful smirk gives you away. “What are you going on about?”
She grins knowingly. “Your weekly muse isn't due for another... oh, ten minutes or so?”
An exaggerated sigh escapes your lips, the warm notes of roasted beans surrounding you like a comforting embrace.
“I'm not waiting for her, you know,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction.
Louisa smirks and pats your shoulder, “Sure, sure. Just give it time. She's never missed a Thursday, has she?”
As you're about to come up with a clever retort, a sharp sting on your finger draws your attention. You wince, looking down to see a thin, red line forming across your finger. Tearing the receipt from the register to hand to the awaiting customer, you’re slightly taken aback at how much the cut bleeds.
“Everything alright?” the customer asks, noticing the blood.
"Yeah, just a small paper cut," you dismiss, trying to downplay it. Grabbing a napkin, you press it against the cut, soaking up the crimson liquid.
Louisa's sharp eyes don't miss a beat. "Careful there. Those can be nasty," she comments, retrieving the first-aid kit from under the counter.
Louisa holds out a bandage, but you shake your head, not wanting to make a fuss over something so minor. “Really, I'm good,” you assure her.
A few seconds later, you open the napkin to check the cut. To your surprise, the skin seems perfectly whole, as if it had never been broken in the first place. You flex your finger, the earlier sting now a distant memory. “See? I'm fine,” you declare, shrugging.
Louisa tilts her head, narrowing her eyes in astonishment. “That healed incredibly fast. You sure you're okay?”
You chuckle, deciding to make light of the situation. “What can I say? Maybe I have superpowers.”
A soft clearing of the throat interrupts the moment. The customer, who you hadn't realized was keenly observing the entire exchange, raises an eyebrow. “Can I get some napkins, please?”
Flustered, you quickly hand a bunch over. “Of course, sorry about that.”
Louisa grins at you mischievously as the customer leaves, “Superpowers, huh? That's a new one.”
The doorbell rings out, pulling your attention instantly. You lift your gaze, hope surging momentarily, only to see the same customer making her way out. The door gently shuts behind them, the anticipation that had built up inside you deflating.
Louisa, noticing the brief flicker of disappointment in your eyes, nudges you playfully. “Don't look so down,” she says, her tone light and teasing. “She’ll be here. You know how punctual she is. Maybe she's just running a bit late today.”
You give a half-hearted chuckle. “Yeah, maybe.”
“I wonder though why she never gives her name,” Louisa muses.
“Hm?”
“You know, for the cup,” she clarifies.
You shrug. “Some people love their privacy, I guess.”
Hours seem to stretch endlessly, the weight of the clock's hands growing heavier with each passing minute. The crowd in the café starts to thin as evening nears. Although the store is open 24 hours a day, seven days a week, your shift only lasts until 8. And in the midst of the dwindling crowd, one spot remains unclaimed—the corner seat by the window, the one she always chooses.
She is the sole reason you continue working here despite your persistent restlessness. Pouring coffee for hundreds of customers daily never truly satisfies you, even when some tip generously. There's an inexplicable nagging feeling, suggesting this isn't where you belong or what you should be doing.
Yet, what anchors you between the register and the espresso machine is the girl who comes in every Thursday, late in the afternoon, always punctually, sometimes a few minutes early. It's disconcerting and exhilarating, this sudden shift of your universe tilting on its axis. You've never been one to believe in love at first sight or fated connections, but there’s something in the way she holds herself, something in her gaze that tugs at strings you didn’t even know existed.
But even if you can write the sweetest song or the most evocative poem about every titillating thing about her, it’s just a crush.
A crush that will lead to nothing. Not because you've attempted to ask her out or because she's already spoken for.
It's because your very existence is shrouded in uncertainty.
The past few months have been a jumble of rehab appointments, therapy sessions, and sleepless nights trying to piece together fragments of memories that always seem just out of reach. Surviving that near-fatal crash was a miracle in itself, but the loss of your past—it took away a part of who you were. Or who you're supposed to be.
Every day, you grapple with an identity you don’t recognize, yearning for some semblance of the person you once were. A glance at the reflection in the coffee machine shows a face still unfamiliar. Eyes that hold stories you can’t read, a curve of a smile that feels out of place. When people share anecdotes from their past or talk about family and childhood, all you can offer is a nod, a practiced smile, and a tightness in your chest that never truly fades.
And how could you possibly burden her with this emptiness?
The small apartment you return to every evening, given by a private charity, is filled with borrowed things and a life that doesn't truly feel like yours. They said you had no family, no one waiting or weeping for your recovery. Your recovery was overseen by faceless benefactors who, for some reason, deemed you worthy of a second chance. Yet, every evening as you unlock your door, you wonder if you truly deserved it.
The beautiful woman who steps into the coffee shop every Thursday, with her air of confidence and those captivating eyes, deserves more than what you currently are. More than this fractured self, teetering on the edge of self-discovery and despair.
What could you possibly offer her? Nights filled with stories of... nothingness? Days shadowed by the fear of not knowing who stares back at you in the mirror? She deserves someone who is rooted in memories, with stories to tell. Not this fragmented existence you live.
Perhaps it's safer this way, to admire her from a distance, to let her remain this source of hope and inspiration. A lighthouse guiding you through the stormiest nights. If you ever manage to find yourself again, then maybe, you'd take that chance.
Glancing at the clock again, it's 7:45 PM. Still no sign of her.
Dejectedly, you remove your apron and prepare to leave.
-
Wanda Maximoff blends into the bustling streets, the hood of her jacket pulled low over her face and her boots echoing a muffled cadence on the pavement. Dressed in tight denim and a nondescript hooded jacket, she hardly resembled one of the most powerful Avengers.
She mumbles a silent curse under her breath, glancing at her watch. She's late—later than she's ever been—and she hates it. Thursdays at the cafe are her only remaining connection to you.
She can see the cafe now, its warm light spilling out onto the street. She pushes the door and her eyes immediately scan the room, searching for that familiar face behind the counter. The disguise continues to work; to everyone, she’s just another customer. She doesn't draw the same attention here as she does in New York.
It’s North Carolina after all, and the town they put you in cares more about art than superheroes.
Louisa's attempt at nonchalance is commendable but slightly betrayed by the quick tightening of her lips and the slight flutter in her eyes. “Good evening,” she begins, voice as steady as she can manage. “Can I get you the usual today?”
Wanda's gaze, sharp and unyielding, remains locked on Louisa's face. “Where's Y/N?” she asks tersely.
“I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't share information about our staff's schedules.”
She pauses, letting the words settle before adding, “If you're looking to see Y/N, perhaps you can drop by tomorrow between 2 pm and 8 pm.”
“Oh,” Wanda mutters softly.
Vision, in his human disguise, comes up behind her. “Wanda, we should go,” he murmurs, attempting discretion, but Louisa catches his words nonetheless.
Wanda hesitates, her posture rigid. “I needed to see them, Vis,” her voice is laced with a quiet desperation, a yearning for something—or someone—lost.
“I know,” he replies softly. “But they aren’t here. And we can always go back tomorrow.”
“I just have a feeling,” Wanda says. “Maybe this time, they’ll—”
“You’ve had that feeling for weeks now, but nothing has changed.”
They've lowered their voices to whispers, forcing Louisa to strain her ears to catch the exchange between the two. Vision soon catches on to Louisa's subtle eavesdropping. Their conversation abruptly stops, and Wanda, a bit lost, looks up at him for an explanation. Vision subtly nods toward Louisa, signaling her presence.
Clearing his throat, Vision steps forward, deciding to divert attention. “A hibiscus tea, please,” he says.
Louisa, embarrassed at being indirectly called out, fumbles slightly before regaining her composure. “Of course. Name for the cup?”
“Victor,” Vision replies smoothly. With a nod, Louisa gets to work, while Vision takes a few steps to the side with Wanda, resuming their conversation in even lower tones.
Louisa sneaks occasional glances while pretending to be engrossed in her work. The two stand slightly apart, their conversation seeming both intimate and tense. Wanda's fingers fidget, wringing her hands, her lips moving quickly. Vision responds with a calming gesture, fingers grazing her forearm.
The steamer hisses as Louisa finishes the hibiscus tea, her curiosity deepening.
Setting the cup on the counter, she clears her throat. “Order for Victor!”
No reaction.
With a little more force, she calls again, “Hibiscus tea for Victor!”
Again, no response.
The cafe grows impatient, a soft buzz of conversation fills the air, and a few customers shoot curious glances at the duo.
“Victor!” Louisa exclaims, this time with a touch of impatience.
At this, Vision finally turns, the gentle hum of their conversation breaking. He approaches the counter, his blue eyes apologetic. “I'm sorry,” he says, taking the cup from her hands. “Thank you, Louisa.”
Louisa simply nods, her gaze flitting between the pair. As they head towards the exit, she can't help but wonder about the nature of their relationship with you and what has them so concerned.
-
Three months ago
“You can’t do this to them.”
Wanda's voice crackles with anger and a hint of desperation, her collected demeanor fraying at the edges. The holographic projections of the globe, pinpointing potential locations and glimpses of Y/N's impending new life, bathe Wanda's face in a cold blue light, each flicker taunting her with the reality of your imminent departure.
Flashbacks flicker behind Wanda's eyes, pulling her into that harrowing moment. She feels you in her arms again, your life seeping away between her fingers. She's surrounded by dust-covered streets, crumbling buildings, and the deafening silence after the explosion. Your blood, vibrant and so, so red, pooling at the ground beneath you, staining Wanda’s shoes. She's paralyzed, every second stretching into an eternity, every breath a labor.
She was so slow, so clouded by fear. Why didn't she act faster? Why didn't she see the signs? Could she have saved you?
It was Steve's voice that brought her back to reality. “Wanda! We need to move!” She barely registered the panic in his voice, the way he swiftly and gently took you from her, laying you on a makeshift stretcher.
Every moment after that feels like an agonizing irony to Wanda. She knows grief and loss intimately, but this... this is an entirely different kind of pain. The trauma of watching you battle death is only overshadowed by the realization that while you might physically be here, mentally, the person who risked their life for her twice has disappeared.
In the quiet spaces of her heart, she acknowledges a truth she's been running from: she's spent so long building walls, so long pushing away the vulnerability that came with connecting deeply with someone, out of fear. Fear of loss, of pain, of being too raw and open. With you, those walls had started to crumble, brick by brick, but not fast enough.
She wishes she could go back, to relive those moments with the knowledge she has now.
“You can't do this to them,” she murmurs again, the words more for herself than anyone else.
Steve stands across from her, hands on the table, his posture rigid yet his face betraying a deep sadness. “Wanda, it's not about what I want or what you want. It's protocol.”
Wanda's face contorts with anger, her voice rising, “Protocol? Y/N isn't some object to be managed! They have rights, feelings, memories—”
“Which they don't even remember!” Steve interjects, his rarely-seen frustration surfacing on this particular occasion.
“You can’t just... toss them into the world like they're yesterday's news, Steve,” Wanda hisses with barely-contained anger. They remain the lone figures in the meeting room after the team unanimously voted to craft a new identity for you, placing you in a secluded town, untouched by global news, let alone the cosmic battles waged galaxies away.
Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Wanda, it’s not about 'disposing' anyone. The protocol is clear. If a super loses their powers, they reintegrate. Y/N can't live in the compound because they no longer belong in this world of chaos and danger.”
“Because they're powerless?” Wanda’s eyes blaze. “Or because they're no longer of any use to the cause?”
“It’s not like that and you know it,” Steve says, stepping closer to Wanda and meeting her gaze. “Y/N has lost their memory, they don’t remember any of this—any of us. Keeping them here would only confuse and possibly hurt them.”
“They just sacrificed everything for me. And now you want to push them aside because it's convenient?”
“No,” Steve replies, “Because they’ve done enough. They’ve given enough. Don’t you think they’ve earned the right to a peaceful life? The privilege of normalcy?”
Her green eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “All I’m saying, Steve, is that they should have the choice. And right now, we’re taking that away from them.”
-
“Your girlfriend showed up last night.”
You whip your head around to look at Louisa so quickly, it feels like you might've given yourself whiplash.
“Come again?”
Louisa grins, tying her apron around her waist with a knowing smirk. “You heard me. Your Thursday regular? Gorgeous, and those piercing green eyes? She came by looking for you after you left.”
Your eyes widen, heart racing. “That doesn’t mean she’s my... girlfriend.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Louisa teases, leaning in closer. “She seemed pretty keen on finding you. Even asked for you by name. Speaking of which... guess who found out her name?”
Your mouth opens in surprise. “Y-You did?”
Louisa nods, a smirk on her lips. “Wanda. Her name’s Wanda.”
“Wanda,” you repeat, savoring the name as it slips from your lips.
Putting a name to such an unforgettable face changes everything. But like so many things that have recently unfolded, you just don’t know the significance of it yet.
#wanda maximoff x reader#wanda maximoff imagine#wanda maximoff x you#wanda x you#wanda maximoff#unbetad#my writing#my fic#elizabeth olsen x reader#elizabeth olsen#wanda maximoff fanfiction#captain america civil war#the avengers#vision
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stuck this on a comment of a random Nerdy Prudes edit but I figured I'd throw it here lol
some things I've noticed by becoming so mentally unwell about this show!
Richie's hair probably isn't supposed to just be greasy/messy, but more that he tried to fashion his hair to look like an anime character! One side stuck up and weird bangs are very harem high school anime self-insert MC-core
in "High school is killing me", Peter says, "Grace, just be cool," and she replies, "never!" And yet she's the first one to ask everyone to keep the beans cool, and the first one to break. Very telling
this might be a stretch, but the 5 nerds are color-coded with the 5 Lords! Just dulled somewhat, and if you count Ruth as red/pink (for her headgear) and Peter as green (for his bowtie and suspenders). This makes sense to me, as the rulers definitely feed off of want, and of course the nerdy prudes will be wanting the most! (Also this makes Pete changing to brown mean a lot, since it shows how he feels fulfilled by slowly becoming Steph's friend/partner)
the mayor calling Steph his "October surprise" probably means that she was an unplanned baby. That makes her being forced to go to abstinence camp kinda hypocritical lol
Ruth keeps on desperately trying to fuck people and Richie keeps trying to be a wingman for her, but they aren't trying to fuck each other at all and are very much just super besties.
at multiple points, it implied that the characters slightly know they're in a musical. From Richie saying "oh no, she's snapping again," to the Hatchettown "singing gives him a greater window to kill, but we're singing still," and, as it was pointed out to me, "suddenly the show is real upsetting." Think of the implications!!!
Max's ghost costume is especially good, but I just love how there are veins on his jacket sleeves! It shows that his outfit isn't separate from himself anymore, his entire form is one single ghostly thing.
I will list more as time goes on. I'm very normal.
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for arrowfam week day one: "ghost" and "grow"
(set sometime around ga vol 7, but not exactly accurate based on current timelines within the run. suspend your disbelief with me for a sec.)
--
There’s a girl sitting at Mia’s desk.
Not that that’s unusual, or anything. Mia might come from a family of famous caped crusaders, but the vigilante business doesn’t exactly pay well enough for Ollie to foot all of her bills in the heart of Star City. She has roommates – two of them, actually, girls who have known each other since college but needed a third while so-and-so is studying abroad for a year, blah blah blah – and they’ve been known to sneak in to use her desk so that they both aren’t stuck studying at the kitchen table like they’re in the opening scenes of a Dickinson novel or whatever.
The point is, people sit at Mia’s desk sometimes. It happens, and normally it wouldn’t bother her, even coming home from work this late. Even after she spent all evening cleaning up the cafeteria in the community center after some kind of Bean Incident none of the kids would blab about, no matter how much she tried to wheedle it out of them.
Anyway. That’s not what bothers her. The thing that bothers her, actually, doesn’t hit until the girl looks up at her. The hood of her sweatshirt falls back from her head, revealing a shock of bright pastel hair, and Mia doesn’t know anyone with that hair color but –
But she knows those soft brown eyes. She knows that dimple in the left cheek, accompanying the uncertain smile.
“Lian,” she says. “What. The fuck.”
And then she slaps a hand over her mouth, and the laughter spills between her fingers despite her best efforts. “I mean, shit, I shouldn’t — goddammit, Roy is going to be so mad at me for cussing, but I —what?”
“Um.” Lian shrugs. It is her, after all; her voice sounds exactly like Cheshire, somehow, but the way her eyes crinkle at the corners is all Roy. “Hi.”
Mia stumbles into the room, sets her duffle bag to the ground with a thump that feels more like an earthquake. She drops down onto her unmade bed and stares – not bothering to hide her astonishment, her disbelief – at Lian, somehow so much older, somehow exactly the same.
“If I’m being haunted, you legally have to tell me,” Mia insists.
Lian shrugs. The toes of her sneakers drag against the floor as she kicks her feet, hands gripping the sides of her seat. “Nope. Not a ghost.”
Well. It’s not as weird as it sounds, probably. Roy had come back, and Ollie had, too, hadn’t he? But Mia… Mia had been there when Lian died. Sort of. Or at least, it was her not being there that had done it, and she’d done everything she could to find a loophole, but there had never been one. Nothing. She’d been gone; it had sat in Mia’s stomach like a weight, like a rock she’d swallowed and couldn’t spit back out.
“Clone?” she tried.
Lian shook her head. “Mm-nn.”
“Hallucination.”
“Nope.”
“Prank?”
“Only from the universe.”
“Alternate dimension.”
“Maybe.”
“Well,” Mia said.
And then she swallowed.
And then her breath came out in a flurry of hysterical giggles again, a fountain she just couldn’t stop, and she dropped her face into her hands and let the flood come, let it pour out of her chest like an open wound.
“Fuck,” Mia hissed. “I—Fuck me. God. Lian, does Roy, does your dad know?”
Lian hums her confirmation. “He’s on the roof. He and Uncle Connor brought me to see you.”
“They’re…?” Mia pushes off the bed and stomps over to the window. She throws open the glass and leans out, looking upward.
Sure enough, a grappling hook arrow is hooked into the brick of her building with a rope dangling down. That must be how Lian got in. Mia should really start locking her windows, but it’s just so much easier to make a quick escape that way instead of going out the front door.
She doesn’t give a fuck about the neighbors, so she shouts as loud as she can. “Hey! Assholes!”
Two heads peek over the edge at her, one with shaggy red hair and one with a series of blonde braids. Connor, at least, has the decency to wave. Roy just raises an eyebrow at her, like she’s the one inconveniencing him.
Ugh. Brothers.
“What the fuck?” she shouts. “How did she get so tall?”
Roy snorts, and it echoes off the building next door. “Blame the multiverse, or something!”
“I can hear you,” Lian offers.
Mia waves a hand. “Shut up, I’ll deal with you in a minute. The adults are speaking.”
Lian huffs, and Mia can practically hear the eyeroll. As if she doesn’t get enough crap from the kids she works with all damn day, now she’s got a bratty teenager who’s going to be expecting a cool aunt she can come play hooky with, or whatever kids do. Mia wouldn’t know; she didn’t exactly have aunts and uncles to set an example.
“Can you at least come down here and walk me through it, instead of sitting around like two old farts at a chess tournament?” Mia demands.
On the streets below, someone must take offense to their big family reunion. Mia hears the distant – but distinct – sounds of someone telling her to shut the fuck up, lady! from the sidewalk.
Star City. Gotta love it.
“Fine, fine,” Connor says. He’s still smiling, though, and she watches as he pulls a rope arrow from his quiver. “Give us a second. Arsenal’s not as young as he once was.”
Roy lets out some kind of offended comment at that, Mia’s sure, but she doesn’t pay him any attention. Instead, she turns to face Lian again and all but tackles her, trapping her head in the bend of an elbow and ruffling her hair as she squeals.
“And you, you little brat,” Mia says, holding on tight as Lian laughs and tries to wriggle free, “are going to tell me everything.”
#arrowfamweek2023#arrowfam week#mia dearden#lian harper#arrowfam#EHHHH WHO NEEDS CONTINUITY.#this is only a stretch because roy is here. bc based on [REDACTED] he may not be when mia shows up#ASSUMING mia shows up#but i'm going to IGNORE all of that#in favor of mia and lian#roy harper#connor hawke#fic.tb
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I think it's predominantly the excitement of Monster High returning, but I wanna talk about "Growing Ghoulia" and "Spell the Beans" (especially since I've seen other people talking about the new episodes). Just a bunch of random points that I really appreciated. So, yes, this post will include spoilers for the episode "Growing Ghoulia" and "Spell the Beans" :)
All the new episodes this month have been wonderful so far, but I honestly really loved this one and "Spell the Beans" (but knowing me, the clankie episode tomorrow will likely come out on top <- pun intended. Don't be surprised if I post all about that one tomorrow too jhsjssjh).
No, but honestly, I appreciated the use of "allegory" (if you'd like to call it that) in regards to Ghoulia's need to top the horror roll. Ghoulia says, "it's hard for zombies to get points. We're not as fast as other monsters. I wanted to be the first zombie to be number one and show everyone they misjudged us."
Many could interpret it as disability allegory, or generally, any minority group that is prone to being judged solely on the basis of stereotype. And Draculaura pitches in with her own personal example. Due to her love of witchcraft (something that is shunned in monster society), she feels the need to prove herself as a means of "showcasing" that she is a responsible and kindhearted person amidst the act that she practices what society deems as a "filthy human habit".
In the episode "Spell the Beans", Draculaura states that she uses witchcraft to create, and that it is a fun hobby. Being a witch is her identity, and she wishes to prove to other monsters that witches can be good people. It is entirely dependent on what you use the powers for. Through these two episodes, we get to see Ghoulia and Draculaura's identities even more deeply, as well as the fact that they care so much about serving as pioneers (within the groups they identify with) towards a better, more accepting future. I imagine, even if kids aren't reading into the episodes as much as I am JJSJJ, that this underlying theme about identity and acceptance means a lot to so many people watching.
Also, can we talk about Ghoulia's reaction to Draculaura practicing witchcraft?? It's so wholesome! She's immediately like "that's so cool!" and then quickly realizes how unfair it is. Not because it's a "human" practice, but because of her goal in the episode: to be at the top of the horror roll. She is not bothered by Draculaura practicing witchcraft. As a matter of fact, she finds it very impressive and intriguing.
Also the visuals?!? Like, as a writer and filmmaker, the whole heart-to-heart scene with mid-falling, suspended tree leaves around them made me like "OMG CINEMATOGRAPHY", even though it's literally animated JSJSHJ. But still.
ALSO "Spell the Beans"!! With Dracula and Draculaura sitting with their backs to the tombstone. Like.... ooooo damn I love myself a good heart-to-heart scene, especially when the characters use the space in that way. There is so much that can be gathered through just their position during that scene. A sort of metaphorical (and literal) wall stands between them. It's a space where they can't exactly face one another, but can still engage in their conversation. LIKE OOF. FEELS.
And then of course, a definite highlight...
MONSTER HIGH CANONICALLY HAS AN LGBTQ+ CLUB!!
GUYS. MONTHS AGO I MADE A LIST OF G3 FRANKIE HEADCANONS AND ONE WAS THAT THEY ATTEND A QUEER CLUB BUT LIKE--
I DIDN'T THINK THEY'D ACTUALLY INCLUDE IT, BUT I AM SO HAPPY THEY DID!!
And they said "queer" too! Just like Twyla said "autism". I know it sounds small, but the writers (in order to avoid angry, homophobic parents) could easily have been like "this is the Ghoul Wraith Alliance, a place where people can celebrate identity". Sure, it would be sweet, but it would leave too much to the imagination. That is typically fun, but as a queer person myself, it is such a joy to hear these words being spoken aloud in children's media!! This made me so happy, and I have nothing but absolute respect for the Monster High team working on this show!
Nah, but overall, I'm so glad Monster High is back. They do such a great job not shying away from topics and communicating these topics in validating ways. Pumped for tomorrow's episodes (watch as I shit my pants at school, cause I'm gonna be there at 5 for theater production callbacks hehe).
#lol sorry this is a lot#and I didn't even really reach a conclusion#I just wanted to talk hehe#monster high#g3 monster high#monster high g3#gen 3 monster high#monster high gen 3#mh#growing ghoulia#monster high ghoulia#ghoulia yelps#draculaura#monster high draculaura#monster high episode
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me, on the witness stand, testifying to the character of a man who
looks so handsome in his suspenders with his sleeves rolled up
stands in front of the ice box at 2 am eating a ham sandwich
smiles like a ray of sunshine with a head injury
grabs his girl and dances with her to 'ain't we got fun' on the radio
has absolutely been covered in blood to his elbows SO MANY TIMES
"He's just a silly guy, your honor! He's my special jelly bean! He's my pookie bear! You can't put him away!😭😭😭😭"
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This seems really indulgent and I know (and love!) footy au so no pressure at all but -- more butch Bea? Would make my day anytime, whatever you might have in mind! :) Thank you for your words
[i love indulgence, here's what was supposed to be one scene & ended up being 8.4k words about how remarkable it is to be butch :) for @unicyclehippo , also on ao3]
//
giving your body to ava is easy; giving your body to yourself is the hard part.
you’re supposed to protect her, you’re told: keeping her safe is the only thing that matters. you understand, as you tug a scratchy blanket up over her shoulders on a train to a little town nestled in the alps, that you are in charge of keeping ava safe because she’s the halo-bearer, because she’s the key to slaying demons and defeating adriel and heaven and hell and the earth between. you’re not supposed to keep her safe because she’s ava, but her breaths are warm against your neck, tucked in safely, her chin on your shoulder — you will keep her safe. it’s a vow you take with the gravitas you have your others, perhaps even more certain, sure, clear: you will keep ava safe.
you’ve felt the same impulse — not as strong, and not as sharp, but the same — toward a few people you’ve known. mackenzie, in third grade, after keith, a fourth grader, called her a bitch at recess, and it was easy, so easy, to let the anger well up in you and to, just like you’d been trained in aikido since you were five, punch him in the throat. you’d had to go to the principal’s office after a small riot had erupted, and you’d sat, sullen, while your principal told your mother and father what had happened. they asked you to apologize, and the words — rotten and wrong — got stuck in your throat. you were suspended for a week and your parents made you go to bed without dinner the entire time; your stomach ached to the point of physical pain and it was hard to think, but when you went back to school, mackenzie had smiled big and bright and had kissed your cheek and brought extra cookies to share at lunch, and it was so worth it.
you’d felt the same impulse in eighth grade, with marin, your best friend. she would come over after archery, and she said she didn’t mind that you were sweaty, even though you knew, objectively, it was gross. marin was always wearing a ripped denim jacket you were, silently, in love with, and her parents let her put purple streaks in her dark hair, and you couldn’t stop thinking about her mouth, even during algebra II, your favorite class. you learned to walk, on impulse, between her and the road whenever you were on the sidewalk; you held hands and felt proud: you were, in ways you had no idea how to name, hers. she pressed you up against the packages of mein and liangpi and cans of kidney beans in your pantry and kissed you, quietly and softly, one day. your first kiss, in the dark in the closet, and you had frozen stock still because — homosexuals are going to hell; that’s not love, that’s a sin, every sunday, and wednesdays during lent and vespers too, all the rosaries in the world won’t take away the way marin sighing into your mouth feels so perfect you want to die in it — it’s in your core, this want. so, of course, you kiss her back. you don’t know what you’re doing, have only watched movies where boys kiss girls or maybe you’d mostly skipped those parts; maybe in bend it like beckham you had paid attention to keira knightly’s short hair and her stomach and jesminder’s smile and the curve of her nose and found it more compelling than the men’s matches your dad takes you and your brother to see. your hands are shaking but you fist them in marin’s hair, coarse and curly and perfect, and you think you might explode when she rests her palm on your hip. it feels a little like jumping off a cliff.
and even your father walking in on you hadn’t stopped you from the want; your mother’s you’re disgusting; i’d rather you take your own life than be gay and the priest at their church telling you, quite clearly, that being a lesbian would result in eternal damnation. even that hadn’t been enough to stop the awful and bright desire to help krishna fix her shelf in her dorm in switzerland when you were sixteen, to accept her thanks in the form of laughter and sweet halwa. you are wrong, you know so, because your parents had seen you kissing a girl and you hadn’t wanted to repent; you had wanted to protect marin from speeding cars and hold her hand in the rain and fall asleep curled up next to her with a movie playing in the background, one where girls kiss and they don’t die afterward. it’s a suicide mission, maybe, the way krishna’s skirt rides up to her underwear while she sits on her bed and watches you level the shelf, her brown skin and the stretch marks you think are beautiful, that you think about kissing, all the time. you learn fencing and archery and you get multiple blackbelts in kendo; one of your sensei has a bright smile and short hair and the most precise hands. she’s beautiful in a way you don’t understand, not really, not yet: her hair is cropped short, and her jaw is square and compelling, and she speaks softly and kindly. when she corrects one of your stances you feel a race of electricity down your spine, the opposite of the stress you feel as your hips get bigger, as you go through the embarrassing ordeal of learning how to put a tampon in, as you have to go up a size with your sports bra. she teaches you to use a bo, and there are many things you can’t name: the power; the ache — you see a reflection that feels so much like a home to you that you are not supposed to want that you don’t know how to face it.
most of the girls in your school had gone to university; you had opened your letters from oxford; from tsinghua; from harvard; from the eth, with steady, sure hands, reading the acceptances calmly. it wasn’t hard, not this part: you braid your hair carefully each day and feel a little like throwing up every time you had to put your skirt on, the weekends and your aikido and judo classes and the standard, starchy, thick gi the most profound reprieve — you studied and you took your exams and it was easy, to become an asset, to become a weapon. you’re brilliant, all of the adults in your life tell you so. you stare at your ceiling and on the bad nights you can’t feel your hands. on the bad nights you want to touch yourself so badly you could scream, and you let your fingers wander down your stomach into the curls that have grown dark between your legs, and you think of stupid keira knightly’s hipbones and you feel the wetness there before you pull your hand away, every time. it’s wrong, to want like you do: to think of what a tweed jacket like your professors wear would look like, how your shoulders would be square and strong; every now and then, you stare at the scissors in your bathroom, for trims in the months between semester breaks when you can leave the grounds, and wonder what it would be like to just cut your hair short, how you might get in trouble but it also might be a relief. there is so much grace you can’t give to yourself yet.
of course, you’re not brave enough for any of it. you are brave, enough, however, to want to die: the ocs is bloody and brutal and a home unlike one you’ve ever known. it’s easier to push all of the sin down and fashion yourself useful, so useful if anyone, anyone at all, ever found out what you think about in the middle of the night, they would still have to value you: you have your arrows and your knives and your sisters and the most beautiful bo you had ever seen. you have your habit and your combat boots; you eat three exacting meals a day and you want and you want and you fucking want — but you tell ava about it, as clearly as you can, and she just loves you. you’re rude, for a second, but she sits patiently and doesn’t judge you for your tears or the curling desire in your chest, and then, what feels like a literal miracle, she tells you that you’re beautiful and you want to be called that, you want to be called handsome, you want her to laugh at your jokes and stare too long at your freckles. you want to love her, and you do: you want ava, who is so pretty and kind, despite it all, to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you will be there for her. so you bandage the cut along your cheekbone in the train car and don’t think of the acceptance letters you had calmly thrown in your trashcan, or the thick watch the woman in front of you was wearing, her sleeves rolled up her forearms, or the way ava is warm and soft and you will gone on as many suicide missions as it took to protect her. to protect her, not the halo, not the church: ava.
she stirs eventually and smiles up at you, groggy and grateful and trusting, like she knows you won’t let anything bad happen to her; it’s easy to let her touch you, to let her lean on you, to let her use you for anything she needs. your heart swells as she burrows deeper into your side.
/
the first time you really allow yourself to think of it, this monstrous, lovely ache inside of you, is when lena, a shopkeeper in switzerland with a neat fade, a perfect quiff combed neatly on top, streaked with grey, and an impeccable linen suit, hands you a pair of pants. ava is in the dressing room trying on a pile of tiny clothes — which you do your absolute best not to think about — and the soft material and exact stitching: neat pleats that will accommodate the small flare of your hips; a straight leg that will sit at your ankle. lena smiles and offers you a few button downs, oversized and collarless, tailored perfectly, and she doesn’t know you’re a nun but you take them all and tell yourself that they’re suitable for you because they’re modest, because they won’t draw attention — not the way ava’s brightly patterned button down she ties into a crop top will, not the way ava will, just inherently, with her perfect smile and elegant brow. you’re drawn to earth tones, to subtle patterns, to thick cotton that drapes without sitting against your chest too snugly. ava loves your clothes, apparently, which is mostly expected because ava loves everything and, you’re certain of it, ava loves you. not as a sister warrior, not as a nun, but as beatrice, which is perhaps the scariest thing of them all.
/
one day, while ava is working and you have unadulterated and unmonitored time to yourself, you let your feet carry you to lena’s shop. ava has been reading you poems at night, and she’s been steadily collecting a few vinyl to play on the phonograph, even though it’s prone to skipping. it’s a life, gentle and slow, even with your training and the looming threat of an apocalypse of literally biblical proportions, and you have no idea how to reconcile who you have always tried to be with who you are, and what you want.
the first night you had been in switzerland, in your tiny apartment with dust and lumpy furniture and ava’s desperately excited energy, you had sat on the couch quietly as she puttered around and then finally settled in bed. you had lied back on the couch, and she had huffed and then sat up: ‘bea, what are you doing?’ she had asked.
you hadn’t been able to find the words that you really meant so instead you’d told her, ‘i’m keeping watch,’ and you hadn’t had to look away from the water stain on the ceiling to know she was rolling her eyes. you had argued, a little, but the couch was genuinely so uncomfortable and you hadn’t slept in so long, you’d gotten up and shuffled to the unoccupied side of the bed. ‘are you sure this is okay?’ you’d asked, and she’d squinted.
‘why wouldn’t it be?’
you had frowned and bitten your bottom lip and stumbled through, ‘because i — i’ve told you, i —‘
ava had rolled her eyes. ‘i don’t care what your sexuality is, beatrice. what i do care about is you sleeping; you’re dead on your feet.’ she had paused and waited for you to situate yourself under the covers, stiffly on your back, and she had huffed a breath and then — slowly, and you were not the only one who understood the overstep of nonconsensual touch, the pain and fury — settled her head just under your chin, resting on your chest. ‘i trust you to keep me safe.’
looking back, maybe that was it, maybe that was the moment you understood: one day, you want to wear a suit to a nice dinner; you want loose, perfectly tailored pants and expensive, thick cotton and for women and femme people — someone like ava; ava herself, you allow yourself — to think that you are attractive, that you’re sexy, that you would do anything to make sure they’re cared for. that you delight in it.
lena is a miracle herself, you think: she understands who you are, or, at least, who you want to be, buried underneath the rubble of a thousand explosions you’d set off along your spine and within your ribcage. she hands you a beautiful suit, and she lets you try it on; some days, you have tea with her wife and practice your arabic and you blush at aleyna’s gravely voice and the way she talks about her favorite art. you are overcome, when you see yourself in the mirror; your soul, eternal longevity be damned, leaps: there you are. you do up an elegant pair of cufflinks and look at a reflection you have always wanted to know.
there you are.
/
ava’s freedom is enviable: she wears clothes she loves and excitedly lets you cut her hair to her chin, because she wants to and because she thinks it’s fun and it’ll look so cute, bea, and she smiles afterward, laughs at herself, delighted, in the mirror. you let her think she’s convinced you of something really exciting and serious when you agree to get highlights; mostly, it makes her happy, and it’s not exactly what you want, but it’s something. ava flirts with boys, and ava flirts with girls, and she leans forward against the bar and winks at you when you drag your eyes away from her chest. some days, you think you might strike up the nerve to ask her, late at night, after you’d heard her touching herself in the shower, stifling little moans: what does it feel like to want with abandon? what is it like?
but you don’t: you dance with her, your head hazy, and you leave a letter — too sentimental, too telling, but a breath — for lena and her wife before you flee. you fight your way through all of madrid and an awful, nightmare of a vision of her with the fog, and then you hold her in your arms, once, after she dies again, after she falls and her body explodes inside its skin — literally. you pray and pray and pray — to her, not a single thought spared for god, and you would give up everything in your life: your vows, your worth, everything, for her to be alive. and she is, eventually, and you help her out of your clothes and it’s a kind of honor in this too: she trusts you not to hurt her, never to hurt her. she trusts you, in the shower, while you’re in an undershirt and boxers and you clean the blood from her ears, to be gentle to her, and to keep her safe.
you have your habit and your robes and your weapons; with each passing day, you become more and more terrified that ava is going to die. you love her; you want, in some way, to spend your life with her, whatever that might mean. but where does it all lead for you if she does die? you clutch your rosary in your hand and feel a very particular horror: who are you, if not for ava’s love? where, now, would all that want go?
/
ava kisses you. it’s your second kiss; you’re the second person she’s kissed, you know as much, but it doesn’t matter: you’ve held her before. you know this, as surely as you know anything. she has been many people, in some way or another, and maybe you have to. there’s so much of your life that has never been yours but the decision to follow her lips as she draws back and bring your hand to her jaw rests in your hands, as steady as they are when you have your bo, and far gentler.
ava kisses you, as she decides to die. you hold her as her body — this beautiful, small, miracle of a body that you love, that you love — fails her, with a particular finality as it glows blue and crumples. you know, when you send her through the portal, that you are going to have to leave this life you have forced down your throat and driven into the marrow of your bones like rods in the center. i love you, you tell her. you hope she knows.
/
no one cares, you realize, if you try on a pair of men’s jeans at a thrift store in berlin. in fact, robbie compliments them casually; you’re not sure if they know how much it means, but they have a lump of skirts in their arms and a neatly trimmed beard and glamorous blue eyeliner today, so you think they probably do. you pull the pants on in the dressing room: they’re light washed, and loose; they fall just at the bottom of your ankles, and you cuff them twice and pull on the sturdy blundstones you’ve worn all over the world at this point. you can see yourself in them in the winter, a big, elegant peacoat and a scarf pulled around your neck, and soft and warm; you can see yourself in them in the summer, rolled up with sandals and an oversized t-shirt. it’s different, than the time you’d tried on a suit — more casual, more variable — but the recognition is there all the same.
‘did you like them?’ robbie asks, meeting you at the front with a few skirts and a crop top that pangs in your chest because robbie will look great in it; because ava would love it.
‘i loved them,’ you say, and a knot releases somewhere in your chest.
/
you end up in los angeles — one tattoo on the top of your wrist and a surfing lesson booked — mostly because it’s the city of angels, which feels a little inevitable, and also mostly because it’s so far from anything you’ve ever known. you keep to yourself at first, mostly, but then you make casual conversation with a few of the surfers out near your airbnb every morning, and they love your accent and give you pointers on how to pop up on your increasingly smaller board and invite you to an arooj aftab show at the broad. it aches, to live this life without ava, even though it’s what she wanted for you, what she asked of you.
you drive along the hellish freeway to make it on time, and you let your friends buy you a drink at the outdoor bar, a little paper wristband signaling you’re over 21 after you’d shown your ID at the entrance; you had agonized over what to wear and settled on your favorite pair of pants, one that you’ve had since switzerland, a wide-legged pair in a deep navy that lena had tailored to fit your waist properly, and a linen collarless button down in a seafoam so pale it’s almost white, the sleeves cuffed up to your elbows, a pair of airforce 1s which your friend had promised you are, without fail, cool. you feel nervous but then your friends seriously look through some art pieces in the museum before the show, and one of them has on a pair of leather chaps, and no one cares at all. you’ve pulled your hair up into a careful, smooth bun for as long as you can remember, and at the show you close your eyes and let your heart hurt: you miss ava. you miss the love of your life, and you miss your faith, and you miss something you’ve wanted your entire life: to be seen as who you are. to be brave enough.
there’s lilting smoke and bright lights diluted by it, everything striking in urdu; you can’t translate each word, of course not, but you do understand: there are so many ways to pray. there are so many gods to pray to.
your friend drops you off at your apartment later that night; you stand in the kitchen in your black sports bra and the simplest pair of black cotton underwear you could find, and let your hair out of its bun. your skin is clean and clear and you have more freckles now than you have your entire life. your hair has gotten long, and every few days someone decides to tell you it’s beautiful. it is, you guess, even though, sometimes, it doesn’t feel like yours. you’d watched paris is burning a few weeks ago, alone at night when it was dark and the only noise you could hear was the gentle brush of the waves outside, after you’d poured yourself one of your favorite ipas and made popcorn, after you’d liet yourself eat a piece of pizza even though you hadn’t gone on a run earlier. you don’t feel like yourself, not all the way: you don’t always want to look at your hips and your chest and when your hair tickles along the middle of your back you have to close your eyes and breathe through it; you love the muscles that have grown sharper and bigger along your arms and the ink in your skin and the way your thighs cut strong and taper down to your knees, the color of your eyes at sunset. you are becoming; it hurts.
you watch the holiness in the ballrooms and you know: people have been far, far braver than you. loving ava — loving yourself — is not a kind of death sentence; it’s a kind of life.
/
camila facetimes you in the mid-morning, after you’ve just finished sparring. you’re in a sports bra, the weather too hazy and hot to wear your entire gi on the full walk home. camila grins when she sees your bare shoulders.
‘picking up the ladies, bea?’
you’ve never definitively said anything, but you kissed ava and then renounced your vows and, honestly, you think everyone probably knew the entire time anyway — it’s not as scary as you thought it would be: camila’s eyes are bright and clear and she’s just calling to say hi. there’s no condemnation; there’s no judgement, only your friend, your sister.
‘no, no,’ you say, and camila pouts, which makes you laugh. ‘it’s just hot.’
‘probably because you’re shirtless on the streets of los angeles.’
‘it’s a two block walk home from my dojo, camila.’
‘you’re not a nun anymore,’ she says. ‘let me have a little fun with it, at least.’
you’re quiet, just a beat too long.
‘how are you doing?’ she asks, resolute and gentle like always.
it goes without saying: you miss ava so much it feels like you’ve broken your wrists; you are in love with the world. ‘i’m — i’m figuring it out.’
it’s a more hopeful answer than camila was expecting, clearly, because she perks up and smiles.
‘well,’ she says, ‘it looks good on you.’
/
one night you think of the curve of ava’s rib. the twelfth, exactly, the way it wrapped slightly in her back, near her spine, a flutter away. you think of the way her shirt rode up in the middle of the night, how she rolled over onto her stomach and you saw the dimples above the waistband of her shorts, the curve of her ass, the nape of her neck, the delicate press of her wrists. it felt wrong, to look like that, your eyes red with sleep — but she was there, and she was so, so beautiful.
one night you can’t sleep and you close your eyes and think about the way ava’s lips had felt against yours. you try not to concentrate on any of the bad, just for now, just for a breath, just for this sliver of moonlight and the quiet seep of your desire onto your fingers when you press between your legs.
you wonder, absently, if hell will open up and swallow you whole. you rub circles around your clit and try, so hard, to listen to your body, to trust it like you had only learned how to do in a fight, like you had only allowed yourself in moments of pain and danger. but you’re safe, in this big bed by the ocean, and you think of ava’s twelfth rib and heaven and you come silently, pleasure drenching down your spine as you allow it to curve into the light.
you give your body to yourself, just for a few minutes, and it feels like heaven. you lie back against your pillow and blink open your eyes and laugh.
/
ava has been back for less than twelve hours before she flits through your closet. you’ve picked up pieces here and there, mostly earth tones, mostly loose and comfortable fabrics; you have a few hoodies, which seem to really delight her, and a tweed jacket you haven’t fully worked up the courage to wear with some slacks yet, although they’re both there, and ready, and available.
‘this is so gay,’ she says fondly, meaning, you presume, your entire wardrobe, and it’s so, so stupid for you to feel panicked, because you are gay and you want, so badly, to love being gay, because you love ava, more than heaven and earth, and she came back for you. but still, you can’t erase so many years of hating a fundamental part of who you are; ava frowns and walks up to you slowly. ’bea.’
‘it’s fine.’
‘i’m sorry.’ she takes both of your hands in hers and runs her thumb along the back gently. ‘i don’t — this is all still kind of new to you, i guess.’
it’s gentle, and forgiving, and opens up so much space for you. you had wanted, so, so many times, to change into who you are, brimming under the surface, and you’d only started to feel brave enough when you’d seen her genuine smile at your new slacks in switzerland. you suppose, really, it’s not that much different now. ‘i, uh, i see a therapist.’
‘oh?’ she doesn’t back away, only squeezes your hands. ‘that’s awesome. do you like them?’
‘i do.’
she just stands and waits and you are thankful for her, again and again; you have missed her so, so much.
‘i started — because i was grieving,’ you say, quietly and in the direction of a row of sneakers on the floor. ‘i went because i was hurting, and i didn’t know what to do with it.’ you had started going because, one night, you had gotten roaringly drunk at a little bar in echo park and felt like you wanted to walk into fucking traffic on the 405 when a girl with ava’s lotion passed by you, but that’s a detail you can mention another time, or never.
‘i’m sorry, bea.’
‘no.’ you touch her face gently, rest your hand on her collarbone. ‘not your fault. but what i mean is that — i started going because i missed you, and i didn’t know who i was, really. i left the church, and i fell in love with you, and, like, how do i become who i really am as a lesbian ex-nun whose — uh, person, is, well, missing, for an undetermined amount of time.’
‘therapy does seem like a good start with that,’ she says sagely. ‘also, person?’
‘we hadn’t discussed what we were to each other, before the portal, so.’ you shrug. ‘i know you’re my partner. but you are also my person.’
‘love that,’ she says, and smiles, ‘and love you. and other than how incredible i am, what have you learned about yourself?’
you lead her to a drawer in your closet, and you open it and take out a chest binder, black and unassuming, one you haven’t worn yet but had bought one morning online, after you’d had a wonderful surf session and you had wondered, just enough, how it might feel. ‘i don’t know,’ you say. ‘i don’t — i’m figuring it out.’ ava is still and patient beside you; you have a holy war coming, one neither of you is sure to survive, and it all seems to matter a little less in the face of it. or, maybe, it matters more. ‘is that okay?’
‘fuck yeah,’ ava says. ‘you’re so hot, like, god, even hotter than i remember? what a fucking gift! and, yeah, i mean, you’re however you feel, regardless of me. i know i’m like really awesome, but i’m just a person. kind of. for these purposes, i’m just a girl. mostly.’ she laughs at herself. ‘anyway, try it on! if you want. i love you, and i want to see.’
for your entire life you’ll hold it in your heartspace: i love you, and i want to see. just like that, just like a commandment — true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, praiseworthy. ‘okay.’
‘sweet,’ ava says, ‘i’ll be waiting out here, whenever you’re ready.’
you step into the binder and pull it on like you’d watched a few tutorials of, and you don’t think it’s something you want all of the time, but your heart pounds and your palms sweat and then your entire body settles when you situate the straps on your shoulders and turn in the mirror, see your chest mostly flat. again, it’s like seeing yourself for the very first time: there you are.
you wipe a few tears from your cheeks and let out a big breath and then slip a t-shirt over your head, pad out to where ava is very obviously vibrating with excitement and not at all reading the book on her lap, opened to a random page.
she groans and leans back dramatically. ‘even hotter, wow.’
‘yeah?’
‘yes!’ she narrows her eyes. ‘but, from what i think your therapist is getting at: how does it make you feel? even if i wasn’t here to tell you how hot you are, which i always will be now, obviously. but even if i wasn’t, what are you feeling?’
unbound, you remember, unburdened. ‘happy,’ you say, and she stands and runs her hands up and down your sides, over your flat chest, and kisses you. ‘i feel so happy.’
/
ava is overjoyed when one of your friends in madrid invites you to a drag show. technically, you’re both supposed to be Very Seriously Working, because there really is an imminent number of battles looming over the horizon, but you rent a little flat a few blocks from headquarters and sometimes try your best to take ava on dates. obviously, she enjoys doing everything in her power to loudly woo you: she buys flowers from a vendor on the corner and dramatically gives them to you; she brings home books you might like, in all kinds of languages; she tells everyone at the ocs how your lesbian love was what was strong enough to bring her back from the other realm. it’s all a little ridiculous, but she always has been, and it’s intoxicating to be the sole focus of her joy sometimes.
ava whistles and you roll your eyes when you slip a warm oversized cream color wool sweater over your binder, careful not to mess up your meticulous bun, and let it sit loose and elegant over a pair of navy slacks and slip on a pair of brown loafers. ava is in a dress and a blazer and she’s done eyeliner and lipstick and she’s so, so fucking beautiful. you’d put a little mascara and chapstick on and a little thrill goes through you: ava wants to be on your arm tonight; she wants to sit next to you and whisper joyously in your ear and kiss you and come home with you — ava looks like that and ava is yours.
there are three queens performing that night, two songs each, ava informs you, when you meet up with your friends. it’s loud and bright and one of the queens — ava’s favorite, if her screaming next to you has any indication — does ‘pure/honey’ from renaissance, which, in ava’s words, brings the house down.
‘gender fuckery is heaven, baby,’ the queen says after, to absolutely raucous cheers from the crowd. ava looks at you with a raised brow but her grin is so big you can’t do anything but kiss her: the swell in your chest is good, you decide, like a perfect set by the pier just after sunrise, wave after wave breaking in a way your body knows exactly what to do with, exactly how to ride safely into shore. you wipe a few tears but you let ava drag you to your feet and you sing along, on your own accord, when they play whitney houston.
/
‘what’s one thing — especially something that you’ve maybe felt scared of, or that you’re not sure you’ll like — that you associate with queerness that you’ve always wanted to try?’
and, like, therapy is hard, okay? it’s hard when ava is so overjoyed and so fearless about her own sexuality, and about loving you without any hesitation; of course, you both have trauma, but ava has never, in her entire life, tried to deny herself want or pleasure or expression.
and it’s hard because, god, there are so many things on that list. some of them you’ve done: buying men’s pants (that fit you like a dream, thank you very much); dancing with ava and finally kissing her after a few shots; going to a lesbian bar; going to a drag show. you want to get more tattoos — some that mean important things, and maybe some that don’t, that you just like — and you want to smoke weed the way ava does with your friends sometimes, laughing slow and soft and curling up in your lap. you want to kiss ava in front of a van gogh without checking around you first; you want to pull her chair out at dinner; you want to laugh when your friends say that’s gay — with lots of love — after one of them says something sweet about their partner. you want ava to steal your clothes. you want to go to pride. you want, very badly, to find a church that doesn’t make you feel like dying.
‘it doesn’t have to be serious,’ your therapist says, coaxing you along just a little. ‘it doesn’t have to be huge or life-changing. just something you might try, whatever comes to mind.’
‘a haircut.’ it sort of comes out of your mouth without permission, but maybe that was the point; you’re still figuring out want and desire and giving in to them without anxiety.
your therapist smiles, and it feels good, warm, to know that you’ve told the truth, that she seems to understand. ‘why does that scare you?’
you look down at your hands and will yourself not to fidget; your therapist notices and hands you a stim toy, admittedly your favorite one.
‘well, first, what if i hate it?’
‘haircuts are, fortunately, relatively temporary. what would you do if you did hate it?’
‘grow it out again, i guess.’ you think of ava’s collection of hats and beanies. ‘a cap, maybe?’
‘logical. what else scares you?’
‘what if ava hates it?’
‘well, from everything i know of ava, i doubt she would hate anything you decide could bring you joy. and she seems very into you.’
it gets you to smile: ava makes that known often, and to everyone she wants, it’s true.
‘when ava tries something, like a haircut or color, or a more masculine or feminine outfit, how do you feel?’
‘i love her, obviously. in any form; she’s beautiful and she’s my partner.’
your therapist smiles. ‘exactly. and, beyond that, i know we’ve been talking about this, but your sexuality and your relationship to it, and your joy in it, lies far outside of your partner. you were a lesbian before you met ava, and you will be, no matter what your relationship with her is, unless you decide you feel something different. your queerness and place in it isn’t just about sex, or your partner. it’s about who you are, fundamentally, and how you want to be seen for it.’
you nod, take a deep breath. ‘yes. i guess, well, when i was younger, 12 or 13, maybe, i wanted to cut my hair short. i was in so many martial arts and archery classes; i ran and swam all the time, so it seemed easier. it also seemed … cool? like, i thought it might feel… that it might feel good, or right. i didn’t know why.’
‘why didn’t you cut your hair then?’
‘my mother, when i asked, she said that it would make people think i’m … that i’m a dyke.’ you pause, let the hurt well up in you and breathe it out. ‘she used that word, and it scared me.’
‘what does that word make you feel now?’
‘i… i love it? it still feels a little scary, maybe, but — i already know people look at me and don’t think i’m straight, even when i’m not with ava. that used to be terrifying, because what if someone was unkind or even dangerous? but that … it hasn’t happened, and, if it did, i could handle it. i know i could.’
‘so what would a haircut change, then?’
‘if i — ‘ you imagine it, then, you let yourself: how the collar of your favorite turtleneck sweater might look, how easy it would be to take care of after surfing, how you could put on mascara and linen and your favorite sunglasses and hold ava’s hand, just like always. ‘people would see me and know i’m a lesbian, i think. it’s… a choice, for me at least, to look queer. and a haircut is one i can’t immediately change, like clothes. and we’re going to see my old friends soon, and i don’t know what they’d think, and — ‘
‘your friends have been accepting of you, and of ava, and of you and ava together, right?’
‘yes, of course. but it would just be — i couldn’t hide. everyone would know; everyone would be able to see, all the time. ava isn’t read as queer all the time; i can pass as straight. but if i couldn’t — ‘
when you don’t continue, your therapist gently says, ‘you would be seen. which is scary, and i hear what you’re saying, absolutely. but, beatrice, you would be seen for who you are, without apology.’
‘that’s true.’
‘i have one more question.’
‘okay.’
‘what would happen if you loved it?’
/
‘how are you doing?’ your stylist, xavi — one of your favorite people on the planet, one of your best friends who has been offering to give you a haircut you actually want for two years now — calmly combs out your long hair after she’d washed it.
‘i think i might throw up.’
it makes her laugh, which is maybe a little mean but also why you’re so fond of her; she had been one of the students in your adult beginners aikido class and, while she hadn’t shown any talent or much interest, she had made you smile all the time and invited you and ava to dinner with her and her wife as soon as she found out you mentioned ava, and you had been friends ever since. most days, you just put your hair into a neat bun. ava likes to play with it down, especially when you’re sleeping in, but when you told her you wanted to cut it she had kissed you square on the mouth. ‘i love you, and i want to see,’ she’d told you again, and played with the engagement ring around your finger. ’even if it looks terrible — which isn’t possible, because it’s you — there’s no way i’m ever asking you to take this off. ever, ever, ever, bea. okay?’
xavi pats your shoulder; she had excitedly fit you in this morning after you’d texted her after therapy yesterday with pictures of a short, neat mid-fade to the skin, sitting in your car before you even drove home, afraid you’d lose your nerve if you didn’t. ‘we can just do a trim, or start with a little off, and you can decide how you’re feeling from there.’
it’s so patient and so kind. ‘no, no. i — i’m sure. i’m just scared.’ it��s ridiculous, really, you think: you’ve been shot and stabbed and blown up multiple times; you have killed more people than you can count; you have almost died, so, so many times. but this, this is living, true to who you are. ‘i — this is what i want. i know this is what i want.’
‘okay then,’ xavi says, and collects your hair, smooth and long, into a ponytail at the base of your skull. ‘ready?’
‘as i’ll ever be.’
it’s fast and unceremonious, just a few sips as you close your eyes, but then you feel hair tickle your cheeks and you open your eyes and xavi hands you your long ponytail with a grin.
‘oh my god.’
‘okay,’ she says, ‘we can stop here? i can definitely make this work.’
‘no, no,’ you say, ‘it’s good.’ you laugh. ‘i feel good.’
‘you want to keep going?’
‘yeah,’ you say, let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, settled in a way, already, that you never have been before in your entire life. ‘let’s do it.’
‘amazing,’ xavi says. ‘this is going to look so good.’
and, really, it does: xavi turns the clippers on and you let go of the swoop in your stomach, your clammy palms, the too-fast thud of your heart, and just let yourself become. xavi explains what she’s doing each step, and she talks about the kittens she’s fostering, and asks you about your new aikido class, and it’s easy.
she finishes; she places a hot towel on your neck and makes sure your hairline is clean in the back and then shows you how to put a little pomade in the top, an inch and a half long, textured and dark. she takes the cape off and you stand, look at yourself in the mirror: your favorite crewneck, and a pair of pants ava had surprised you with from artists and fleas, the thin chain with a tiny cross you don’t take off sitting just below your collarbone. ‘i love it, xavi,’ you say, your hands are shaking but when you bring them up to your hair there’s a clarity in your chest that’s never been there before: unbound, unburdened, you remember, and also: i felt finally myself.
/
you’re in and out of it after surgery; you know your injuries as ava told you and then the surgeon explained more completely. mostly, you’re just relieved you’re alive, because the moment before you hit the wall you were sure you weren’t going to be. you’d asked mary a few hours ago, while ava was in the bathroom, to convince ava to take a walk and then eat an actual meal, not just pick at food while she sits by your bedside. it works: mary bullies ava into it, but sometimes, even now, that’s just what you have to do.
you fall asleep again; you’ve been walking more the past day, up and around with a walker a few times a day. between that and the pain medicine you’re still on, and the residuals from anesthesia, it’s impossible to not nap fairly often. when you wake up, lilith is kicked back in the chair by one side of your bed, her feet, boots still on, resting by your side on the blanket. mother superion sits next to her, doing a crossword in the daily paper. the sight makes you laugh a little, and you’re pleased that you’re a little less sore.
they both notice you’re awake; mother superion puts down her crossword but lilith doesn’t move an inch. you’re thankful your surgeon had let you sit on the shower seat and let ava wash your hair earlier this morning, careful to not press hard against the bruise on the back of your skull or get any water on your incisions — you feel slightly less gross and definitely more awake than you had before.
she looks at you and you feel anxious, all of a sudden: lilith appraises you, and then slouches even further into your seat. ‘gay,’ she decides on, and then, ‘aerodynamic.’
you look to mother superion for a moment, whose mouth twitches in a smile. ‘we didn’t have much chance to talk before the battle,’ she says, ‘but what lilith means is that your hair suits you.’
your brain is still sluggish, but — ’because i’m… gay and aerodynamic?’
lilith, miraculously, laughs. ‘well, sure, but it looks good.’ she shrugs. ‘you look like yourself.’
mother superion nods. ‘it’s good to see you becoming who you are.’
you’re definitely still loopy, overly emotional, but you might tear up from that even if you weren’t. still, lilith rolls her eyes. ‘oh, come on, beatrice.’
‘sorry,’ you sniffle, then rub your eyes.
you hear ava’s, ‘you made her cry? i was only gone for like, half an hour? what the fuck?’
‘i said something nice,’ lilith defends, getting to her feet.
‘sure you did,’ ava says. ‘i can still take you in a fight. i’ll do it, swear to god.’
‘you definitely cannot take me in a fight, ava.’
ava stands, indignant, although it’s made less effective by the comfortable hoodie a little crooked on her shoulders and mary’s a whole head taller than her. the halo flares a little but quiets when you reach out a hand in her direction.
‘oh, for fuck’s sake,’ lilith says, and then in a flash she’s gone. mother superion squeezes your hand before she heads out with a nod and another soft smile, and mary follows.
ava sits on the side of your bed. ‘was lilith an asshole? i swear if she made you feel bad about anything i will kill her.’
‘she was actually, in her own way, kind. and mother superion was too. i’m just more emotional than usual because of the meds.’
‘you’re sure?’
you tug ava down a little and she messes with your hair with a soft smile, then kisses your forehead. ‘very chivalrous of you, to offer to defend my honor, though.’
she laughs. ‘i don’t want to fight lilith again, ever, in any realm, in any way.’ she presses her mouth to yours. ‘but, for you, bea, i would do anything.’
/
‘you look — ‘ you let your brother fumble over his words for a moment and then laugh, spare him any more worry.
‘hot is fine.’
he rolls his eyes. ‘you look incredible, bea.’ the suit lena had made you — navy, and light, a slim tuxedo pant, a single button jacket and a perfect, crisp white t-shirt tucked in neatly, sitting beneath — fits exactly how you want it. your hair has grown out, and it parts in the middle now, and flops — as ava loves to say — just above your eyes; the sides and back are still buzzed short, and it makes you smile, even now — your ‘prince charming era’ according to ava. xavi had done your makeup: tinted moisturizer and a little bit of mascara.
‘i do look incredible, huh?’
he smiles. ‘yeah. you really do.’ he lint rolls your shoulders for the final time, more out of nerves than there having ever been lint in the first place. ‘well, let’s do this then. let’s go get you married.’
he walks you down the aisle and then you wait in front of the altar you had made, barefoot on the beach, and when ava rounds the corner and then smiles at you, you know you’ve given her a gift too: i want to see. i love you, and i want to see.
/
‘thank god i married you,’ ava says, tracing a line down your spine and then along the linework tattoo on your ribcage.
‘mmmm,’ you say, ‘i agree. but why, specifically.’
she bends down to laugh into your shoulder before kissing down your spine. ‘it’s fucking insane that you get hotter like, literally every day.’
you laugh too. ‘thank you, my wife.’
she squeezes your hips. ‘wow. my wife.’
you turn over beneath her and pull her down slowly to kiss you. the snow is falling outside but the fireplace at your room in a resort in the alps is beautiful, and everything is warm. you feel the halo hum beneath her hands and it’s easy, it’s so easy, to let ava roll her hips against yours and press you down into the mattress; it’s easy to put on boxers — black calvins, tight against your thighs — after you shower and stand in the mirror. your hands are calm, and it’s so easy, when you really look, to see who you are in your body. to belong only to yourself: there you are.
#wn#warrior nun fic#avatrice#avatrice fic#butch!beatrice#an ode to her bc i love her & i love being butch#if this isn't ur vibe... pls just move along thank u#ava’s favorite way of affirming bea is just being horny. a queen#this entire thing exists bc i had the first line & then lilith saying ‘gay. aerodynamic’ & i had to get from one to the other lmao
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Alpha looked at the strange device and the baby that was suspended by the mechanisms. They blinked and floated a bit closer trying to sniff through the glass.
They raised a paw to poke the barrier and then decided to ignore it, paw phasing through so they could gently run a digit over the soft peach fuzz of the fur on its head, “Hm…”
They turned to the hidden mewtwo entering.
Eve’s eyes eyes widened and she floated over woth a gasp, “By the stars and sky… is it…? Ancestor is it his?”
Alpha nodded to her and tilted their head, “Shiny too… the odds and fates were defied this day…”
Eve had to chuckle at that, “You know math? That’s a human thing…” she joked with the ancient mew before cooing at the teenie thing no bigger than her finger bulb.
The two just doted on the baby a moment before Eve looked to Alpha again and asked quietly, “…what does this mean for all of us?…”
“What does it mean to you?” Alpha asked without any hesitation.
She could feel a rise in her heart, “That maybe… maybe I can have one too… I love the mons I’ve rescued and raised every year but… how amazing if I could have my own like my brother has.”
They nodded, “Then that is what it means for you.”
“What about you? What does it mean for you Alpha?”
“…it means I’m going to watch the humans closer. But… I will not upset the donor mew here. My descendant gets to make her own choices still… but I will stay close just as you do,” they pet its head again.
Eve nodded and smiled to them again before blinking and looking over to her elder brother with a bigger smile as she picked up a cross connection. While she couldn’t access it she heard the faintest thing, “Your little Bean Sprout is safe with us my dearest brother. I assure you…”
#mewtwo#mew#pokemon#ask blog#mewten crew#mewtwo oc#mew oc#Eve mewtwo#alpha mew#sprout mewty#Eve: gravity? who needs it#Alpha: do you one better. breaks the laws of physics to pet baby#normally Eve has pink dialogue too but I wanted to easily tell them apart so she’s red this time
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Eddie reckons he has about six weeks left. Wayne would have a better idea, but like hell he’s telling Wayne about any of this. The damn fool would just harangue Eddie to confess his feelings like a middle-school girl, or worse yet, he might just roll up to Steve Harrington’s door and spill the beans himself.
Nope. Not gonna happen. Even if he doesn’t have to witness it, the thought of Steve’s pretty face twisting in confusion, disbelief, disgust makes Eddie’s guts roil in black-tar shame.
Steve already saved him once. This time it isn’t something he can fix with his hero schtick, dragging the scruffy comic relief to safety before sweeping the leading lady off her feet, strings swelling and the shimmer of a suspended cymbal in the background.
The worst part is that Eddie actually thinks Steve would try. He’s got a heart the size of the moon, unlikely as that might’ve seemed once upon a time, and he probably would try to push past the basic unacceptable fact of who Eddie is, just to save one unworthy life.
In his worse moments, Eddie wonders about maybe letting him try. Eddie always recovers, though. Always remembers that actually it’s a pretty fucked-up thing to do to Steve, to put that kind of burden on him and make him wonder for the rest of his life if he could’ve done something different to stop all this from happening in the first place.
And of course, if the truth ever got out, Steve’s life would be ruined for real.
People talk, when this kind of thing happens. It’s embarrassing, especially for guys. They all got the same lecture in PE about why casual dating is so dangerous; they all made the same shitty jokes about puking pansies, passed around the same shitty rumors about someone’s cousin’s friend’s sister who got the cut in another state.
Indiana requires the signed consent of a parent or guardian, and a referral from a primary care physician. Eddie had honestly never thought that fact would be relevant to his life.
The other thing about the cut is that it’s super fucking expensive, since it’s technically an elective procedure and relatively few people actually need it. So, that was never going to be an option.
It’s so goddamn unfair. They say that only one in a thousand people even has the biology for it, which makes sense. It’s not exactly something that gives you a leg up in survival of the fittest. And of those one-in-a-thousand, how many are unlucky enough to stumble on the specific cocktail of feelings that triggers the bloom? You have to be a hell of a romantic and also a hell of a cowardly loser freak, to want someone so much and be so sure it’s not gonna happen.
Turns out Eddie is both of those things, and he doesn’t see either one changing any time soon. So that’s why he’s loading up his van for one last trip, just planning to drive on out and see as much of the country as he can before the end. He thinks it’d be real poetic to cough up his final petals into the California surf. He’ll send Wayne a postcard once he’s far enough out, to give the old man a little closure.
He pushes in the last of the bags and slams the back of the van shut, and then he nearly has a damn heart attack when he sees a familiar figure leaning up against the side of the van.
“Going somewhere, Munson?” says Steve.
(ETA: now with Part 2)
(Snippet directory)
#hanahaki au#steddie#just a snippet of me thinking about how a known hanahaki condition would play out#like how would it intersect with protestant purity culture stuff? gender roles? queerness? the act of flower-giving?#I haven't gone that deep into worldbuilding here but it's fun to think about anyway
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[Riconti] The Long Con (part 2/6)
Bitchy Felix my beloved.
Rated T | 2k words | ao3 link
[previous] [next]
"Oh, really?" Ace said, feigning interest. "An architect? That has to be a really demanding profession."
The man next to him cleared his throat. "Not really."
Ace forced a smile and silently cursed his luck. He'd been trying to break through this guy's facade for nearly half an hour without much progress.
"He's lying!" the woman opposite the table from Ace exclaimed loudly. "Two weeks ago, we stayed at the office for 36 hours straight to finish a project!"
"Wow." Ace whistled lowly. "Now that's what I call dedication. You had to be dead on your feet after, huh?"
A minute shrug from Mr. Antisocial. "A little."
"You drank a quadruple espresso. Black," the woman continued, then turned to Ace. "I thought he was going to give himself a heart attack—I kept screaming 'Don't you dare die before you finish that render!'"
Ace laughed good-naturedly. "Hey, have to keep your priorities straight. And for what it's worth, I'm very happy neither of you succumbed to a caffeine-related early grave."
That got a small twitch of the man's mouth. "I think Americans and the sugary milkshakes you call coffee are more at risk for that."
"Well, excuse us for not wanting to drink bean water au natural," Ace teased.
The joke only earned him another bored glance. Ace took a big gulp of his beer to fill the awkward silence.
This really wasn't going according to plan.
When Ace first walked into the beer tent that Meg had pointed him to, he'd been briefly overwhelmed by the sheer size of the space. The tent looked even bigger than it had from the outside, full of tables and benches and a bar that ran almost the entire length of the room. A good portion of the tables were already occupied and wait staff scurried about in traditional outfits, carrying huge glasses of beer to their eager customers.
Ace had made his way to the bar and ordered the first beer on the menu. The bartender—dressed in suspenders and lederhosen and one of the ugliest pairs of socks Ace had ever seen—filled his glass from a wooden barrel, and Ace had to admire the vendors’ dedication to preserving the old-timey atmosphere.
Unfortunately, tradition also seemed to dictate that the default serving size was one whole liter of beer.
Ace had struggled to even carry his damn beer without sloshing it all over his favorite shirt. In the end, he only made it to a currently closed section of the bar, but it was a good vantage point to take in the sea of people.
While observing the chatter, the unholy amounts of beer being consumed, and the most leather pants Ace had seen since the eighties, he'd spotted a small group sitting at a corner table not far away. Or more specifically, his eye had been drawn to a woman dressed in a seemingly unassuming white t-shirt and a simple silver necklace, gesturing animatedly with her purse as she talked to her friends.
But the shirt looked like an expensive material, the sunglasses pushed up into her hair were from a designer Ace recognized, and the necklace he remembered seeing in a pawn shop—selling for over a grand. The woman's entire outfit radiated the sort of casual luxury that most people wouldn't even notice.
Fortunately, Ace had spent the last thirty years practicing how to do just that. And with the majority of festival-goers sporting identical-looking traditional Bavarian garb that was impossible to appraise, the woman was by far the safest bet when it came to schmoozing up to a wealthy target.
Ace sipped on his beer and kept watching the group out of the corner of his eye. It was only three people—the woman and two men—and Ace waited to see if others would be joining them from the bar or returning from a bathroom break. Larger groups were usually harder to squeeze into and if another woman joined the trio, they were obviously two couples enjoying the festival together who would not be happy about Ace fifth-wheeling.
But after ten minutes and no sign of potentially missing friends or the group even glancing around for anyone, Ace felt confident enough to proceed with his plan. He gave himself a cursory once-over to check for beer stains on his clothes before making a small detour back to the bar, just on the odd chance that he was being watched. He pretended to study the food menu before looking around the tent like a dumb little tourist—which wasn’t entirely an act—and then made a show of noticing the group for the first time and strolling up to their table.
After that, it was the familiar spiel of, "Excuse me, is this seat taken?", followed by a sheepish smile as they turned to look at him, and then, "This is actually my first Oktoberfest and I'm a little lost."
The woman had immediately offered an excited, "No, no, sit down!", the man next to her had smiled and nodded, and Ace turned to the final member of the group who he'd only seen the back of so far—
And proceeded to nearly choke on his spit because holy shit, was that guy a model or something?
One of the most handsome men Ace had ever met frowned at him, his brows drawn together as his icy blue eyes studied Ace. His blond hair was impeccably styled with not a strand out of place and his checkered dress shirt and navy blue waistcoat hugged his broad torso perfectly. Like almost everyone else, he was also wearing lederhosen, though these were of the more form-fitting variety and Ace sorely regretted not ogling his backside while he'd been watching their table earlier.
Ace managed a friendly smile, to which the man just turned back to the table and shrugged unenthusiastically. The message was clear: Ace could stay, but he wasn't happy about it.
Not bothered by the reaction, Ace took his seat and the woman immediately started introducing them all in heavily accented English. Her name was Lauren, the man beside her was Daniel, her husband, and the hottie with a bad attitude was Felix, her business partner slash best friend.
And, really, Ace's original plan had been to simply befriend Lauren—at least as soon as she said "husband" and Ace realized that flirting would probably not go over well. Still, Lauren was sociable, already tipsy, and seemed to like Ace from the get go; it would probably only be a matter of time before she asked her charming new friend to watch her purse while the rest of them got more drinks or something.
But then Ace rolled up his sleeve and reached over the table to shake Lauren's hand, and Felix's gaze immediately snapped to Ace's exposed forearm before roving over his entire body.
Ace's skin felt hot from the obvious once-over and he almost stuttered on his own name as he greeted both Lauren and her husband. When he went to shake Felix's hand, Felix's large palm was a little sweaty and he couldn't quite meet Ace's eye anymore.
And sure, Lauren would have made an easy target. But Felix?
Well, flirting was definitely back on the menu when it came to Felix.
…Or that's what Ace initially thought, but after countless attempts at conversation that Felix shut down immediately, he was starting to doubt his intuition.
Maybe Felix hadn't been checking him out. Maybe he just hated arm hair with a passion, or felt extreme second-hand embarrassment from Ace's shirt choice?
Ace forced down some more of his beer and desperately grasped for another conversation starter. He glanced around the tent and spotted a few rays of sunlight shining in through a transparent panel on the ceiling—surely, small talk about the weather was at least a safe topic?
"Really nice weather for a festival," Ace said.
"I like rain," Felix said, because of course he did.
Ace would have probably excused himself at that very moment. But Felix started unbuttoning his cufflinks—the tent was getting a little warm from the sun—and Ace happened to catch a glimpse of his watch in the process.
Mechanical. Swiss made. Possibly platinum?
Oh, and probably worth at least thirty grand.
Realization slowly dawned on Ace: Felix was likely the wealthiest person in the entire room. Hell, maybe even the entire festival.
Ace straightened his back and put on his most charming grin. The pot had just been sweetened a whole lot, and Ace wasn't one to back down from a challenge.
He'd crack this man's code somehow.
═════════════ ♤ ═════════════
"—And Melbourne was really nice as well," Ace said. "Have any of you been to Australia?"
"Not yet," Lauren said.
"Once, but that was over twenty years ago," Daniel said. "I don't remember much."
Ace nodded, then smoothly leaned closer to Felix. "What about you, blondie? Any exciting travel—"
"What are you doing, dad?" a very familiar and thoroughly exasperated voice butted in.
"Meg!" Ace exclaimed, quickly putting distance between himself and Felix.
He turned to face Meg, who was standing behind him with her arms crossed and a sour look on her face. At least she'd had the decency to pretend they were related instead of addressing him as "Hey, asshole" like she did most times.
"I was just getting to know some of the locals," Ace said. "Did you want to join us? I mean, if that's okay…?" He glanced at Lauren in question.
Lauren was already nodding enthusiastically, but Meg immediately shot the suggestion down.
"No," Meg said pointedly. "I just wanted to talk to you. Alone."
Ace smiled at the table. "Be right back."
═════════════ ♤ ═════════════
"What the hell are you doing!?" Meg hissed once they were out of earshot.
Ace shrugged. "Getting into the festival spirit?"
"If by 'festival spirit' you mean Blondie McSnob's pants!" Meg accused. "Just nick his wallet and dip!"
"I'm playing the long con," Ace said. "He's loaded, and he likes me."
Well. Sort of. Maybe.
Meg crossed her arms again and glared. "I remember what happened last time you said that."
Ace winced. "Last time" referred to almost a year ago, when he'd seduced a target and then ended up running through the fancy garden of her estate in the middle of the night, clad in only his underwear while her husband chased him with a shotgun.
That night Meg had been the angriest Ace had ever seen her, patching up his wound from where a bullet had grazed him while screaming in his ear about, "You knew she was a mob wife and you still fucked her! You could have died, you fucking useless piece of shit!"
Ace knew it meant, "I was so scared, please don't ever do that again."
"It's not like that," Ace insisted. "He's harmless."
Meg scoffed.
"Come on, look at the guy," Ace said. "He can barely put a sentence together and he's an architect. The most dangerous thing he's done is probably yachting without a life jacket."
Meg snorted and discreetly looked back to the table. "He does kinda seem like a nerd."
"A rich nerd," Ace stressed.
"Ugh, fine," Meg groaned. "As long as you remember rule number one."
Ah, throwing Ace's own teachings back in his face: one of Meg's favorite pastimes. Rule number one, of course, being, "Never get attached to your target."
"I know what I'm doing," Ace said, then smirked. "You'd better get to work if you still plan on winning our bet, dear 'daughter'."
Meg responded with the middle finger, and then she seamlessly slipped back into the crowd.
Ace sighed and absent-mindedly fiddled with the rabbit’s foot hanging from his belt: one of the knick-knacks he’d attached to it in what the internet told him was an old Oktoberfest tradition. Hopefully one of the lucky charms would work, because god knows Ace could really use some good fortune right now.
Forcing a smile onto his face, Ace ventured back to the table.
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looking ,,, very gay,…. very gay 🖤
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Rachelcrantz and Tobiastern are dead: the compilation
in the words of @brechtian, “what if we were two characters trapped in the narrative and spiraling towards an inevitably tragic ending. and we were in love”
aka every time these two took “all the world’s a stage” a little too seriously. inspired by this, where @lorenfangor quoted rachel in book 37:
[“So it’s a trap. An inevitability. You are who you are. Character is plot. Character is destiny.”]
#3 (Tobias)
["But part of me kept saying, ‘It's a lie. It's a lie. You are the hawk. The hawk is you. And Tobias is dead.’"]
#7 (Rachel)
["Jake’s voice in my head kept saying, <Rachel, morph out. Morph out. You’re out of control! You are OUT of control! Morph!>. / I was clawing wildly at the air, trying to kill the tiger that was suspended above me in the dropshaft. / Trying to kill Jake. / I felt as if I had snapped awake from a dream. / Slowly, as we rose toward the surface, I left the bear and returned to myself."]
["’I’m so sick of this,’ I said again, a little more softly. ‘What’s the point? What’s the point in anything? we know the future now. We know what happens if we decide to stay and fight.’ / I felt lost. The last ounce of energy just seeped away from me. It was too much. Too many things to deal with. And what was the point? What did it even matter what I did? / I flopped down on the grass and pine needle-covered ground, and rested my head in my hands. I was done. Done trying to make sense of a world where I could be jerked back and forth like a puppet."]
#17 (Rachel)
[“Everyone in a group has a role to play. At least that’s how it always works out. My role was to say, ‘Let’s do it. Let’s go. That’s what we came here for.’ / But I was tired. And I’d had a really, really bad few days digging down to this stupid cave. / So I said, <Let’s do it. That’s what we came here for.> / Sometimes it’s hard to get out of a role once you’ve started playing the part.”]
#22 (Rachel)
[“I tried to remember, but it wasn’t like I was thinking about myself. It was like I was remembering some girl I used to know. Like she was an acquaintance I’d forgotten about until someone reminded me. It was like, ‘Oh, yeah, Rachel. I remember her.’”]
[“Then there he was. Saddler. David. He swaggered in like he owned the world and everything in it. I so wanted to wipe that smirk off his face. But that wasn’t in the script. My role was to seem chastised, beaten down. Defeated and humiliated. That’s what we figured he’d want. That’s what would make him happy.”]
[“I nodded, meek and afraid. David searched my face through Saddler’s eyes. Was he suspicious? Had I overplayed my part? / Then he reached across and smeared the re-fried beans down the sleeve of my shirt. And laughed. / So I did something I don’t do much. I started to cry.”]
#23 (Tobias)
["I mean, what was I thinking? Rachel’s a human. A real human. I’m a hawk. You think Romeo and Juliet were doomed, just from being from families that didn’t like each other? Well, you can’t get any more doomed than caring for someone who isn’t even the same species."]
#27 (Rachel)
[“If Cassie had said it, Jake wouldn’t have told her she was overreacting. He would have agreed. He would have thought she was being sensibly cautious. / Wasn’t I allowed to be cautious? / No, of course not, I thought bitterly. I’m supposed to be a reckless fighting machine and fighting machines don’t feel caution or fear. And even if they do, they don’t advertise it. / ‘Well, excuse me, I guess I’ll just shut up and follow orders,’ I said.”]
#33 (Tobias)
[”Rachel stared at the wall. I looked at the floor. In an instant, the bulletin board display had thrown our friendship into the harsh light of reality. Rachel was a girl who could, on occasion, become a bird of prey. I was a hawk who could, on occasion, become human. / Several big steps past being Montagues and Capulets like Romeo and Juliet. Remaining hawk meant meals of still-living mice.”]
[”<Guys. Wait a minute,> I interrupted. / ‘What is it?’ Jake asked. / I swooped down from the rafter to the floor. Loose straw swirled in small eddies as I touched down. A ray of light from a crack in the barn wall bathed my feathers in yellow light. It was almost too much. Too theatrical. I half-expected angels to hover up out of the hayloft and break into song. / <It’s me,> I said. <I’m the one who has to go.>”]
[”<Let go,> I mumbled to myself. <Let go of yourself.> / ‘What was that you said?’ Taylor asked. / Irrelevant. She was nothing, I was the hawk. / Deeper into the hawk. Go away, weak human boy. / I seemed to stand outside my body. Hawk, human - everything. My mind began to race, the manic frenzy of madness. Up above it all. / A wave of self-pity, followed by a wave of hatred, followed by the unbearable weight of despair. The pain sped everything up. Faster and faster. Panic, fear, sadness. / But somehow... / Using the half of me that was equipped to process pain, I was enduring it. Close down your human mind! It’s your only hope, I told myself. Focus on the hawk.”]
[“Focus on the part of you where the pain is less subversive. Less destructive. / Sink into your hawk self, Tobias. Deep into your raptor self. / But the images! / Fragments of memory. Random memory. Flashing uncontrollably across my mind’s screen. / Insanity! Madness! / A hyper-speed slide show. / Fleeting, Irrepressible. Dominating my reality and impossible to control. Turn it off. Off!”]
37 (Rachel) (this one is included mainly because she references Hamlet which is really funny to me)
[”’Not likely. I’m the one who does hard and fast. And relentless.’ / ‘And reckless,’ Marco shot back. / ‘While you want to sit around and think every stupid little step to death,’ I spat. ‘You’ve got a Hamlet complex, Marco.’ / ‘Yeah, and there’s a method to my madness. Which is more than I can say about your finer moments.’”]
43 (Tobias)
[”’Hey. No matter what you think, Tobias, Taylor’s not your responsibility. Besides, how often is it possible to see the big picture, really?’ Rachel said. ‘Things happen fast. You just have to make the best decision you can and then go for it. You know what? I’d do the same thing again, if I had to.’ / ‘How can you say that?’ / ‘With me, it’s about instinct. I knew we had to dig that tunnel. Turns out I was right, but for the wrong reasons. If we hadn’t gotten involved with Taylor, Cassie wouldn’t have known about the plan, wouldn’t have talked to Tidwell, wouldn’t have worried about us. But she did. And it opened up a course of events that couldn’t have occurred otherwise. It ended up saving the Yeerk peace faction. It was a good investment.’”]
48 (Rachel)
[”I felt like I was watching everyone from behind a Plexiglass window. / I just wasn’t there. I couldn’t relate, not to the teachers, the boys, the girls. I couldn’t even pretend to relate.”]
53 (Jake!!!) (i think this quote is the most tragic...)
[”’We blew up one Yeerk pool,’ Rachel said cockily. ‘So we blow up another. Badda-boom. Nothing to it.’ / She knew better, of course. She was just playing her part.”]
54 (Rachel)
[”I could see the viewscreen. I could see my best friend Cassie. Jake. Marco, funny Marco. Ax. / Tobias. / He had morphed. He was his human self once more. He’d done that for me. And because he was crying, I understood. Humans cry, hawks don’t. / ‘I love you,’ I said to the screen. / And oh, god, how could so much regret and so much sweetness and so much sadness all be present in that single moment. I was already dead and missing my unlived life. I was already dead and Tobias was mourning. / I tried to smile. For him.”]
[”I wanted to much to live. I wanted so much to stay and not to leave. In a moment no answer would matter to me, but just the same, I wanted to know what I guess any dying person wants to know. / ‘Answer this, Ellimist: Did I... did I make a difference? My life, and my... my death... was I worth it? Did my life really matter?’ / ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You were brave. You were strong. You were good. You mattered.’ / ‘Yeah. Okay, then. Okay, then.’ / I wondered if-”]
#animorphs#animorphs spoilers#compilation#analysis#theatre girl rachel is real#tobias#rachel#im literally crying again posting this. alright enjoy
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THE ANSWER: I
Kim Hongjoong doesn’t like the word ‘cult.’ He prefers ‘sect.’
pairing: ateez x fem reader
genre: cult au, thriller, angst
check warnings on AO3
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chapter word count: 2,016
Opening shifts are always the worst.
For the most part, the entire shift consisted of cleaning, opening, and then waiting two hours for any actual customers to show up. Occasionally, an early riser would pop their head in to start their morning, but they only appeared every 45 minutes or so. Why the owner insisted the shop open every morning at 5:30 AM was beyond you, but you sometimes appreciated the time alone.
In order to open at 5:30, you had to be on the clock by 4:45; meaning that you had to leave by 4:30, and that you had to wake up by 4. The best part about morning shifts was that you got to awake with the world. The silence when you first rise is always soon replaced by the sounds of birds. The darkness turns to dawn, and dawn to morning. It's beautiful, really, but you would probably appreciate it more if you weren’t so tired.
The absolute emptiness of the shop did nothing to help your tired mind. The quiet hum of the machines and the boredom of waiting for customers that seemed like they would never come could just lull you back to sleep. One day, you’re sure that you will awake to find that you had been sleeping on your feet, finally overcome.
Today will not be that day. You look up and around the coffee shop. You had been working at The Bean since college, and here you still were; four years and a bachelor's degree later. The field you had chosen had been pretty tight since you graduated, and you were still struggling to find a career-worthy job. The Bean would do until then. The owner liked you, your coworkers liked you, and it paid well enough to keep your apartment.
The Bean was nothing special. Just a few small tables and some eclectic interior design. Why your boss still had a giant painting of an ass-naked lady hanging on the wall, you would never know. When he first bought that thing and brought it in to hang, you had thought he was joking. He was not. The windows at the front of the shop faced perfectly east, allowing the sun to shine directly onto her figure every morning for a few hours. You could only hope that the sun would fade the colors. While the painting wasn’t bad, it wasn’t the best sight to have to look at for the hours that your shifts would last.
The rest of the interior was rather unremarkable. A bookcase sat in one corner, holding some of the owners favorites. Occasionally, customers would slide out a book and read while enjoying their coffee, but it was becoming more rare. People rarely came into the shop to actually sit these days. On particularly slow mornings, you would allow yourself to choose one of the worn down and stained books to read a couple chapters out of. Unfortunately, the boss wasn’t too keen on seeing you stand around, not doing anything, so you saved it for when you had absolutely nothing to do.
Deciding that you should probably at least try and look busy, you turn around to face the multitude of coffee machines behind you. You check for what could possibly be the fiftieth time that each of them is running and hot; then you move onto the fridge to check the status of the cold brew that you had made earlier. Still there. You then came out to the front of the counter to check on the food display that you had also set up earlier. Everything still looked perfect, considering you hadn’t touched a thing.
Right as you’re about to check and see if the garbage needs to be taken out (it wouldn’t), you hear it. The gentle ting ting ting of the bell atop the front door. A customer had finally come to put you out of your misery.
You walk back around to stand behind the counter, waiting for them to make their way to you. It's an older gentleman, maybe around 70. He looks to be dressed in his best, a nice set of suspenders clinging tightly to his chest over a blue button down. As he approaches, his footsteps are slow but steady, and very light. He hardly makes a sound.
Once he’s finally up to the counter, you notice the deep smiles lines by his eyes. He displays this very smile to you as he greets you good morning.
“Good morning to you too, sir,” you welcome, “what can I get started for you today?”
He continues smiling as he simply states that he would like one large coffee, for here.
“Great, your total is going to be $2.25,” you let him know, “and could I get a name for your order?”
“Mingi,” he simply states, preparing to swipe his card in the terminal.
Mingi. Now there was a name that you hadn’t heard in a while. You look up at the man, shocked at the reminder of your old friend. You watch him finish his transaction with great care, typing in his pin number delicately. The receipt printer beeps at you, alerting you to the completed transaction. You tear it off, handing it to Mingi before moving to prepare his drink.
Just a simple large coffee in a mug. Your Mingi would have hated that. He always had a pension for the sweeter side of things. In fact, you can even remember when he would come visit you at work, giving you something to do in the early mornings. He would always order some super complicated, obnoxious drink, only so that he could fill up five minutes of your morning. He would then proceed to drink it all while sitting at one of the tables, staring at the painting every time you had to help another customer. Whenever you were free, the two of you would joke around, talk, or do whatever to fill the time.
The sound of the coffee maker snaps you back out of it. It had beeped to let you know that it was ready. You poured old Mingi his large black coffee into one of the mismatched mugs that The Bean used. Today, you were giving this man his coffee in a mug that jovially exclaimed “I survived Southern Florida!” Had your boss really visited southern Florida? Who knows. After handing Mingi his coffee, he went to sit down at one of the tables, with his back facing the painting.
The reminder of your Mingi made you smile. Mingi had really been a great friend in college. Though he was a year below you, you two made quick friends in one of your required history classes. Neither of you were the greatest, but you sat next to each other on the first day of the semester and immediately took a liking to each other.
For as long as you knew him, Mingi had been one of the happiest, kindest guys you had ever had the pleasure of getting to know. He was genuinely a great person. After the history class you shared ended, you two started to hang out a lot more outside class. You never had a romantic relationship, no matter how many rumors flew about it. It simply wasn’t like that. You two got very close through the years, until Mingi had dropped out last year, during your senior year.
You never got to ask why he dropped out or where he was going. He was simply gone one day. It had really torn you up, you were sick with worry and nothing could have made you feel secure. After a few weeks, you had gotten a single text from him: Sorry to leave, I’ll miss you.
It really hurt, having probably your closest friend up and leave you like that. For months, even until after graduation, you had missed him. Time had made the pain fade, and, honestly, you had a lot of other things to worry about eventually. You had been curious as to what had happened to him, but it left to the back of your mind as all other thoughts of him had.
Looking out into the now semi-occupied coffee shop, you recall the memory of a very slow morning, not unlike this one. As usual, Mingi had come to visit you and order something that would take a few minutes off your hands. That morning, he had ordered something iced despite it being the dead of winter and freezing outside. As one could imagine, having a giant caffeinated beverage over the course of less than an hour had led Mingi to be quite hyper that morning. Meanwhile, you were still trying your best to not fall asleep.
In his attempt to simultaneously keep you awake and entertain you, Mingi had pulled you out from behind the bar and tried to get you to dance with him. Of course, you resisted at first. How could you dance in a coffee shop at 6 AM? But Mingi had insisted, resting his hands on your waist and guiding your hips to sway with the nonexistent music. Mingi was so tall, there was no way you could reach behind his neck, so you had settled with resting your hands just barely at the tops of his shoulders.
And you two danced. In a coffee shop, in the dead of winter, at 6AM, to no music at all, you two danced. It was probably one of the best mornings that you and Mingi had had together. Had you not been interrupted by your boss, maybe it would have gone somewhere. Unfortunately, you never found out.
You’re pulled out of your memories by the Mingi that occupied The Bean at that specific moment. He had risen and waved a hand to you, before steadily making his way back out the door. Watching Mingi go makes something rise in your chest. You feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, suddenly hyper-aware of the pain of losing Mingi again. Quickly swiping at your eyes, you resolve to try your hardest to find Mingi after your shift. He had to be out there somewhere.
.・。.・゜✭ ⧖ ・.・ ⧖ ✫・゜・。.
The rest of your shift had gone by even slower. The anticipation of waiting was suffocating. As soon as you’re in the back room and clocked out, you call one of your closest friends from school that you still talked to, Jungeun.
Jungeun had been in your same major program with you, so you shared many of your classes. She was your closest female friend at the time, and is currently the best friend that you have. Because of your close relationship with Mingi, Jungeun had met him many times and you were sure that she had considered him a friend as well. She was nearly as concerned as you were when he went missing, but she had quickly become employed after graduation and Mingi had slipped her mind just as he slipped yours.
Jungeun picks up after only a couple rings. “Aye, whats up?”
You almost let out a laugh, her greetings were always so carefree. You two exchange pleasantries before you get to the point of the phone call.
“Say, Jungeun, you remember Mingi, right?”
She very quickly and enthusiastically ensures you that she remembers Mingi before asking why you’re wondering.
You explain the situation that you found yourself in at work, and Jungeun lets you know that she will definitely help you look for him.
“But, (y/n), are you sure?” She asks, sounding a bit concerned. “He did kind of just… leave. Like he didn’t want to be found.”
You think about it for barely a second. Yes, you’re sure. The tears that had come up earlier made you certain. You need to know what happened to him.
Jungeun and you agree to meet up the next day, as neither of you have to work. As you walk out of the shop, you desperately hope that your combined brain power will be able to find him.
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a/n: hehe i am finally crossposting! i've been writing this fic for like. over a year on ao3 but i decided to start posting here as well! i promise that chapters get longer and much more intriguing pretty quickly hehe just bear w me!
#ateez#ateez ff#ateez angst#ateez series#ateez x reader#kim hongjoong x reader#park seonghwa x reader#jeong yunho x reader#kang yeosang x reader#choi san x reader#song mingi x reader#jung wooyoung x reader#choi jongho x reader#the answer#update
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The Raven's daughter: Morpheus x Matthew's daughter part 7
previously: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6 (catching up is highly recommended)
Part 7
A kickass party
-Well, sure as hell it took you long enough- Kat greeted her friends, fairly annoyed – do you wish to tell me what kept you.
- Not really, but you’re not gonna let me of lightly, are you.
- Not a chance.
- Great. Because that’s exactly what I need – relieving the most terrible day of my life – y/n entered the cafeteria and started to study the menu for the day. Nothing particularly interesting and she was wondering if maybe she should skip the meal, but the rumbling in her belly had different plans.
- Oh come, on, y/n. Spill the bean – Kat had already made an order and now was dragging her friend towards one of the tables.
- I got suspended.
- what? – Kat snarked – the golden child got punished? Oh God! What did you do you rebel?
- I called the classes off. Nearly anyone showed up so there was no point in conducting it. Or at least it seemed like that at the point. Clearly a mistake from my part – y/n sighed
- How long?
- Three days. Gadling will be assigned to my students until next week, can you imagine that?
- Well, he is hot, so maybe you could use that as an excuse to ….
- Kat!
- What? You can’t stay single forever, you know. You are not getting younger and skinnier, girl. And speaking of boys, I’m actually pretty glad you got so much time on your hands now.
- Yeah, thanks for lifting my spirits, my friend. What’s your idea than?
- A party!
- A party? – y/n looked at her confused – are you serious.
- No. I’m not. You are making up for both of us. Thus, you have to let go of all the tension, so … party. And before you say no….
-Im down for it.
- …. Let me tell you why…... Wait? You’re actually saying yes? Who are you and what did you do to my friend?
- It’s like in this Avril song, you know all my life I’ve been good but now….
- That’s what I’m talking about! – Kat threw a fist in the air – my girl! So, the plan…
- You’ve already made a plan?
- Obviously. I know damn well that only facts speak to you, so I just in case I prepared my case for presentation.
- Not only facts.
- Of course not – Kat nodded in agreement – you are miss imagination after all. So imagine how much fun we are going to have. Oh, and we have a third musketeer coming. – she waved a hand towards another women who was just entering the cafeteria. – Sarah!
- Morning ladies, how’s your day so far? – the elegant redhead approached them and put her designer bag on the chair.
y/n rolled her eyes. She definitely wasn’t going to repeat the story.
-Someone’s in the mood – Sarah stated
- Don’t mind her. y/n had quite an eventful forenoon. However, I did my magic to convince her to participate in our ladies’ night.
- Magic, indeed, than. – Sarah smiled.
-Oh, come on, I’m not a bore – y/n exclaimed – just …. mature. And I can’t believe you were involved in this shenanigans, Sarah.
-To be honest, I was plan B. Kat was going to win you with arguments, and I planned on attacking with threats.
-I’m glad it didn’t come to that
- So do I. Anyhow, since I’m the only one with the car, I’m going to pick you both up at 8 sharp. Be ready.
***
Growing up, y/n was never a party animal. Well, even as a grown-up woman she never aspired for that. On one hand she watched a lot of girls who felt at a club like at home, with their fancy dresses, looking hot and feminine and wondered if she could ever be like that, on the other always believed herself to not be good enough. Being self-conscious with her body and general outlook dolling up was always out of her reach. Supposedly she was afraid to make a fool out of herself. No one really noticed that though, because if anything she knew perfectly how to cover up. And what’s more, y/n was never jealous. It was more like a guilt inside her that she is not a picture of a perfect women, whatever that may mean. And that was also the reason why she struggled with relationships as her friend nicely mentioned.
However, making a promise to Kat and Sarah she made effort to get ready. Trying to balance her own comfort and the specifics of a club she picked up a blue sleeveless trouser suit. Nothing to extravagant or defiant yet still party-like. Hair down, luckily it was best to just leave them natural. Just a quick glance in the mirror just to avoid any second thoughts and she was ready to go.
Sarah and Kat were right on time and without any further delay the girls reached the destination point.
-This was a mistake – y/n stated the very second they reached the entrance.
-Oh, come on, girl, you can’t back out now. Besides, it’s only gonna get better, you’ll see.
-Ladies, less talking, more partying – Sarah grabbed her friends and dragged them both inside.
There were so many people. Like the club was just completely full, despite the fact that it was middle of the week. This seemed abstract to y/n, who was always mature to quote her own words.
-I don’t feel good – she stated again as the crowd surrounded her pulling her towards the dance floor. – I’m gonna…. I think I’m gonna grab us some drinks, if that’s ok with you two.
-I could use a beverage – Sarah said – but you’re not going alone. We’re in this together and besides it’s better to watch each other backs, you never know what can happen.
- Sarah’s right – Kat chimed in as the girls elbowed their way through the crowd– I’ve heard enough stories about roofies to make me not want to be a part of one. Bartender! – she yelled – three shots of vodka, por favor.
-Since when do you speak Spanish?
- Since I’m trying to complete my Spanish outlook. Don’t you think it suits me? – Kat turned around. With her curly dark hair, red lipstick and tight dress she did in fact look Spain-like. As for Sarah she choose a mini skirt and strapless shirt and her hair was straightened and shiny.
- Yeah, it does – y/n took a sip of her drink suddenly feeling heavy underdressed.
- Oh no, no, no. – Kat pointed a finger towards her friend – no long face. I can read your mind, I know what you are thinking right now.
- Really? Please, enlighten me.
- You think yourself to not fit in this place. You believe you are a duff, don’t you?
- Wow. That was painful, Kat, seriously. And completely unnecessary – Sarah smacked the brunette.
-What? I’m just telling that’s how y/n feels, I never say that’s true.
-You can be such an idiot, Kat – Sarah rolled her eyes – come on, y/n let’s hit the dancefloor. This will cheer you up.
- Yeah, I’m gonna stay here for a while if you don’t mind. But you go, go have fun – I’ll join you in a minute, I promise.
When Kat and Sarah started dancing it was captivating. Their moves were intoxicating and capturing the attention of everyone around them – both man and woman. y/n was both jealous of her friends’ sex appeal and proud to be with them and sad that she herself would probably never get to be like that.
-Have you seen that red head? Man, she is hot – y/n heard a man across the bar, clearly talking about Sarah
-You don’t stand a chance man – the other one laughed – I think you might as well take your chances with her friend. You know, the one in blue, right there – he pointed a finger towards y/n. – She’s watching us right now. Poor thing, with that look she will be alone for the rest of her life. Nobody would want to touch her with that look.
Once again y/n felt sick to her stomach. Hearing something like that was brutal and her first instinct was to flee the club, get back to her house and lay down on the bed with some good book. However, doing something like that would be like handing the argument to her tormentors. Y/n finished her drink, put the glass on the counter with a loud bang, and joined her dancing friends. Loosing herself in the music and the movement she completely forgot where she was, until she felt a hand sneaking on her waist and a strong arm pulling her outside the building into the dark alley. A little overwhelmed and light headed she had no power to oppose to whoever it was.
-Let go off me – she finally yelled as the cool air brought her back to reality.
-That one’s feisty – a man laughed – she’s gonna be a good starter before we hook up with her friends. – this was one of the group who was laughing at her at the bar, the girl now recognized him clearly.
- Trust me, you don’t want to do this – she spoke calming herself, even though her hands were shaking a little bit.
-And why is that, little one? What exactly is stopping me? I’m a man and you are a woman, you have no say in what I’m about to do.
-Honestly, I have no idea in what century you’re living, but it’s 2022. Women are actually equal to men, it not… better and definitely smarter – she smirked
- Careful, doll. Me and my friend may have quite a different opinion on that – he spated as three other man started to surround their prey.
- Once again - you don’t want to do this.
-Oh, we do – with one step the man was right in front of the girl, grabbing her wrist, while the other squeezed her waist.
-Damn it, don’t say I didn’t warn you all.
Y/n was quick to turn around and kicking the man behind in the groins causing him to fall to the ground. Then she quickly moved towards the one grabbing her arm, using the other to punch him straight into the nose. As for the other two - one got a kick from a half turn which left him mazed and the other, who was bold enough to come directly at her trying to use some hand movement was knocked off his feet when y/n popped a squat and made a single leg movement. With all her punched and kick all of the men was soon lying on the ground lifeless. Even though she was safe now, the girl was shaking a bit, all of the emotions now getting out.
-y/n! – Sarah and Kat flounced off the club looking for her, terror on their faces visible when they noticed some unconscious men on the ground – what happened? Are you ok?
-Yes! – y/n started laughing frantically – Honestly I’ve never been better.
-But… but what happened? Did you do this? – Kat pointed at the surroundings.
-Not to brag, but yes, this was my doing.
-How? I didn’t know you know how to fight
- I watch a lot of Cobra Kai, you know. After some time you learn some useful movement – y/n grinned. – Anyway I think I have enough for one night, I’m heading home. But you were right, this was fun.
-Wait, y/n you can’t walk alone at night. I’m gonna give you a lift, so ….
Before she could finish her sentence, a tall, broody man came from the shadows.
-I’ll be taking care of miss y/n, now – he spoke in dark yet silky voice.
- And who may you be, sir – Kat defensive attitude got the best of her.
- Hold the fire, Kat – y/n reassured her – he’s a … an acquaintance. I’m gonna go with him, I think I’ll be safe.
- You think? – Sarah hissed – that’s not enough for me. I’m not letting my friend get into any more trouble.
-I know how to defense myself, remember? – y/n didn’t bother mentioning that her little karate trick would be nothing against the Lord of the Dreams. – I’m gonna be fine, I promise. I got backup – she nodded as a certain Raven flew from the sky and sat right on the girls arm.
-Fine. But call me as soon as you get home. This is all weird like hell. – Kat and Sarah turned around, got into the car and drove away while y/n turned towards her visitor.
- Hello Dream, what brings you to the Waking, now?
@marvelsmylife
@wickedly-grim
@mind-of-a-girl
@thereeallink
@lisacarolined
@boofy1998
@endlessdreamqueen
@mikariell95
@shadowluna25
@sippysthoughts
@kaoriloveskeiff
@venomsvl
#sandman#sandman x oc#morpheus#morpheus x oc#the sandman imagine#morpheus fanfiction#fanfic#dream of the endless#dream of the endless x oc#dream#dream x oc#dream lord#dream lord x oc#the sandman netflix#lord morpheus#lord morpheus x oc#the sandman#morpheus x reader#dream of the endless x reader#the sandman x reader
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Standing on Ceremony
Laughter filled the cottage as Zholl and Cahya listened to Arezah’s story, the aasimar’s hands gesturing as she spoke. What remained of their dinner grew cold as the hours passed. As she spoke, the careful hesitance of the day slowly drifted to the back of her mind, forgotten. For a suspended moment in time, nestled within the heart of a snowstorm that whirled around through the forest, Arezah found solace. There wasn’t the weight of 6 years past without word, in that moment only Zholl’s sardonic chuckles between sips of wine, and the calm swish of Cahya’s tail existed in the space they’d carved out for her. As if only moments had stretched between when she and Zholl last spoke.
As all good things do, Arezah’s story came to a finish that was marked by Cahya’s restless hands as he set to making a few mugs of coffee for the three of them. Admittedly the coffee smelled wonderful, as it always did, but not even the prized chultan roast could persuade Arezah into drinking the bean brew that always smelled like it was made of the very definition of bitter itself. Zholl caught her eye and couldn’t stop himself from laughing pointedly at her look of pensive disgust.
“If you don’t want it, just push it back my way after I finish mine,” he said in a tranquil tone as he returned to his seat with a yawn and a grin. “Whatever punishment you gave him off, you let him off too easy. He hasn’t changed too much in his age; though, he’s less prone to drunkenly stealing than he is to wantonly destroying property or disturbing passerby’s with too-eager friendliness while wasted.”
“Oh, mo chridhe, Rez isnay a fan of coffee. You’d have better luck tying her down and telling her to recite a bit of flowery poetry.” Zholl pulled the mug that was setin front of her toward his side of the table after recovering from his vomit-inducing playfulness with Cahya.
“Thank you either way for your hospitality.” Arezah threw a sideways glare at Zholl who didn’t notice it as he happily sipped on the brew, sighing contently. “I would be inclined to agree if it weren’t for the drills he had to do for the next three years, though I suppose they weren’t quite brutal enough for the lesson to stick. To not fault of my own.” Arezah said with a tone of playful finality.
“Oh aye, yer so-called drills just made me a hell of a lot sexier far too early so it all went straight to m’head.” Zholl flexed, making Arezah cringe.
“Thank you for the story; it seems your folklore has worn me ragged from laughter, though. I’m going to get settled for the evening; you two enjoy the rest of the night, though. And Zholl–bring me that mug when you come up, if neither of you take it.” Cahya kissed Zholl who grabbed his wrist pulling him back for a proper peck on the lips before the tiefling swatted at him, spinning out of his grasp his mug held fast in his hand. Arezah couldn’t help but smile as he heart swelled at the sight of the comfort shared between the two of them.
It's supposed to be easy, even when everything else is nothing but sharp angles.
The whisper of doubt in the back of her mind chewed on her nerves as Myv’ryna’s face came to mind, the last words they shared echoing like a discordant note. Arezah looked into the depths of glass still half full of wine. Her ears began ringing and suddenly the meal wasn’t sitting quite the same.
“What’s that face fer?” Zholl’s quiet rumble pulled her back, his brown eyes filled with equal measures concern and a new hardness that wasn’t there a moment ago.
“I’m just happy for you, kiddo.” Arezah replied, lying as easily as breathing.
“If that’s yer happy face…” Zholl trailed off, not believing a word she said. He never did. “Though I know that’s true, I think you just haven’t changed a bit.” His tone was guarded now, and the slight deepening of his complexion told her that the drink was making him a bit more bold.
It was as if Cahya had taken the warmth and lightness of conversation with him as the room suddenly fell under a cloud of heaviness. The tiefling who somewhere deeper in the house cursed along with the slight sound of grinding pipes that visited the suddenly tense environment. Zholl glanced over his shoulder and then back to Arezah.
“And you used all the hot water?” He said, lifting an eyebrow. Arezah felt jilted.
“No one said it ran out.” She replied just as dryly. “That seems like something you should mention.”
“So you’re blaming us?” Zholl narrowed his eyes as he firmly set down his mug.
“No, I am blaming you.” Arezah said. “Is there something you want to say to me?” She asked finally, not appreciating his tone.
“Plenty.” He volleyed back to her, the concern evaporating as it was replaced by that same look she’d seen countless times raising the half orc. “I wrote about it, not that you bothered reading any of the letters.”
Arezah stayed silent as she maintained eye-contact with Zholl who wasn’t backing down. It was clear he had been preparing for this confrontation, and there was nowhere for her to escape. Taking another sip of wine she waited for him to launch into his assault but he stayed silent, glaring at her with his arms crossed against his chest. Damn him, he was just as stubborn as she was. Possibly more-so.
“What do you want me to say.” Arezah stated more than asked as she put down her wine glass, subconsciously mirroring his posture as her guard came up almost immediately. Without her permission.
“Did you read my letter?” He dodged her question with one of his own.
“No.” Arezah said plainly, candlelight flickering in her gold eyes as the joy from earlier vanished entirely. “I did not read your letters, but you knew that. I am not afraid to tell you that I had no interest in reading your constant stream of newfound sentimentality, Zholl.”
Anger flashed in his eyes.
“Newfound sentimentality?” His voice a strained whisper as he attempted to keep his voice down. “You were a mother to me, and you call my attempts to reach out to you sentimentality? Is that all I am to you? Sentimentality?”
“Oh don’t be pigheaded, Zholl.” Arezah rolled her eyes, unable to stop herself.
“Oh, you’re on a roll tonight Arezah.” Zholl laughed humorlessly. “D’ya ken how many times and how many ways Myv’ryna covered for you? Yet another victim of yer gravity, isn’t she.”
That stung.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Arezah said through gritted teeth, her hand tightening into a fist.
There may have been plenty that Arezah had not been able to shield Zholl from in the past, but her relationship to their captain had thankfully been one of them. He had known Myv’ryna only as the generous benefactor of the Syndicate. A smiling face and an outstretched hand, and Arezah allowed that to be the only side of her he ever saw. And it was. For years she’d allowed herself to be the bad guy, letting him think that drow was some tragic figure of self-made excellence. When she said no, Myv’ryna said yes. That is the way it had always been, and now Arezah could see the error.
“You’re drunk and you’re picking a fight that has no winner, Zholl.” She warned, her voice low.
“Fer six years you’ve been punishin’ me as if what I did was some great betrayal, when in reality it was because I chose something that wasn’t you.” Zholl’s tone was accusatory as he leaned forward glaring daggers at Arezah who turned her face. Her hands were shaking as she tried to keep her own wrath in check, she knew he needed this. Hell, he of all people deserved to have a go at her.
“I chose my own path instead of the one you laid out for me, and for six years if it weren’t for Cahya I would have believed I deserved it. When really you were just looking for any excuse to abandon me.”
The line had been crossed. Arezah stood up suddenly causing the bench to screech against the flagstone floor. In that moment she towered over Zholl.
“Enough.” She commanded coolly, in a tone of voice that stilled even Zholl who immediately knitted his lips together. The black coils that had freed themselves from her braid around her face lifted, riding the heat that now emanated from her person. Her blood was boiling.
“You have every right to be upset, but you don’t get to twist what happened to better suit your wounds, boy.” Arezah’s words were measured and calm, which more than likely made Zholl more uneasy.
“I did not tell you I wouldn’t help you. I told you to wait. I told you to take the time to plan an exit strategy that would keep you both safe. You purposefully disobeyed a direct order and went to the one person you knew would go behind my back and aid you in your foolish fucking endeavor. Now you are hiding out like rats with the one you want to keep safe, but you can’t. Can you?” Arezah could feel the divine light burning under her skin as her own anger carried her away.
“You will both be running for the rest of your lives, and you’ve started a war that you intend to bow out of while once again I am supposed to clean up your messes as you amble through a life of leisure and playing house. How long until this all goes up in smoke when the mistakes you thought you could outrun catch up with you or gods forbid, Cahya. The one who will suffer the most for your folly." Arezah watched as Zholl shivered at the thought.
"You were in over your head then and you are drowning in ignorance now, and do you intent to take Cahya with you? And then what? Become a fucking carpenter?” Arezah laughed humorlessly, while Zholl looked up at her. His eyes no longer guarded, but filled with fear.
It was not the face of a man but that muddy, stricken expression of a child abandoned to the streets of Luskan. Yet it only incensed her as tears threatened to spill out along with her emotions.
The assimar bit down, hard. There would be no tears, not for him. He hadn't earned them.
“So no, Zholl. I didn’t read your letters. Your thinly veiled attempts to apologize, your ‘proof’ that you knew better than I did all along, nor your corroded pleasantries.” Arezah threw her hands up, nodding with a new tone of exhaustion.
“But you don’t get to decide what my silence means. For sixteen years I have done my best to protect you and make sure you live a good life, and I know that I have not always done what you think is right, but I have always kept you safe. No matter the cost.”
Placing her palms on the table, Arezah closed her eyes as she took a deep, laborious breath.
“And against your deepest wishes, even apart I continued to do so. There is still so little you understand about the consequences of your actions, and there is only so much that I can teach you, so for the last six years I let you go. For six years I stayed as far away as distance would allow because I couldn’t be idle and remain in your life.” She said, her voice small. “The distance was for you, it was always for you.”
“You can’t just decide that on your own, Arezah.” Zholl said after a moment of quiet, his own voice strained.
“Yes. I can.” She said, her expression once more a mask.
“Then help me understand.”
“I tried to, now there is only forward and I will help in the only way I know how. If you let me.” Arezah said, offering Zholl a weak smile. The winter wind howled around the cottage as it creaked in the silence that yawned between the unwitting mother and the prodigal son.
“Thank you for dinner, kiddo.” She finally spoke, bidding Zholl goodnight who sat in sullen silence as he nodded to her. His expression a similar stony mask to her’s. Without another word from either, Arezah finished her wine and silently climbed the stairs to her room. The door quietly clicking as she pulled the curtains shut.
The lights of the house beyond her door darkened as she listened to the faint sound of Zholl eventually shuffling into his own room. For some time Arezah sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, listening to gales of wind shift the trees around the cottage. Her fingers traced the grain of the wood flooring as she let the alcohol run its course, her thoughts ebbing back to the night she discovered Myv’ryna gone from their bed.
A note in reckless scrawl. The sinking feeling as the words on the page explained her absence. Zholl's wishes.
Arezah could remember the fear most, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth from biting her tongue as she scrambled the entirety of the Syndicate to aid in her search. The smell of the smoke, and the smug look of misplaced victory on Zholl’s sooty face.
She was only faintly aware of the faint rumble and quick sibilance of Zholl and Cahya’s voices in the background as she laid against the cold floor. The darkness of the night stretched on and hours passed as Arezah watched a spider crawl across the floor before disappearing into the cracks leaving nothing but the shadows of the trees stretching across the room.
Arezah pleaded with her panicked mind to go silent.
Eventually the sharpness of reliving the night passed and her body relaxed even as her ears rang. Arezah took deep, steadying breaths as she reminded herself that night was long passed. That all was well. It was only after the smell of incense and nettle cloud faded into the still earthiness of wood that Arezah allowed herself to cry.
@lostluminesence
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Uh Oh! Spaghettios! (Pt. 2) || Van, Ariadne & Cass
TIMING: two days after this (sept 22).
LOCATION: van's house in worm row.
PARTIES: @magmahearts@ariadnewhitlock & @vanoincidence
SUMMARY: cass and ariadne break into van's house.
CONTENT WARNINGS: themes of depression.
Breaking and entering was kind of a breeze, at this point. It would have been even easier for Aria, of course — Cass was well aware that her friend could definitely just, like, use her Nightcrawler astral projection thingy to just pop into the house or whatever, but she thought that might freak Van out more. And Van had already been so freaked out when she’d left, so…
Sliding open the window seemed like the most logical choice. Cass pressed her palms against the glass, lifting it up carefully. The fact that she was humming the Mission Impossible theme did little for stealth, but they weren’t really trying to be stealthy. They were just here to check on their friend. With a glance back to Ariadne, Cass pushed the window the rest of the way open and dropped into the kitchen, straightening the moment her shoes hit the tile.
“Van? Are you around? Me and Aria are here. We’re worried about you.”
—-
Technically she could've just astral projected into Van's house, but Van was a friend, and Van was overwhelmed, and Ariande absolutely wasn't going to contribute to all of that. So Cass's idea worked out much better, in the long run.
Cass's humming helped Ariadne focus, helped her mind not wander nearly as much as it seemed to keep threatening to, which was one heck of a relief. Because it wasn't her place to get caught up in her own anxieties right now. (Besides, relatively speaking, she was fine. Not Fine, but fine.) She wanted to make sure that Van was alright too.
“I have some Starbursts, if you want them?” she added on to Cass's words. “Or jelly beans, 'cause those are easy to carry around. But please come out, I - we didn't want you to feel like you had to run away!”
—-
After the incident in the common, Van had stowed herself away inside of her house. The things she had melted around her living as constant reminders for the damage she was capable of causing. Nora hadn’t cared when she’d done it outside of the mines, but what would Cass and Ariadne think? Others had seen it, too, but she cared little about their opinions of her. Ariadne was an old friend, if she could be considered that since the years had gone by them in a flash, and Cass was.. a new friend, but one that Van didn’t want to disappoint. Van didn’t want to disappoint or hurt either of them.
Her plan to stay isolated and figure out her shit was thwarted by the sound of Ariadne and Cass in her living room. She froze in her room, hands suspended above her head as she tried to shimmy a hoodie over her torso.
Ariadne was offering her candy and Cass was explaining that they were worried. They should have been worried for themselves, not her! Van swallowed thickly and pulled her hoodie on the rest of the way before peeking out through the door of her room. She pushed it open slowly, a sheepish expression peeling across her features, accentuating the natural bruises from lack of sleep showing beneath her eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t– I didn’t mean to worry you.”
She wasn’t sure what else to say, so she looked down at her feet. “I just had to get out before something worse happened.” Worse than the melting would be a giant portal opening up and swallowing them all whole. Van bit her bottom lip. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, I just–” She looked up to meet Ariadne’s gaze first, and then Cass’s. “It happens sometimes, and I just… I didn’t know what to do.”
—
Van looked… not great. It felt mean to think, because you shouldn’t criticize your friends’ appearances or whatever, but it was undeniable all the same. Her eyes looked tired, her hair was messy, and she was wearing a hoodie. Every movie and show Cass had ever seen had always made it pretty clear that hoodies were, like, the universal sign of someone not doing great. Coupled with the fact that Van had run away from them in the Common, just after the melting incident? And Cass was pretty certain that her friend was struggling.
But that was okay. Not okay okay, but okay. That was what she and Aria were here for, why they’d brought different kinds of candy and climbed in through the window. No one was at their best a hundred percent of the time; that was what friends were for. To make you feel better when you weren’t feeling great. Cass’s experiences in binge watching had taught her that, too.
“It’s okay,” she said quietly, taking a careful step towards Van. She wanted to wrap her friend into a hug, but she wasn’t sure if the motion would be a welcome one or not. The last thing she wanted was to make Van feel suffocated or to make things worse somehow. That was literally the opposite of why she’d come here. “Things happen sometimes. It’s all right. I’ve had, um… things happen, too.” Like Van, Cass had powers that were often destructive. She was a little better at controlling them, but only through practice. And she got the feeling Van hadn’t really gotten a lot of that. “You don’t have to apologize or anything, okay? We just want to make sure you’re all right. And hang out with you and stuff, if you’re okay with it. We definitely still want to hang out with you.”
—
“You don’t have to say sorry, we just wanted to make sure that you were okay.” Ariadne also knew that, on a selfish level, she’d wanted to make sure that she hadn’t done something that was going to permanently mess Van up, or something.
She took a few steps toward Van, offering her friend a small, caring smile. One of sympathy, but one that she hoped didn’t seem patronizing, or whatever. Because that wasn’t what Van needed right now. Van needed support, and Ariadne was keen to give it however she could; however Van wanted it most. That was what real friends did, and even if they hadn’t talked for ages, really, they were still friends, weren’t they?
“I do wanna hang out with you, yes! I’m sorry you freaked out and did stuff you don’t get, but I know I still want to hang out, no matter what.” Whatever was going on with Van wasn’t bad or evil – it wasn’t something that sought to hurt people (unlike Ariadne’s new nature, she supposed, though she didn’t focus on that too long, instead going back to her friend). “If you don’t want Starbursts or jelly beans, I have other stuff too, but we can also just chill and lie on the floor. I like doing that sometimes.”
—
They were telling her not to say sorry and Van had to bite her tongue to keep from telling them they didn’t understand what they were asking for. Van deserved to beg for forgiveness. Maybe not for what happened in the Common, but for what happened with Diana. They didn’t know the full extent of what she was capable of. Hell, even she didn’t know the full extent of what she was capable of and that scared the hell out of her.
Van looked between Ariadne and Cass, confusion splitting over her features. She wasn’t sure why either of them would want to continue hanging out with her after what happened, especially if it meant they could get hurt. Was the melting really not that bad? She couldn’t be sure.
Their kindness coupled with Nora’s was different. She had remembered the way her grandma had torn out of Wicked’s Rest, only a note left behind apologizing for not being able to handle things. Van hadn’t been aware then that her grandmother knew what was happening, but now? It all made sense. “You guys brought candy…” She wasn’t sure she deserved it, and as much as she wanted to throw herself a pity party, the hopeful expressions on their faces made her falter.
She didn’t want to ask them to leave, mostly because aside from Nora, she’d never really had anyone show up for her before, not after something like the Great Melting(™).
“Okay, we can… jellybeans are good.” Van didn’t dare ask if they were starburst flavored. “I’m sorry that I scared you guys, I didn’t… mean to, obviously.” Whether she was talking about the actual melting situation or the way she had run away from it, she didn’t bother to clarify. Maybe she meant both. “I’m still trying to figure out…” Magic, Van almost said aloud. It died at the back of her throat. She looked around them before motioning towards the couch. “Come on and sit um.. do you want water? I have red bull, too.”
—
It was clear that Van was still uncertain, and Cass wanted nothing more than to take it from her, to shoulder the weight of her uncertainty and turn it into something lighter. It’s okay, she wanted to scream from the rooftops, it’s okay. You can do anything you want. I’m not going to leave. It was what she’d always wished someone would say to her, what she’d always wanted to hear. But Van wasn’t Cass, and she knew that. The things Van needed might not be the same ones Cass did. To assume otherwise would be to have a very narrow view of the world, a very selfish one. Cass didn’t want that.
“It’s okay,” she said again, “it really is. Everybody… has moments, sometimes. I’m glad we were there to help you. I’d want you there to help me, too.” Because things would have been worse if Ariadne hadn’t put Van to sleep, wouldn’t they? Cass didn’t know if human magic users had hunters after them — she hadn’t even known fae did until very recently — but she knew that people seeing you doing impossible things was always a risk. Plus, she had no idea if Van’s magic would hurt her or not, and she didn’t want to find out by learning that Van had been hurt. It was better to have people than it was to be alone. Cass had always known that.
Quickly, she dug into the bag she and Aria had brought, holding out a few jellybean options for Van to choose from. “Maybe we can help you figure it out,” she offered. “I don’t know a lot about that kind of magic, but… I know about some things. Maybe we can figure some of it out together.” She followed Van over to the couch, settling down onto it. “Sure, water sounds good.”
—
“Jellybeans are good.” That much Ariadne knew. Sweets were good, and sweets could make people happy, and making people happy was the best thing in the world. She nodded again, “I’m really glad we were all there, and that you didn’t get hurt when you – uh, when the – when you fell asleep.” She wanted to tell Van that she’d been the one to do it, but now wasn’t the time, now was just a time where it would all be Too Much if she did bring it up, and so if Van asked, she would, but right now she was here to reassure and to show Van how good she was.
“Yeah – I also don’t like, know much about magic.” Or even that it was a thing, until recently, “but I can help you figure stuff out. Or at least be here to support you when you figure stuff out.” Because support, Ariadne could offer – that much she knew (at least in part). “We’re here for you, no matter how long it takes to figure stuff out.” She grabbed a few jellybeans of her own (tutti frutti flavored) and popped them into her mouth.
She nodded at Cass’s words. “Water’s perfect for me, too. I don’t think I’ve ever had Red Bull though, is it one of your favorite drinks?” Asking Van her favorite anything felt strange, when they’d used to know so much about one another. Ariadne took a few more jellybeans, slowly chewing on them. At least now she’d have the chance to get to know Van more again. “What can we do?”
—
Everybody has moments.
Van could have told Cass in that moment what really happened and why she had freaked out so badly. That it wasn’t just the melting, but the person she thought she saw; the one she knew to be dead, lost to the black hole that had opened in the motel parking lot only a year ago. Even if she wanted to tell her, even despite what happened with Debbie, she wasn’t sure if she could. She didn’t want to be seen as more of a killer, especially not to somebody who meant so much to her, and somebody who could. She looked over at Ariadne, the blonde’s expression of hopefulness making her chest ache.
She was still a little confused by what had happened in the park. She hadn’t ever fallen asleep during one of her panic attacks before, not like that. Sobbing hysterically only for it to get quieter and quieter as time went on, sure, but never just falling asleep. It was probably something else wrong with her now– maybe she was morphing into something else. Van nodded, keeping her eyes on her socks. She wiggled her toes against the carpet, focusing on the feeling of the movement instead of the heavy beat of her heart. “Um… magic, yeah, I–” She inhaled sharply and shook her head, “I don’t… want to talk about it right now, if that’s okay?” Van looked up to meet Cass’s eyes, “maybe another time?”
Van took a small step closer to Ariadne, peering into the bag. She carefully picked out a few of the bright blue jelly beans before nodding at their requests. “Water, yeah. I can get that.” She could do that, at the very least. Ariadne’s question could have made her laugh if she were in the sort of state for it. “One of them, yeah… the peach nectarine are the best.” Usually she would have kept them for herself, but if it just so happened that either of the girls sitting on her sofa wanted one, she would have handed it over with little to no regret. She grabbed two red solo cups and filled them with lukewarm water from the brita filter before returning to the living room. She set them down onto the coffee table and plopped down onto the ground, tucking her knees to her chest.
“I don’t know.” Ariadne’s question felt weighted, like if she didn’t answer quickly, the floor would fall out from beneath her and big red blinking letters spelling out WRONG ANSWER would flash above her head. “I’m not sure if there’s… anything right now. I just… I’m trying to figure it out.” She cleared her throat and wiped away a stray tear that managed to bypass the effort she made to keep her composure. “It’s just– it’s nice that you guys are um… here right now, and I’m– thank you.”
—
She understood, too, Van’s desire to shelf the conversation. Wasn’t that what Cass always did, too? She’d rather ignore the things that were wrong in her life, rather pretend they weren’t real. If you didn’t look at something, if you closed your eyes, you could pretend it didn’t matter. Couldn’t you? You could pretend that everything was normal, that it was how it was supposed to be. Fae had trouble lying, but Cass was very good at pretending.
“That’s okay,” she nodded. Maybe there was more relief there than there should have been. If they didn’t talk about it now, Van wouldn’t ask about the things Cass knew, and Cass wouldn’t have to reveal that she was something other than human. Ariadne knew, of course, and Alex and Wynne, and Ren had been able to sense her the way fae always could, but it still felt hard to tell people sometimes. The fear of rejection was still there, still prominent. Cass would do anything to avoid it. “We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about.”
She took the water as Van offered it, smiling fondly at the memory of making someone drop Red Bull off at her cave so she could give it to Van. “It tastes weird,” she said, “but it makes your heart go fast, and that’s pretty cool.” She watched as Van sat, feeling the heaviness there. She wanted it to go away, wanted the conversation to be light and airy and easy. She wanted everything to be like that, wanted the whole world to fit comfortably in the palm of her hand. But the world didn’t work like that. Wanting wouldn’t change it.
She offered Van a smile, because there was really nothing else she could give her. She couldn’t make the world lighter, or make Van’s magic work the way she wanted her to. But she could be here. She knew how to do that. “We’ll always be here for you,” she said. “Right, Aria? Always.”
—
“That’s totally fine,” Ariadne replied, nearly in unison with Cass, “we don’t have to talk about it until you want to.” If it was something bigger, she certainly understood not wanting to talk about it. Cass knew what she was, and she figured Van should know, too, but another time. Some time when it would be easier to process (though when that would be, she wasn’t sure).
She took the water from Van and took a healthy gulp, nodding as the other two talked about energy drinks. Well, it couldn’t make my heart go fast, because my heart literally doesn’t move. Though a part of her wanted to try. But not now. Right now, jelly beans and water and making sure Van was okay (or okay enough) was all that mattered.
“Right. We’re here, always. That’s what friends do.” It was, even if she’d had limited experience up until now. “I – I just wanted to check in, you don’t have to answer anything you aren’t up to answering or don’t want to answer.” The very last thing Ariadne would have wanted was for Van to feel pressured and worse off thanks to the visit.
—
Instead of pressing her for more information, both Ariadne and Cass relented, offering her the space to offer up the conversation when she felt it was the right time. Though, truth be told, Van wasn’t sure when it’d ever be the right time. When it came to Nora, that’d been easy… she had seen Nora covered in weird crystals and then as she turned into a bear– and Nora had accepted her weird melting ways. Anyone else other than Milo felt like a threat, and that was funny considering the way Van had felt about him upon meeting for the first time.
Van clasped her hands together, palms already feeling sweaty. She forced her gaze upward to meet either of her friend’s, wanting to feel the full weight of their promise to her, even if it wasn’t really a promise at all. Van nodded slowly. “I didn’t mean to scare you guys. I just… it’s easier to go ghost sometimes.” Most of the time, actually.
With a sharp inhale, Van squeezed her eyes shut and brought the backs of her hands up to wipe away any stray tears before clearing her throat. “Can we just um… eat the jellybeans? Hang out?” Forget everything that happened, Van wanted to add. Because that was easier, she thought. Easier than letting it slip that she really wasn’t doing okay. “I can put a show on, too.”
—
There was a hint of understanding in the smile Cass offered to Van, and she nodded her head. Running away was easy. She knew that. When things went wrong, the temptation to disappear was always there. All Cass had ever wanted was for someone to chase her when she ran, to come after her. No one ever had for Cass, but Cass could do it for Van. Van deserved that, she did. Even if she felt like she didn’t.
“We can do whatever you want,” she said quietly, leaning forward to bump her shoulder gently against her friend’s. “We’ve got plenty of jellybeans. And plenty of shows to catch up on, too.” And all the time in the world to do it.
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