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the-fusionist · 3 years ago

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Give me damianette fluff or jasonette fluff with a song

A/N: Hello, all! I am back! This is a very late answer, which I'm sorry for @rebecarojas07. But, it's here now! I went a little off from the prompt and it's a little angsty in the beginning, but it gets better! Also, constructive criticism is welcome, since its been a while. Also, no beta, we die like Jason Todd. I wrote 1800 words just now and I am hoping they mesh well together.

Warnings: Some cursing, slight angst, cheating, hand holding, and kissing

Song: PUBLIC - Make You Mine

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

Marinette cried as she sat on the rooftop while Tikki hugged her.

She was here in Gotham as Ladybug in order to deal with a crisis involving a missing miraculous with Zatanna and Batman, along with several other American heroes she had gotten to know. The mission had taken her a month and she had needed to go undercover for a large portion of the mission, severing contact with her boyfriend, Adrien Agreste. It should all have been fine, they trusted each other.

Now he’s a former boyfriend.

Alya Cesaire was a rock in Marinette’s life, and she was always there for her. If it hadn’t been for Alya Cesaire, her most reliable confidante, the break up might have never happened so soon and she would have stayed oblivious. If it hadn’t been for Alya’s pictures, Marinette would probably have never believed it herself. Five pictures of Adrien Agreste and Lila Rossi, making out on several different occasions.

She wanted to believe it wasn’t true, but if she was being honest with herself she should have seen it coming. Heck, Tikki had seen it coming. They had been having more arguments as of recently. And the time that she had spent apart from Adrien on a mission had simply driven them further apart from each other. She thought back to the times she had complained to Adrien about how Lila was always so touchy with him during photoshoots, he said that it was all business that he couldn’t avoid because of his father. That she was overreacting and being too clingy. That there was nothing between him and Lila.

But those pictures existed. They were in broad daylight, and both Adrien Agreste and Lila Rossi seemed to have no shame, acting in public spaces. She sent one text to Adrien.

We're over.

The message was read, and there was no reply.

That was a month ago. Marinette was getting better, very slowly. Plagg and Tikki stuck with her and supported her, but Marinette still had some nights where she refused to talk to anyone and cried alone. She had set up an arrangement with her parents so she could stay in Gotham, as she needed time away from the city of love. She could never have been more thankful.

Especially when she saw the viral video of someone throwing a bag of flour at Adrien Agreste and Lila Rossi during a photoshoot. Marinette had burst out laughing when she saw the video, and she had a feeling her parents were behind it and had gotten away with it.

But still, sometimes there were days where she couldn’t shrug off the tears. They flowed freely as she swung her spotted legs from her seat on the edge of a random rooftop. She had finished patrol, and she had begun to think back to all the nights she used to spend patrolling Paris with Adrien. She felt her heart seize as she gazed out into the grey landscape of Gotham.

Well, I will call you darlin' and everything will be okay

Suddenly, she heard a throat clear behind her and a cough.

Turning around, she found herself staring at the Red Hood. She quickly wiped at her eyes in an attempt to hide that she had been crying. She had heard rumors of the Red Hood, especially of how he often murdered criminals and at some point in the past had been the leader of a criminal empire.

But, Batman trusted him. And she trusted Batman, so she should be able to trust him and this was a completely safe situation. At least, that’s what she told herself.

She heard him clear his throat again, and she realized she must have gotten lost in her thoughts. She focused back on him, albeit it was somewhat warily.

“Hello darlin’, shit wait, that was too cringey. Damn, I’m sorry.”

She felt her lips quirk upwards in a smile.

The Red Hood coughed, before holding out a steaming cup of coffee to her, and in a questioning tone asked, “Let me try again. You’re Ladybug, right? I saw you having a moment here earlier while I was on patrol, so I just wanted to give you this and offer an ear to listen to you rant if you want?”

Marinette felt her heartbeat quicken, and she felt herself blush under her mask as she replied, “Thank you so much. You’re the Red Hood, right? It’s nice to meet you. And yeah, I would like to rant, that would be super nice.”

So he sat down next to her. She doesn’t know what made her do so, but she told him almost everything. How her former boyfriend had cheated on her while she was on a mission, and how she felt so betrayed when she found out. She told him all about the loneliness and the bitter homesickness she constantly felt.

And he listened, without pity. He listened to every word she spoke, nodding at the right moments of her story, reassuring her she was right, and cussing out Adrien Agreste with her.

That was the first time she met Jason Todd, the man underneath the helmet of the Red Hood.

'Cause I know that I am yours and you are mine

Several months passed, and their relationship progressed from there. The two fell into comfortable friendship and eventually revealed their identities.

But, Marinette couldn’t deny that she had caught herself blushing as she stared at Jason during training or patrol, admiring him.

It was a similar situation for Jason. He still curses himself for the time that Marinette had smiled at him as she swung by during patrol, and he had been so caught up with staring at her dazzling smile that he didn’t notice himself walk right off a building. He was fine, his pride bruised more than anything else.

The point was, they fit well together. They bantered and seemed to constantly toe the line between friendship and something more, to the point where others began to take notice. Jason’s siblings teased him, while Alya and Nino would give Marinette suggestive looks over facetime whenever she mentioned Jason.

They got along so well, and everyone could see it. Marinette and Jason were also starting to believe it themselves. Marinette felt that she was his, and Jason knew that he was hers. They had each other wrapped around their fingers, without even realizing.

Doesn't matter anyway

Marinette was on patrol with Jason when she checked her phone and tears of anger welled up in her eyes. It was a message from Adrien.

Lila and I are over now. We should get back together now, I miss what we had.

Jason saw Marinette’s face change, and he felt angry too when Marinette showed him the text. Adrien Agreste was fucking pathetic.

“Who does he think he is? He thinks he can cheat on me and get back together? He doesn’t even have a place in my life anymore. He doesn’t even matter to me anymore.”

“You don’t need that fucker, Marinette, like how dare he act like you guys can get back together after what he did? Honestly, he’s fucking pathetic. I bet he’s sitting all fucking alone in his apartment after breaking up with Lila, thinking he matters to you. What a pretentious shit stain.”

Marinette felt herself move before she could properly think about what she was doing. Jason hadn’t anticipated her action, and he felt himself let out a small laugh of surprise when he felt Marinette hug him, her face pressed into his leather jacket.

He couldn’t help but softly smile when he heard a muffled, “Thank you, Jason, for being here for me.”

In the night, we'll take a walk, it's nothing funny

Marinette heard a knock on her apartment window. She walked over and opened it to find Jason standing on her fire escape, giving her a sheepish smile.

“Jason, it's 2:00 a.m. and it isn’t even a patrol night? God damn it, Jason, I know that I don’t sleep at night, but what could you want right now?”

Jason’s smile grew brighter, “Want to get waffles and coffee?”

Marinette’s mood quickly changed, and she felt her lips quirk, “You want me to go out in the dark, all alone with you, to get waffles and coffee?”

“No funny business, just waffles and coffee.”

Marinette laughed before she quickly threw on a jacket and joined Jason on the fire escape, before descending down with him and beginning their moderate walk to a nearby café.

Just to talk

On the way, they talked about anything and everything. Books, fashion, superhero business, you name it. They were at peace.

Put your hand in mine

As they walked into the café, Jason noticed another man, who looked like he was in his early twenties, eyeing Marinette. He felt jealousy crawl up his spine, and he knew his eyes were flashing green at the moment.

Marinette had noticed, though she pretended not to. She also tried to pretend not to notice when Jason casually slipped his hand into her own, though she knew she was furiously blushing. Jason was flustered too, and she heard him stutter as he gave his order to a waitress.

For the rest of the night, their hands remained clasped. Tikki was giggling quietly from the inside of Marinette's purse.

You know that I want to be with you all the time

Though they never directly spoke about the hand holding, the two of them definitely gradually spent more time with each other.

They frequented various cafes and libraries and stores, in and out of costume. Someone once swore they saw the Red Hood and Ladybug at a movie theater throwing popcorn at each other. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before they got together, and several bets were made.

You know that I won't stop until I make you mine

Flash forward a week, and Marinette has asked Jason out on a date. He says yes. They’re both bright red when they enter the café, and this time their hands are clasped from the moment they enter.

The same waitress recognizes them, and she asks who asked the other out. She quickly finds out that Marinette made the first move. When she goes back to her place behind the counter, Marinette and Jason see a coworker slide her twenty bucks. They laugh, and enjoy the rest of their date, content with each other’s serene presence.

Until I make you mine

After they leave the café, a strong gust of wind blows. Marinette slightly shivers under the bite of the wind, before she feels a large warmth envelope her. Jason’s leather jacket is draped over her shoulders, and the man in question is gazing at her lovingly.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said before she reached up and pressed a warm kiss to his lips.

The End!

TAG LIST: @theatreandcomicfreak @18-fandoms-unite-08 @mochegato @princessanimeangel11 @maribatlife

If you would like to be tagged in other works in the future, please let me know!

#jasonette #marinette x jason #jason todd x marinette dupain cheng #maribat au #maribat #ml x dc au #ml x dc #ladybug x red hood #jasonette fluff #slight angst

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jazzypizzaz · 4 years ago

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that reminds me that a million years ago, I started writing a trans!Ginny fic... I stopped for the same reason I abandon any fic, ran out of steam, also because as a cis person I felt I needed to read/listen/learn, but I actually wrote way more here than I thought?? anyway caveat that this is half-sketched

I Told You So or A Witch Knows Best

February 1981

“This one’s a girl, I can tell,” Mrs. Weasley says offhandedly, rubbing her stomach as she conducts pots and pans into and out of the soapy sink.

Mr. Weasley peeks up from his Muggle Monthly Magazine, confusedly. He looks around and sees no one but the two of them.

“Sorry, wassat?” he says.

“This one’s a girl, I’m certain of it this time.”

He notices her hand resting on her stomach and jumps up at once. “Oh! a baby! Mollywobbles!” He makes his way over to her, rubs her shoulder, and kisses her cheek with a delighted smile.

Molly smiles back, then twists her mouth in concern. “I know we’re stretched thin as it is, but Bill will be off to Hogwarts next year, so that will free up the top bedroom, as well as some of the chaos...”

"I know it shouldn't matter, but…" She clasps her hands together with a wistful smile and continues, “just think! A quiet, clever little daughter! A sensible confidante in this houseful of messy little boys. Of course, she be more mischievous than the twins, a more reckless flyer than Bill, and Merlin knows the Queen herself is messier than Percy, and I'd love my little tomboy all the same, but -- a daughter!”

“A daughter you say? But… generations! and darling you did think the same of Charlie. And Percy, and Ro--”

She kisses his cheek, and he immediately stops talking. Molly smiles indulgently. “And! just think! Tiny dresses and little bows… It’s like I know her already.”

He opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and with an adoring shake of his head and a grin says with full sincerity, “A daughter! Another baby. That’s wonderful news, Molly. And you know-- we’ve been making real headway on the MPA-- there’s a good chance I’ll be promoted once we can push it through approval. They may be opening up a whole new department, part of Magical Enforcement, and I’d be first in line for a junior position.”

“Oh that’s wonderful news! I’m always saying they’re wasting your talents as a legal cleric, but I knew you’d make the best of it.”

“We’ll be fine, love, we always are,” Mr. Weasley says, giving her a squeeze then letting her go. And you’ll be fine, if it’s another son, hangs between them unsaid.

He gazes longingly at the upturned magazine, then wanders to his briefcase and takes out some papers for editing, pensive.

******

August 1981

“Molly, Mollywobbles, darling, it’s all fine now, you can hold him,” Mr. Weasley says, pushing her limp hair off her face with his free arm.

Mrs. Weasley opens her eyes groggily, and Arthur, silhouetted against the bright white of the hospital wing, comes into focus gradually. She shakes her head, trying to clear her mind of the Sleeping Serum and pushes herself upright.

“Are you alright love? It was tough-going there for a bit, but everything’s fine now. He’s beautiful, look at him! Another perfect Weasley son.” Mr. Weasley emphasizes several of the words slightly, hoping not to add to her disorientation.

The usual pain-numbing Birthing Potion had some strange side effects-- including filling the room with bright blue bubbles which gleefully bounced around the room, causing Molly much distress-- so the Healers had to dose her with an emergency sleeping potion to finish delivering the child, which was a son, a beautiful darling son, but a son nonetheless. Or so the Healers said.

He held out the small blue-wrapped bundle in his arms tentatively.

Molly glanced at it-- blue was for boys, whose child was this?-- “Another what?” She cleared her throat, glancing from the child’s tuft of shocking red hair sprouting out from beneath the blue, then back up to Arthur’s balding red head.

“Another son, love,” He says gently and hands the baby to her, “Ginalto Weasley is pleased to meet you at last.”

“Her name’s supposed to be Ginerva,” Molly says absently, stroking the baby’s head. It coos and hiccups, and a loving, wistful smile breaks out on Molly’s face. “Oh darling child, but I suppose Ginalto will suit you just fine.”

Arthur watches her carefully. I told you so, he thinks, but doesn’t dare voice aloud. “I know you thought… Are you sure--”

“Now Arthur, don’t you start apologizing, because I knew those crackpot Muggle superstitions wouldn’t work, it just seemed so important to you to try, but you know a witch always knows best--”

“That’s not what I--”

“And don’t you dare ask me if I’m disappointed in this lovely child.”

“Of course not! Why would--”

“Our darling, perfect baby, I’ve known you for some time, but now you get to meet the rest of us. Welcome to the family.”

Mr. Weasley shakes his head with a chuckle. “Welcome.”

********

(scene about Mrs Weasley’s parenting style, being a worrywart, Ginalto is a delicate child but even-tempered or surprisingly resilient?, molly is protective)

********

July 1987

“Mummy, Ron keeps calling him Ginny, make him stop it’s not his name,” Percy whines, tugging on Mrs. Weasley’s skirt. “I think Fred and George put him up to it.”

“Calling who what now?” Mrs. Weasley says absently, sorting through the next load of laundry with one hand as a flick of a wand in her other puffs dry a clean pile of towels.

“Ron’s calling Gino by a girl’s name, but he’s a boy, that’s not allowed,” Percy says resolutely.

“You’re the older brother of both of them, so why don’t you explain to Ron that it’s proper to call people by their names?”

“I tried, but I think Fred--”

“Percy, hon, when you leave to Hogwarts next month, Fred and George won’t be there, but I’m sure-- Merlin help the prefects-- there will be other such troublemakers, and you won’t have me to sort out every squabble. How about you ask Ron if he would like it if you called him Ronda instead of his actual name? You can show him what a smart big boy you are.”

“I did, I tried, but George said that--”

With a misplaced flick of her wand, a towel exploded into a mushroom cloud of steam with a hissing wizz-WHOOSH!, interrupting Percy’s insistence. Mrs. Weasley sighed, resignedly.

“Where is Bill when I need him… Merlin, another two years before the twins are Dumbledore’s problem, oh goodness I’ll be getting owls every week... Sonorus!” She pointed at her throat and her voice magnified. “FRED! GEORGE! Everyone to the laundry room! NOW!”

A few minutes later, Fred and George skidded to a halt with Gino and Ron following at their heels at the door of where Mrs. Weasley and Percy stood waiting. “Mum! We were just de-gnoming the garden like you asked us! We even taught both of them how to help--”

“Yeah! Ginny’s really good, gets the gnomes straight through the window into the oven everyti--” Ron jabbered excitedly, as Gino gave a shy, proud smile.

“I told you! I told you they were calling him--” Percy interrupted.

Mrs. Weasley placated Percy, gave a tired smile to Gino and Ron, then turned on the twins.

“Your brother’s name is Gino, and I think he would appreciate it if you called him by his real name or so help me I will call you Fred and-- George--” She said angrily looking from one to the other. One twin opened his mouth, but she interrupted him. “Or rather George and Fred, then, the one that's not your own name, yes I know I know hardly proving my point here, but honestly it’s different, there’s no way to confuse Gino with anyone besides maybe Ron--”

“But he likes being called Ginny, he wants to be just like Ginny Gynnoficz when he grows up, you know Martin Miggs’s girlfriend in Fred’s comics, he told me himself!” Ron insisted earnestly.

“Gino is five years old, so maybe he only says that because you are his older brothers and are supposed to be ROLE MODELS instead of teaching him how to fling GNOMES into the KITCHEN.”

Mrs. Weasley ignore Ron’s further protests and turned back to the twins. “The oven, honestly. Don’t think I don’t know you two put Ron up to this! Stop teasing Gino, he’s a kind boy and doesn’t deserve you two making fun of him--”

“I do want to be called Ginny, it’s lovely, and Ginalto tastes like mothballs.” Ginny said, speaking up for the first time in a quiet, tentative voice.

Silence hung in the air for a moment, for the first time all morning. Percy frowned grumpily.

“See mum! Ron told you--” Fred started.

“What a good kid, that Ginny, sticking up for all of us like that--” George continued.

“True and loyal Gryffindors, the both of them--”

“Although Ron’s still lousy at gnoming, you know they’ll fail him out of Hogwarts if--”

“That’s enough,” Mrs. Weasley said, silencing them with a glare. “Now you two are going to finish with the garden by yourself. Percy, just… mind your own business please. and Ron, honey, be a dear and get Hadna Hellump’s Household Hexes from downstairs, I don’t think this drying spell is working right.”

They scampered off quickly, leaving Ginny behind, before Mrs. Weasley could realize that the oven was still full of gnomes.

Mrs. Weasley knelt down, so that they were face to face. “You’ll tell me if the twins call you anything you don’t like, right darling? You don’t have to let them boss you around.”

Ginny nods solemnly.

Mrs. Weasley smiles, kisses her youngest child's cheek, her last child, then stands up. “We did almost name you Ginerva, you know. Ah well, my little Ginny then, why don’t you help me fold these towels? There’s my good one, my sweet baby.”

*********

scenes:

Arthur-- shopping, wistful, stolen glances, corner of the eye Ginny

1st year, TOM RIDDLE, holy shit so much potential with this, Ginny spilling her secrets, the first time she's told anyone or even realized herself

the fact that ginny goes from shy/small/nervous and presumed boy, to outspoken clever ferocious tough girl...

hair, Bill Weasley grews his out!, Ginny wants to also

harry potter???

mrs. weasley finds various make-up potions missing then replaced… dressing up in skirts/etc? mrs. weasley thinks f/g are pulling a prank, but obvs they’re not. ginny later doesn't even like dresses that much, just what they signified.

mrs. weasley always wanted a daughter and is overjoyed to realize she was right all along. percy is obstinate at first but defends her at school, F/G have called her their sister for years, ron is just confused & supportive in a clumsy way. (bill and charlie say good on ya! but ya know they’re not around much, all adults and such) arthur researches muggle methods (hormone blockers, etc)-- wizarding world charms are patchy at best although there's old magic resurfacing

#jazzy writes fic!

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blkmxrvel · 5 years ago

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Haven’t Forgotten My Way Home (11)- [CONVERTED]

Pairing: Kara Zor-El x Female!Reader

Summary: In the D/s society of National City, men and women abandoned by their Dom/mes or otherwise deemed unfit for life “outside” end up at the Mount Overland House for Orphaned Submissives. It is here that Kara Zor-El finds Y/N Hastings, broken and fearful from mistreatment at the hands of her former Dom. Can Kara coax Y/N back into the world that once so terrified her, and show her the true meaning of care and submission?

Warnings: Domestic Violence (Flashbacks, Mentions and Descriptions), Misogyny, Domination/Submission.

A/N: Do y’all still want this story? lmao lemme know

Kara raised her hand, poised to knock, but before her fist had even struck the door, it swung open, inward. She took a step back.

The woman in the doorway wasn’t exceptionally tall, though by seventeen-year-old Kara Zor-el’s standards, anyone was tall if they were over five foot. And it wasn’t so much her height, but the way she held that height, looking almost regal as she studied Kara with one hand holding the door.

“Kara, is it?”

Her voice wasn’t at all what Kara expected, and it was a hobby of hers to study voices. She knew that not every voice was as superb and talented as hers, but a Dominant ought to have, well, a dominant voice. This woman’s voice wasn’t thin, but it wasn’t rich either. Nasally, but with a strength and command that Kara couldn’t help but shiver as she nodded.

Wait, no. Nodding wasn’t good. She cleared her throat.

“Y-yes, Ma’am.”

There was no question in Kara’s mind who this woman was, and the respect that she was to be given.

She smirked. “Very good. Come with me.”

She turned on her heel and walked into the house, seemingly not even caring whether Kara was following behind or not, and Kara realized it was because she expected her to follow behind. Which she did, and it gave her ample time to somewhat study the woman with whom she’d be spending her next few days.

She had dark hair that nearly reached her shoulders and curled in loose waves around her ears, and she was wearing a blue silk blouse with a black (very tight, Kara noticed, and she swallowed hard) skirt. Black pantyhose and black heels completed the ensemble; her heels sounded noisily on the marble of her foyer as she stopped, and turned to Kara.

She nodded at her. “Kneel.”

It was a simple command, one that Kara had known to expect, the only command that she expected. And it went against everything Kara knew about herself. This was not who she was, she was not meant to kneel for someone, anyone. But she also knew that this was why she was here, this is what she had to learn. Her cheeks flushed crimson, and she knelt.

She didn’t realize her gaze had lowered until she saw the same black heels come to rest next to her, and she felt a soft hand in her hair, stroking gently.

“Excellent, little one. Now we can begin.”

“Kara, sit.” She turned, and, seeing Kara’s hesitation, smirked. “Please.”

Kara rolled her eyes and sat on the plush red couch, crossing her legs. She accepted the glass of wine that was handed to her, and smiled when the other woman sat next to her, so close their knees were touching.

“It’s so good to see you, Lena.”

“Don’t think I didn’t catch you rolling your eyes at me. That ought to land you over my lap.”

Kara nearly choked on the wine, and fought not to roll her eyes yet again when Lena patted her back, laughing in triumph. “I haven’t been over your lap in years.”

“Well then we have a lot of catching up to do, don’t we, little one?”

“Lena!” Kara finally laughed herself. “Stop that, or else your girl might get upset with us both.” She looked around, searching for any sign of the submissive Lena had had for the last year. “Where is she, anyway?”

“Oh,” Lena mused, running her index finger over the rim of her wine glass before taking a sip, “She’s a little tied up at the moment.” Her eyes glinted mischievously at Kara.

Kara shook her head, then suddenly grew serious, leaning into Lena. “I’ve missed you,” she said, a bit of disbelief creeping into her voice. She hadn’t given it a second thought, but now, sitting next to the woman, Kara realized just how much she’d missed the comfort and companionship. “Don’t let me go another year without seeing you. I’m sorry,” she added regretfully.

Lena kissed the top of her head, a gesture left over from Kara’s training years ago. “I could have called you just as easily as you could have called me,” she admitted. She pushed gently until Kara sat up fully so she could look at her. “Are you alright?” she asked, and Kara smiled to see the old concern return to her friend’s face.

Could she really call Lena a friend? She could call her her Domme, but aside from a week when she was 17, that had never been true for Kara. She could call her a lover, but that had been over long ago, too. Maybe a mother figure, but given the other two options that was just too weird. Mentor, perhaps. Confidante. No, friend worked. It had endured ever since Kara had first set foot (and knee) in Lena’s mansion on the edge of town.

“I’m fine,” Kara answered, smiling to show Lena she was telling the truth, because if there was anyone who could see through her just as well as her daddies, it was Lena. “But I’m not here just as a friend. I need your help. Or your advice, something.”

It felt like she was 17 years old again, then, as Kara sat and spilled everything to Lena: about the House, about Y/N, about Finn. One thing she loved about Lena was that Lena knew when was best to let her ramble, and when was best to interrupt her, and to her credit, she didn’t interrupt at all while Kara was speaking. Kara watched as she talked, saw Lena nod her head as she made soft humming noises of sympathy, and saw the woman’s hand tighten around the wineglass when she spoke of how brutally Finn had treated Y/N. Everything tumbled out about Alex's reluctance; Y/N’s fear of being alone with people like Brainy; how she’d reacted when Maggie had gotten herself in trouble with her Ma'am. Still, she couldn’t help but smile proudly when she told of Y/N’s progress learning how to walk again, or of them going shopping together. She found herself blushing and looking away from Lena as she recounted how Y/N had gotten her a flower from the vendor, how Y/N had said she was special. Part of Kara was aware that Y/N just might not like her telling a complete stranger – well, to Y/N, anyway – her story, but if there was one person Kara trusted, it was Lena. Sitting in her car just minutes earlier in the parking lot to Mount Overland House, Kara had realized that of all the people in the world who might be able to help her help Y/N, it was the woman who had put her on her knees when she was seventeen years old.

Not much had changed since then; Lena was the same as ever, perhaps with more laugh lines than she used to have. But she was still strong and constant, and the connection with Kara was such that it was like they hadn’t been apart for a year, but only a few seconds. Lena’s house was still gorgeous and rich, with its marble floors and double staircase leading to the second floor. She remembered most everything in the house, as if she’d never left it. Kara knew nearly every room of the house – intimately – and aside from the one spanking she’d received that week, each room held a cherished memory. Kara knew that most Dominants rarely went back to the people and places of their training, but for some reason her connection with Lena had held, even after her training was complete. And Dominants didn’t usually start love affairs with the people who had trained them, either. Still, she hadn’t stopped contact even when that had ended, two years ago. She knew she wasn’t a submissive, knew she could never be, but there was something about being with Lena that made Kara feel… different. It was safe, a chance to be on equal and-yet-not ground with someone, a chance to be both Dominant and also taken care of by someone who knew more than she did, had more experience. It was that experience and knowledge that had her looking helplessly at Lena, as she finished telling her Y/N’s story.

“Well,” Lena said, finishing her drink and setting the empty glass on the coffee table. She shook her head and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I’d advocate castration but it doesn’t sound like he has all that much to begin with.”

Kara snorted. “It’s not him I’m worried about; I’ll let the government deal with him. Though we know how well that works. It’s Y/N who has my concern.”

“It’s you I’m concerned about,” Lena said, casting Kara a knowing look. “You seem to be quite easily jumping into this, Kara, and that’s something you can’t do.”

“I’m not-“

“Don’t interrupt me, please.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Lena stood up, beginning to pace across the floor in front of Kara, a movement that told Kara one of two things: she was angry, or she was deep in thought. Possibly both. She briefly wondered about Lena’s girl, who was “tied up at the moment.” Kara hoped she hadn’t interrupted anything; that would be embarrassing. Then she wondered if Lena was using the silk ties, and she blinked, trying to return herself to the situation at hand.

“Kara.”

And there it was, that power to make her shiver, that power that she wondered if she herself held. A power that all Dominants were told that they should hold, that they should use and be proud of. The ability to make all thoughts stop, just at the sound of a name, delivered quietly and with command. A tone that brooked no interruption, no disobedience, nothing but complete, utter compliance and devotion. It was the sound and its delivery that had Kara ducking her head and lifting her eyes to pay attention to the woman stood in front of her, her hands on her hips.

“Do you remember what it was like, that first day with me?”

“You’re scared.”

From her position on the floor at her feet, Kara wondered how Miss Lena knew. Was she trembling? She dared to slightly lift her hand and look at it; she was. But then Miss Lena took her hand and gently placed it back on Kara’s knee. Form was important, she had told Kara just a few seconds earlier, and it was even more important that it was maintained.

Kara forced herself not to nod her answer. “I’m scared, Miss Lena,” she agreed.

“Why?”

The Dominant – her Dominant’s – voice was calm and soft, and for a moment it confused the girl kneeling for her. Wasn’t a Dominant supposed to be stern and exacting? Oh, the books from school stressed sustaining a balance, but there was also more emphasis placed on order and obedience. But this Dominant… was being nice.

“Answer me, Kara. Why are you scared of me?”

“Because you could hurt me.” Kara’s voice was tiny, barely above a whisper as she spoke the thing she had been most afraid of in the days leading up to her training.

Her fathers had simply kissed her, said they would see her in a week, as they left her standing with her suitcase on the doorstep of Miss Lena’s house. She knew the rules for her training said that parents weren’t to coddle or coo over their children at the moment training was to begin, because that would set the wrong tone. But she couldn’t help wanting a hug or a kiss, some reassurance besides “see you in a week” that she’d make it out of this alive.

She was a Domme. She had the mark on her ribs to prove it, but here, on her knees in front of a couch, a strange woman’s hand in her hair, Kara didn’t care that she was a Domme. She didn’t care that her daddies had vetted potential trainers for four months leading up to her birthday, that the three “possibles” had undergone every background and personal check known to Lima. Kara may have been a natural Domme but here in her training she couldn’t object, she couldn’t protest unless something went terribly wrong, and she wasn’t even comforted by the safety measures that were in place to ensure that nothing would go terribly wrong.

The only thing she cared about was that she felt at this woman’s mercy, and Kara had heard the stories of Dominants taking advantage of the trust placed in them. Kara didn’t want to be one of the statistics in a commercial on television.

“You’re right. I could hurt you.”

The dread slid over her like ice water, but Kara was surprised when that same hand in her hair gently pressed until Kara’s cheek was against the woman’s thigh. The motion was soft, kind, and Kara closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on the warmth and the feeling of fingers stroking.

“I could hurt you, and perhaps if I have to punish you, I will hurt you. Punishment isn’t meant to be nice. But it isn’t meant to be brutal; it isn’t meant for me to go over the boundaries we will set together for this week, and none of this training means I’m allowed to mistreat you. Look at me, Kara.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” She hastened to do what she was told; Lena’s eyes were a deep brown, twinkling and almost loving as she stared down at Kara.

“I’m going to take care of you,” Lena said quietly, and those words, coming from her, were enough for Kara to let go of all of her fears and put her trust in this woman, this stranger who held her close to her thigh and was still playing with her hair.

“I’m going to take care of you.”

“It was silly of me to be so scared,” Kara said with a little smile. “I should have known you’d never hurt me.”

“But you didn’t know. And what if all you’d ever known was hurt? Could you really have trusted me not to abuse you? And what would you have done if I hadn’t known what I was doing? How could you have recovered if I broke you?”

“I know, but I’m diff-“

“She can’t trust that you’re different,” Lena pointed out, sitting back down next to Kara. “If this is what you really want, Kara, this is going to be a long, slow road for you. I just don’t want you jumping headfirst into it, for her sake and yours, because god knows you’re impulsive and don’t think half the time.”

“Hey!” Kara protested, even though she knew it was true. Continuing to see Y/N, bringing the girl to visit with her for a week, all of it she’d done without really thinking of the ramifications. She stared at Lena, realizing the point the other woman was trying to make.

Lena smiled and reached out to touch Kara’s cheek with her hand; Kara nuzzled into it, yet another feeling left over from that week years ago.

“I couldn’t bear it if I hurt her,” she admitted. “That’s why I’m here, Lena, I don’t know how to be her Dominant… I mean what if she does something wrong? How do I spank her when I know what he did to her?”

“That’s easy enough,” Lena said, taking her hand away, and Kara was disappointed at the lack of contact. “You don’t.”

Kara tilted her head. “I don’t punish her?”

“I didn’t say that; listen to me, little one.”

“Lena.”

“Habit,” Lena said with a smile. “But I didn’t say you don’t punish her, I said you don’t spank her.” Seeing Kara’s confused look, she explained, “Punishment isn’t always physical, Kara. There are a number of ways that I could have punished you, but physically, for you, was the most effective.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad for that,” Kara muttered, remembering, then giggled a little when Lena tapped her knee.

“This is what I mean when I say you can’t jump into this. If and when you’re ready to claim someone you have to tailor your methods to their needs, to their boundaries. You know being a Dominant means you don’t have free rein to do whatever you want, however you wish to do it.”

“I know,” Kara agreed quietly.

“And if that person is Y/N,” Lena pointed out, “You’re going to have to rethink absolutely everything you’ve learned and known up to this point.”

Kara stood up and began to mimic Lena’s earlier action of pacing across the floor. “Even what you’ve taught me?”

She didn’t think she could let go of that. She’d centered her entire life, her entire concept of claiming and relationships, around what she’d learned at Lena’s feet. Books had only been able to tell her so much, but actually being shown, experiencing it… those were the lessons that Kara felt like she’d never want to forget, or be able to. Lena had taught her so much, simple things like the power that came from kneeling. Who was really in control of certain situations. The importance of rules. How aftercare was imperative. Kara had learned that knowing she’d disappointed Lena was worse than the spanking she’d received, and that forgiveness afterwards was stronger than any guilt she could’ve ever carried. It was through Lena that Kara felt like she’d really learned her true nature as a Dominant. Letting go of that knowledge… Kara felt like she’d be lost, and she didn’t know how on earth she’d be able to find her own way. She’d come to Lena for help, for extra guidance, and suddenly she felt as if she’d just been thrown to the wolves.

“Not all of it,” Lena shook her head. “You can find different techniques, different safe words, different ways to train and discipline and punish. But the care, the concern, you don’t ever unlearn that, Kara. You never stop caring; you never stop making the well-being of your submissive the number one priority of your life, have I made myself clear?”

Kara grinned a little even as the tone made her shiver again. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Lena stood up and crossed the floor to Kara, placing her hands on the girl’s shoulder and gently kissing her forehead. “You’re a Dominant,” she said. “It’s here,” she tapped Kara’s temple. “And you need to act with your head first, because you don’t want to hurt her. But more importantly, you have to know with what’s in here.” She gently tapped Kara’s heart. “Here is where you’ll find what you need. And if what you need is her, then that’s where you’ll also find what she needs. Because what she’ll need, more than any discipline, more than any rules, more than anything else, is you.”

“When did you get so wise?” Kara asked with a sniff, laughing a little as a tear streaked down her cheek.

“Right about the time two girls came into my life. You might know one of them, a loud little blonde who’s far too stubborn for her own good?”

Kara smiled when Lena wiped the tears from her face with her thumbs. “And the other?” She grew serious as she asked, “She makes you happy?”

Now it was Lena’s turn to blush and duck her head. “Yes, yes she does,” she said, and moved with Kara to sit back on the couch.

“Tell me about her.”

“Sure you don’t want to see her?” Lena asked with a smirk. “She won’t mind being looked at.”

Kara’s mouth dropped open in shock. “No, no, that’s okay,” she said hastily. “I’m sure she won’t mind being looked at, but I rather mind looking.” She grinned a little sheepishly. “I’m afraid there’s only one girl I have my eye on.”

“And does this girl know you’re here?”

“Not yet. But she will.”

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#kara danvers x reader #kara danvers imagine #kara danvers #lena luthor #supergirl #supergirl imagine #supergirl x reader #melissa benoist #kara zor-el x reader #kara zor el #wlw #wlw imagine

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stvrbvrn · 5 years ago

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ａｎ　ａｎｄｒｏｍｅｄａ　ｉｎｔｒｏ－ｐｏｓｔ

* ╰ zoey deutch ; 17 ; she/her —— wow, andromeda black sure has changed. i guess she is feeling isolated from the other slytherin members. guess you can’t really blame them. i still remember them being so independent & steely now they just seem secretive & cynical. guess being a pureblood isn’t helping matters much either. i’m hopeful though. they’ll be just fine.

you can contact me on here in those dms, or my discord is @ alex //#7484

character inspiration: sansa stark (got), astrid leong-teo (crazy rich asians), aphrodite (greek myth)

whelve: (v) to bury something deep, to hide

she’s a warm laugh on a cold morning ; the flick of a wrist ; the gentle clink of pearls ; lipstick smudged on the lip of a glass ; an empty, echoing hall in a museum ; fresh mists of expensive perfume ; delicate fingers brushing aside wisps of hair ; pointed heels abandoned at the bottom of a staircase ; half filled decanters ; a thorn pricking an unsuspecting fingertip ; the slow build of a concerto ; the slam of a heavy door

so this is my girl, my lovely queennnnn

living the high life and hating every moment of it

she can’t find it in her to burn as fiery as bella’s strength or run as cold as cissa’s icy resilience. she is a shadow, a hazy mirror of each sister. similar and yet pale in comparison.

she has always been lukewarm, tepid, medium, her life a long and distressing line of just fine. thank u very much. even as her deepest secrets, dreams, and thoughts boil and bubble beneath the surface of a superficially perfect life.

if anyone were to care enough to ask, she is grateful for her lot in life. a smile always quick to slide into place, polished and content for the pre-destined plan. with her current family a shambles, she is afraid to even think of putting together a new family, the arranged marriage in her future is as terrifying as it is inevitable. she feels as though she will lose everything, her family name, the constant presence of her sisters, and her childhood. her hesitation and dread surely caused by a demotion in title and status after all the notoriety that comes with being a black. surely nothing else more sinister and horribly selfish.

she can’t imagine she shall ever be happy. why should she be? indoctrinated as she is, she has eyes. everything she has witnessed could never be called ideal, as much as it was framed that way. warmth never lived in her mother or father’s heart for her. she sees and knows it, even as she struggled for some glimpse of approval that never came. what is it that they see that she didn’t want them to, something weak and dissatisfied and miserable. but then maybe she simply wasn’t looking hard enough. maybe the next time she blinks she will see something new in their gaze that will assuage the building gap.

the finer things enamor her, and not just the beauty of a delicate fabrics and rich color of wine but also art, history, music. each note and brush stroke a promise that there is something out there. something even better than what she silently resents. if only she were brave enough to seek it

an escapist in all facets, andromeda consumes and absorbs the things around her like a sponge, in search of something. anything to fill a space inside her chest that only widens and yawns at her efforts. she lacks for nothing and often balks at her own greed and dissatisfaction. but “a golden cage is still a cage” each small glimmer of happiness fading the moment it comes

andromeda is an observer. her eyes opened and lips tightly sealed. she sees and dangerously pieces together her own understanding rather than swallow the bitter pill handed to her. she sees and in some cases, judges.

her friends call her dro, or they would if she had any. jkjk she has friends at varying levels of trust. she could never quite commit to complete isolation, her observations fascinating enough to draw her into the fray. her small collection of those she enjoys betraying a weakness in her incredulity. (also bring on any other nicknames that that monstrosity of a name brings to mind. she’ll most likely pretend to hate all of them)

beneath her doubt, her fear of the unknown. she is a hopeless romantic gone to rot. she is distant, as untouchable as a masterpiece in the museum that is her picture perfect life. a thing more suitable for admiration than intimacy.

there is a feeling that no matter your connection to andromeda, that no matter your efforts, there is always something hidden within that she is keeping to herself. and it’s true. there is nothing andromeda would willingly show that she didn’t want people to see.

difficult to reach, to understand. she prefers it this way. guilt and shame shoving down the better parts of her self beneath the mask she is meant to be. the her that her parents beat her into, beat into all three of them with varying success.

while it’s true she is haughty. impatient. a temperamental black. a life of pampering and promises forever ingrained in her world view. while good for her self-worth, it is probably off putting to some. there are at times promises of goodness, she can be thoughtful. intelligent. even driven to empathy when faced with tears, pain calling out to something inside her.

but if there’s anything her family’s mutilated tree has taught her, to bloom is to die. she pictures his escape and subsequent increase in happiness to be the height of abandonment, of betrayal. how dare he leave (without her). how dare he leave her wanting and missing and heartbroken. she truly misses sirius and her head spins, chest aching and eyes burning at the thought of him. yet as always, she goes to great lengths to never reveal her secrets, instead giving her true feelings no form. buried while she looks on in envy and deeply buried hope. the boy thoughtlessly laying a path towards something selfish but impossibly enticing.

while hope is not her strong suit, andromeda is (to her great chagrin and misery) capable of extreme and consuming love. love of beauty and things. love for her sisters. but also her cousin. but mostly, herself. loyalties warring in her heart and tearing at a shaky resolve. at this rate, were someone else to steal one of the splintered, scattering pieces in her chest, it would be the end. the final straw for her unhappiness to be complete.

connections:

girl gang – give her all the best friends. the nicole to her paris. soul sisters. ovaries before brovaries. hymen heroines. those hoes she lives and breathes for. i think typically this would be fellow slytherins or ppl that she met through pureblood high society connections. OPEN

ex-boyfriend/girlfriend – ew this makes me sad and emotions are hard to deAL. basically this will be all angst city. most likely andromeda would be the one to break things off since she wasnt always as skeptical of that familial pressure. depending on how their relationship was, she could regret it or be cold about it. OPEN

rival/frenemies – these two are just too similar to get along. toxic pureblood society has pitted them against each other and no one is winning. okay but if they went from enemies, to reluctant respect, to almost friends?? MAYBE EVEN FRIENDS EVENTUALLY?? i would be here for it asdlk OPEN

confidante – andromeda isn’t honest with anyone, not even herself. but this could be someone that she’s probably known for a long time who she possibly could’ve opened up to in a weak moment and now they’re bonded forever. she would feel indebted to this person for keeping her secrets and would do her best to protect them any way that she could. extra feelings if this person feels the same way and they can be sad, but also cLOSE, together. OPEN

secret school friend – maybe they were forced partners as prefects or a fateful potions class but andromeda found herself making a surprising friend in an unexpected place. she can’t help admiring their beautiful inner persistence/strength despite her reluctance and occasional snobbery. but now they’re older and she really should cut things off. for whatever reason, she just can’t let go. OPEN

banter partner – alright so this would be someone from the other side of the war that andromeda runs into all the time and they always seem to get into arguments! she’s not quite sure why they get under her skin but andromeda finds it difficult to step away from their confrontations. OPEN

muse – listennnn. this person would be someone that andromeda would just be enamored with, she would regard them very highly and make efforts to speak with them and be around them. if this person were on the other side of the war she would probably resent them a little but be unable to resist. i’ll probably just spring this on somebody tbh?? since the relationship would be based on her own tastes. but this would be someone that andromeda would admire for their appearance– sure, but also for the aura that they project.

but yes!! msg me if you’d like to plot and i’m honestly open to any connections!! her past is pretty open ended and she hasn’t quite left her family just yet so she could have loyalties all over the place

#* ∘⡊ ☾ ˚⊹ ι ωαηт тσ gινє уσυ мσяє. вυт ησт єνєяутнιηg. уσυ ∂ση’т ηєє∂ єνєяутнιηg. ⊹ — { about }#incantareintro

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lesbian-ed · 6 years ago

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My girlfriend broke up with me two nights ago. She said she still loves me but she rushed into a relationship and needs time to “figure herself out”. She still wants to be friends and I don’t want to lose her in my life. She said she doesn’t want me to wait for her but once she figures everything out and we both still want it we could get back together. I don’t want to wait for her to want me again but it’s really hard to not feel that hope. There’s not a question here I just want some advice

Let me tell you right off that I’ve been in a painfully similarsituation, Anon, so that perhaps it soothes you to know that I speakfrom experience.

First off, this is a recent event. A two nights’difference is still very fresh and I imagine you’re still reelingfrom this development, so although I know you’re going to overlookit I’m going to say it anyway: try to stay calm. There’s no userunning up to her and grovelling and throwing yourself down beforeher in desperation; if she’s called for a time-off, if she said sheneeds some space and some time to think, you need to allow her asmuch. It’s already more positive than negative that both of youseem interested in continuing in one another’s lives regardless ofthe outcome (keep that in mind!) and it’s even better that she hashad the tact and the care to not expect you to wait on her. This far,despite the confusion and the emotions, you’re both actually doingvery well from the little info you’ve given.

On the other hand, the possibility left in the air iscertain to cause anguish. Even when that sort of hope it’s notgiven, break-ups that happen like this, seemingly out of the blue,tend to leave this aftertaste of ‘well, maybe not now, but someday!’ that can be more of a hindrance than a help precisely becausethere’s no telling when (or if) this day will come. Whichisn’t to say you should just abandon all hope and fall into thearms of the first woman that crosses your path – although, truth betold, this isn’t the sort of hope that will do you much good in thelong run either. Obviously, eachcase is its own case but, all in all, if a partner feels she needs tostep back for a bit, then she must, she will, and there is noguarantee whatsoever that she will step forth again despite whateversigns might spring up in this little unpredictable intermezzo.It’s good to not want towait on her, to decide that, if someone else shows up, if sparks fly,then you’re not obliged to pass up on the opportunity. You don’towe her your time in this aspect and neither should you – neitherof you, in honesty. Which is probably a weird thought, but also themost fair.

My personal advicewould be to focus on maintaining a line of contact, on keeping upwith the friendship and companionship you have since that is whatboth of you have in common in regards to this relationship right now;the affection is there, whichever nature it might have oneither side, and that’susually worth hanging on to. It might be painful some days (and if itgets overwhelming – and it might – you, too, have every right toask for some time and space for yourself) and it might seempointless, but that depends on point of view: it seems pointless ifyou’re looking at it as a hopeful partner, as a lovestruck womanwaiting for signs of reciprocation when in fact you should be lookingat it as a caring friend, an intimate acquaintance (considering howyou would like to keep her in your life, I’m guessing this is anangle that shouldn’t be unfamiliar to you). You’llboth have to work on remodelling barriers between yourselves, testingthe waters more or less constantly to figure out what’s morecomfortable for both of you in this moment as well as those to follow andyou’ll both need to do quite a strenuous effort to be mindful ofwhere you are at the moment, trying to recall what each of you feels – which, of course, becomes an easier task ifyou, as I said, maintain contact and keep communication open.

Now, since she’sgoing to ‘figure herself out’, it might be that she won’t knowvery well what to tell you about her feelings oreven what to say at all, soit’s best not to push too much. When I say there’s effortinvolved, it doesn’t mean spending the twenty-four hours of everyday worrying about this! The less you can worry,the better, really. Take the time she’s allotting to herself andgive yourself some of it, too. Take care of yourself, do things youenjoy, don’t let this situation eat at you or you willgo mad. I know it’s hard to avoid sleepless nights in the earlydays, but things will settle eventually and you have to allowyourself to seek that settlement. Thesilence and the distance don’t last forever if the intention toremain close is true, so seek comfort beingkind to your heart and feelings, but doing what you can to be moreof a realist than an optimist.

Sometimes even ourmost realistic approach will reveal some sort of overlyoptimistic view of a possibleoutcome and that’s fine, but the moment you anchor yourself to hopeand aching instead ofwhat you actually have in front of you, in the palm of your hand(which is to say the connection you two have), you’re feedingyourself to the lions and there will be more suffering in store foryou than what you can bear because you would be holding out for adream, for a desire, an ideainstead of what’s concrete, what’s real.Your mutual fondness exists, whereas the relationship you had in thestatus that it held does not – not for the moment, perhaps, but itis the moment that concerns us the most, not the past nor the future.Right now, this iswhat is going on, this is where you are.

And there’s noshame in that, there is noshame in experiencing thepain that comes along withthese things. You’reallowed to feel it, all the feelings that come along,as long as you don’t let them skewer what is – I repeat – real.If you have another friend who has your back, a confidante, I suggestyou open up to them. Not in search of suggestions or guidelines ofwhat to do now because, truly, nobody can tell you what to do or howto act (I myself cannot and if I am speaking in the imperative it isperhaps because I more or less imagine my youngerself in your shoes ratherthan wanting to impart my ‘wisdom’ for you to follow blindly),but just to be able to get things off your chest. Talking cansometimes be very helpful in organising our thoughts and feelings.If, however, you don’t have anyone you trust with yourvulnerabilities, I would suggest writing – which is perhaps an evenbetter medium to externalise what is going on inside you and makesense of it all. You don’t need to write beautifully, you don’tneed to keep it or show it to anyone, you don’t even need to followthrough with whatever decisions you might come up with in the act ofsetting down your mind to paper (I’m old school, pen and paper arepart of my craft; if typing is your thing, make sure to lock thefile, although I will always defend the greater cathartic power ofink on paper… But that’s up to you, and even so only if you tryyour hand at this!) you justneed to get it out.Even if you don’t know what ‘it’ is, you’ll probably needsome sort of escape valve, a means to give you relief through thesecircumstances.

Because it isn’teasy and I’ll tell you that however much we might cut off ouremotions and let our brains lead us forth in the aftermath of thissort of event, that hope rarely ever dies altogether. Since there isno actual closure, no definitive good-byes, hope lurks behind theeyes, it rests under the ribs, gets caught up in our throats, justready to pounce when the slightest hint of romantic love (orsomething we interpret that way) appears. And that’s not an easycurse to live with –

But it’s notimpossible or unbearable either. What you think of what happens,what you feel about it all will depend on your priorities, your wayof looking at life and your heart. I think that as long as you staytrue to yours and respect hers (and as long as she respects yours aswell!), things can find their way. Not their way back,mind, for there’snever a going back –but forwards, whether you do end up together in ten years’ time ornot.

As always, Ioverextend myselfand I apologise for yet another mammoth of an answer wherein youmight find nothing to help you. I hope some portion of it is useful,though; if you take anything out of it, let it be this: breathe. Livein the present as much as you can, ground yourself in the now andfocus onand celebrate what you have. You, individually, as well as what bothof you have together.Be mindful, be kind, be patient (with yourself!) and don’t try toswim against the current when it’s clearly going to overpower you –sometimes we need to let our weight follow the stream a bithaphazardly, to get detoured for a while in order to eventuallyget to the other side of the river.

It’s not the endof the world, Anon, even ifit seems that way at times.You’ll be fine whateverhappens. If nothing else, at the very least you’ll both have awonderful friendship in sometime and that is notsomething to throw away. Focuson the good you have (but likewise don’t be afraid to discardthings if they are no longer good).

All my love andsympathy to you.

/Mod T

#Anonymous #break up #break ups #time off #relationship advice #relationships #answered asks #mod t

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unfolded73 · 5 years ago

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Even the Orchestra in Beautiful (1/1) - schitt’s creek ff

Alexis and Patrick friendship, with a little bit of David x Patrick at the end. Set the day after the events of “Life is a Cabaret.” Rated Gen, 1900 words.

(ao3 link)

___________________________________________________

He was humming, an almost-bounce to his step as he let himself into the theater. Patrick Brewer was not a bouncy person as a rule, but right now his life felt like it was going so well that he could barely contain himself. The store was thriving, the man he loved was going to marry him, and opening night of the play had gone fantastically. Most of the customers in the store that afternoon had heard the engagement news and were effusive in their well-wishes for him and David, or told him they had tickets for the play on one of its remaining nights. By now, Patrick’s cheeks ached from smiling so much.

He’d arrived at the theater well before call, planning to do a quick run-through of his lines; the giddy buzzing in his brain was so intense that he was a little bit terrified he’d walk out on stage tonight and forget everything he was supposed to say. He knew the lines, the choreography, the blocking -- it was all in there, but he feared he wouldn’t be able to summon it when the time came. A quiet moment to take some deep breaths and get into character was what he needed.

“Oh my God!” A feminine voice shouted, and Patrick skidded to a halt in the door of the dressing room.

“Alexis!” He tried not to sound too disappointed that anyone had beaten him to the theater. “What are you doing here so early?”

She shrugged, clearly as put out by not being alone as he was, and flopped down at the makeup table. “I needed some extra time to put on my face,” she said, picking up a bottle of foundation and shaking it. Alexis had her skimpy costume for the opening number on already, but the dramatic eye makeup had yet to make an appearance.

“How’s your mom?” he asked, pulling his costume off the rack and stepping behind the dressing screen set up in the room. He hadn’t seen Moira since her meltdown in the motel, the news that her movie had been shelved cutting short his and David’s engagement celebration.

Alexis didn’t answer, but Patrick didn’t really need her to. David and Alexis had been texting while he was at the store that day, so he already knew the histrionics to which Moira had been subjecting her husband and daughter. David was back at the motel even now, taking over babysitting their mother so that Alexis could get away. He suspected that was the true explanation for Alexis escaping to the theater early.

“David said you had a tough day,” Patrick prodded while he pulled his jeans off.

He heard Alexis snort. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Do you think she’ll be here tonight?” The director didn’t really need to be at the theater once the show was in production, especially since they had Jocelyn to lead them in vocal warm-ups and give them a pep talk. But it would still be weird, Moira not being backstage.

“She hasn’t gotten out of bed all day, so I doubt it.”

He finished getting dressed in silence. The first time Patrick had put on this costume, he’d felt a bit ridiculous. There had been a reason, after all, that he’d auditioned for Cliff and not the Emcee; Patrick felt like a Cliff, not like someone who could pull off this kind of creepy, hyper-sexualized character in a costume that was at least gently suggestive of bondage gear. But Moira Rose (his future mother-in-law! he remembered with a grimace) was not to be argued with, and he let himself get swept up in her whirlwind of compliments. He’d had a lot of doubts between then and now, but those doubts had been largely allayed. David wasn’t embarrassed by his performance at least, which was high praise.

Smiling to himself, Patrick emerged from behind the screen and sat down next to Alexis in front of the lighted mirrors. He watched as she expertly applied thick liner around her eyes, fascinated in the way that watching anyone performing a skill is fascinating.

It was while studying her reflection that he noticed her bloodshot eyes.

“Alexis, are you all right?”

She stopped and shot him a simpering smile. “I’m fine.”

“Because if there’s anything I can do to help--”

“No. Nope! I’m cool… good. I’m good.”

He knew Alexis well enough now to know what it looked like when she was covering up how miserable she felt. He was already starting to feel like a protective older brother to her, as if he and David were already married and she was truly his sister-in-law. But if she didn’t want to talk to him, he couldn’t force it.

Patrick started working on his own makeup, letting the silence between them stretch out and fill the room.

Alexis finally smacked her eyeliner pen down on the table. “It’s just, no matter what I do I’m going to be letting someone down!”

Inclining his head to one side, Patrick met Alexis’ eyes in the mirror and raised an eyebrow.

“If I go on the trip with Ted, then I’m leaving my mom and my family behind like I always used to do when I was a kid. And my family really needs me right now! But if I don’t meet Ted in the Galapagos like we planned, then he’ll think I’m just flaking out on him again.” She flopped her hands around in the air in front of her before picking up a mascara tube. “Either way, I’m irresponsible and unreliable.” Those two words carried the weight of every time Alexis must have heard them said about herself.

“If you want to go, then David and your parents will understand that this trip is important for you and Ted.”

“David will just remind me of all the other times that he had to take care of Mom because I wasn’t around.”

“And if you don’t want to go, then Ted will understand that you feel the need to put your family first right now.”

“Yeah, maybe Ted would understand because he’s the most patient, understanding person on the planet, except that I’ve dumped him before! Twice!”

Patrick winced. “Oh yeah.”

“So if he’s thousands of miles away, living in some tent and eating, I don’t know, goji berries and granola or whatever, and he gets a text from me saying that I’m not coming, is he really going to think logically about my priorities? Or is he just going to assume I bailed on him?”

Ted might think that, Patrick thought, especially since he couldn’t really imagine Alexis in a tent eating goji berries or whatever. Also he wasn’t sure Ted would have access to text messages. Patrick tried to give her a reassuring smile. “Ted loves you. Your family loves you.”

“Ugh!” She leaned close to the mirror and went back to her makeup, apparently unsatisfied with Patrick’s performance as a confidante.

Not for the first time, Patrick felt frustration with Moira that her adult children had to plan their lives around whether they were giving their mother enough attention. While he was sure she was legitimately gutted by what had happened with her movie, he also knew Moira was probably reveling in the focus she was getting from her husband and kids, and she was likely milking it for all it was worth. While Mrs. Rose often showed affection for her family, more now than when Patrick had first gotten to know David, she was still a fundamentally selfish person.

“I think you should go on the trip,” he said finally, focusing on his own eyeliner and pointedly not looking at Alexis.

She didn’t respond at first, which made Patrick think she was still mad at him, but then finally she said in a small voice. “What if I don’t want to go?”

“Then… I think you need to ask yourself why not.”

Alexis reached over and pawed at his arm until he moved the eyeliner away from his face. “Here, let me do that, you’re hopeless,” she said, turning his chair to face her.

“I’m not hopeless,” Patrick grumbled, but he submitted to Alexis anyway, admitting at least to himself that she’d be better at applying his eyeliner than he was.

“I need to be here to help plan your wedding,” she said with a tiny smile.

“We haven’t even set a date yet. You’ll be back in plenty of time to help plan the wedding.” Patrick was suddenly struck by how different it felt, talking about his wedding with David than it had been when he was engaged to Rachel, when any mention of his eventual wedding sent him spiraling into a near panic attack. Now he was excited. Happy.

“Look at the ceiling,” Alexis murmured, and Patrick let her work in silence for a bit. Finally she said, “I’m afraid. About the trip.”

“I’m sure you can outrun those giant turtles, Alexis, even in high heels.”

“Ha ha,” she said, giving Patrick the same sneer she often gave her brother, and it oddly warmed his heart. “No, I’m afraid that a trip like this is just going to show Ted that I’m not… that we’re not right for each other.”

“How so?”

“Because I’m not good at that stuff! Outdoorsy stuff. Animal stuff. I’m afraid I’m gonna get there and I’m going to do something stupid, or I’ll be unable to hide the fact that I hate it, and Ted is going to decide that I’m not worth it.”

“Alexis, I don’t know who Givenchy is or why it matters. David thinks a double play is a sex thing.”

“Eww.”

He rolled his eyes. “My point is, you can be very different people and still make it work. Ted knows who you are. If he truly loves you, then seeing you roughing it is not going to change that. Neither is a few months of separation, if it comes to that.”

Alexis looked down at her lap. “Thanks, Patrick.”

~*~

“Hey,” he said into the phone. “How’s your mother?”

“Ugh, don’t ask.” David blew out a breath. “I thought you’d be warming up your voice by now.”

“Yeah, Jocelyn is rounding everyone up.” Patrick glanced around at the chaos of the dressing room. “I just wanted to tell you I love you.”

“You didn’t need to call me just to say that.”

“I know. I wanted to.” Patrick stepped out into the hallway. “I wanted to make sure that you knew that I love everything about you, even the stuff that you think makes you difficult. I love that you’re difficult.”

“What brought this on?” David’s voice broke a little bit on the question.

“Nothing,” he said. There was no time to get into Alexis’ issues right now, and it was her story to tell anyway. “Just don’t ever doubt my love for you. Okay?”

“Okay.” David sniffled. “I wish I was there to see you tonight.”

“You don’t need to come to every performance, David; it’s perfectly fine.”

“I know, but I like watching you.”

“Oh, you like watching me,” Patrick said with a grin.

“On stage. But, okay, yes, also in other places.” David exhaled loudly, like he was shaking the conversation off before it got too intimate. Neither of them had the time for that. “Anyway, good luck.”

“It’s ‘break a leg’.”

“Break a leg, honey.”

#schitt's creek #schitt's creek ff #david & alexis #david x patrick #david x patrick ff #my fic

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shelivesinthewoods · 6 years ago

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The Apple (Sinclaire x MC)

Desire and Decorum Mr. Sinclaire x MC (Isabel Fairfield)

Word count: 1600

Rating: fluff - g

Tagging: @katurrade & @tinygooplandroad & @choices-september-challenge

I think this also will fall into the category for the September 5 Challenge of ‘Fight’ hosted by @i-dream-so-i-write

As we all know, I own nothing, I’m just borrowing Pixelberrys lovely characters for a few moments! 😊

Isabel Fairfield; the lady of Edgewater; was getting very tired. As a child growing up, the Gentry seemed like everything a young woman could want. Beautiful clothes, intriguing companions, the best of entertainment. That naive girl could not have been more wrong. She had nailed it on the head at the first dinner party of the London season, when she had followed Mr. Sinclaire outside. That he should not have been surprised by their turning his deceased wife into gossip. If only she had known just how right she was. She could have taken the opportunity to run. Oh no, not that she would have. No, Isabel was nothing if not a fighter. Currently the best way to fight the battle was with a sharp smile and an even sharper flip of her fan. The problem was, her weapons were becoming more difficult to wield without the sharpness becoming evident.

There were a few at these gatherings whom she truly did enjoy; Annabelle Parsons had become a very dear friend and confidante. She and Briar were the two whom she could truly speak her mind. Both knew her deepest secrets, wishes and concerns. Two she trusted with everything thst made her who she was. She had a developed a special fondness for both her stepbrother, Mr. Marlcaster as well as Miss Sutton. Edmund had been placed into a bad situation when Isabel had come to Edgewater. His mother had instantly hated her and expected he and his fiancée to do the same. Since she’d known him, she’d done nothing but attempt to be kind... and he’d started to actually talk to her. About Harry, about his concerns about Edgewater and how it made the insecurities he already had worse— that if it weren’t for his mother, he would be happy to let her have it.

In point of fact, she was, at this particular dinner party, chatting cordially with him. Edmund had started out very bland with her, but actually had a surprising wit when he was allowed (or chose) to show it. It had been a very pleasant surprise. “Your dearest friend, Miss Holloway is glaring daggers at you.”

Isabel smirked, as she settled her fan on her lap, “You mean that isn’t how she treats everyone? I must be special in some way.”

Mr. Marlcaster returned her look with a half smile of his own, “I’ve only ever seen her treat *you* that way, but then, never have I seen anyone catch Mr. Sinclaire’s attention as you have.”

Unintentionally, Isabel’s eyes swept the room at his name; silently seeking him out in the cluster of people. Unsurprisingly, he was in the group the Viscount Westonly was a part of— what was surprising was that instead of listening to the nobles story, his gaze was on her. She supposed Miss Holloway’s glare was slightly more understandable now. She felt her cheeks heat as she gave him a small closed lip smile. He had the propensity to make her feel like the girl she was before. Bashful, flustered, beautiful. The things a man should be able to conjure within a woman. The small smile grew to a smirk as her attention came back to the fan perched on her lap. She lifted it, opening it half way, over her face, indicating ‘we are being watched over.’ She looked toward Miss Holloway who was now, watching him. Nodding once, he returned his attention to whatever it was the Viscount had been saying.

“It appears he has garnered yours as well.” Edmund mused, chuckling low in his throat when her attention snapped back to him guiltily. “Mr. Sinclaire has always been a polite, quiet man, Isabel, but I have never seen him show the same regard for someone as I have for you... I was present when he courted Lady Adelia. Even then.”

Her thoughts turned hopeful, as while he hadn’t made his intentions clear, Isabel had grown very fond of the seemingly grumpy man. He had shown her kindness and a self depreciating sense of humor and a thirst for doing what he felt was right. He had defended her, befriended her. Maybe one day...

Her pleasant thought was cut off by Miss Holloway laughing loudly, saying, “By all means, I would never say a bad word about her, but her mother was an clearly unscrupulous tart. One must simply pity her for growing and being raised in that way. Though, I will presume the apple is unlikely to grow far from the tree.” Her voice carried over the low music. Over the din of voices conversing around them. Everything stopped for a long moment.

Isabel’s eyebrows had arched, her lips pulled into an unpleasant line, her teeth locked. Edmund, directly in front of her looked concerned. “Isabel—“ he started as she stood, turning on her heel, her left hand curled into a fist. Their snide insinuations, she could handle. An outright insult to her departed mother was entirely too much. The woman had followed her heart. Followed love. Given up everything for her father— for her. To have that sacrifice treated as an insult... she could not.

In that moment, everything was hazed in red, until someone stepped in front of her. A hand at the base of her back, the other on one elbow, “Lady Isabel, a moment?” She faltered a moment. Stopped. Had to think a moment because she wanted nothing more than to lash out at someone. *He* didn’t deserve it.

Her voice was rough when she finally got out, “Pardon me a moment, it feels a bit warm in here.” She turned almost on her heel as she strode to the door. She over heard a height tittering giggle, from Miss Holloway.

She had pulled the door shut behind her, having only thought to get away; but she believed she heard someone starting to say, “How dare you?”

On the balcony, the put her hands on the railing, wrapping her hands around until her fingernails bit into her palms. The door closed a second time. She was taking deliberately slow deep breaths, unconvinced she would be able to say anything civil, let alone kind. Two more deep breaths, then, “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” She said softly.

“You are doing a fine job, Lady Isabel. Pay no mind to what the likes of Miss Holloway says.”

“Says the man who also gets angry when the dead are brought up.”

“That is... That is a well made point. You have shown me though; fight them with your actions, Isabel, not with violence or words. You are wiser than you should be allowed at your age. Don’t let her twist you into someone that you are not. You’ve brought about change. Those like her are afraid of it.”

“Stop it.” She replied shortly, “I know my worth to those people. Three months before now and none of them would have looked twice at me, much less given me the time of day. Yourself included.”

“That’s possibly true of them. I cannot say the same for myself, I nearly stopped in Grovershire that first day. You were lovely; and I was quite smitten even then. You are changing us. It was your stepbrother who stood for you in there. Do you believe he would have dared if you hadn’t fought for his friendship? His respect? This seems unlike you.”

She frowned, but her shoulders relaxed a little. “I can’t stand it when they talk that way about her. She always did her best by me. She tried *so* hard, Ernest.”

“If she was half the fighter you are, I imagine she was a force to be reckoned with.” He paused, “I believe that is the first time you’ve called me by my given name.” One of her hands went to her mouth in shock, “Finally.” He stepped closer to her, and cautiously pressed a gentle chaste kiss to her forehead, but let his lips rest there a moment as he murmured, “You have done fine here. Please don’t give up. I—um— we— could t bear it if you left.”

She sighed, nodding once as he backed away, “You’re right. I can do this. You’ll help me?”

“Always.”

“Alright, so first... which of us gets to be the one tell her the turn of phrase is ‘the apple doesn’t *fall* far from the tree?’”

#desire & decorum #playchoices #september challenge #fight #mc x ernest sinclaire #mr. sinclaire

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paladinwife · 6 years ago

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I finished the Ishtar fic! In hindsight, choosing to write something so dialogue heavy was a poor decision.

Ishtar finds a new confidante in my s/i. Friends to lovers, SFW. This music fits surprisingly well.

A sudden knock at the door interrupted Mira just as she was about to settle in and sleep; a soft, timid knock, as if the person on the other side of her door was fearful that someone else would hear. She couldn’t help thinking of how odd this was; she certainly wasn’t expecting someone to be looking for at this hour, as most of the people in the barracks had long since fallen asleep while she was still hard at work preparing strategies. It also didn’t sound like how Alfonse or Sharena would knock, or even Anna; none of them would be so timid or concerned. But who else could it be?

“Just a minute,” she called to this mysterious visitor. She stood, taking a moment to straighten her nightgown and take a deep breath. She found herself nervous, but also unsure of why; perhaps it was just because this was so unusual. Finally, she opened the door just a bit, and her eyes widened at the sight.

It certainly wasn’t Sharena, or Alfonse, or Anna. In fact, it was someone she never would have expected to come see her, least of all so late during the night. Before her stood Ishtar, goddess of thunder, her appearance less than noble. Her long lavender hair, normally immaculately styled, was loose and slightly disheveled. Her own nightgown, as well, was rumpled - had she been struggling to sleep? Her face showed signs of her lack of sleep. Seeing her like this was shocking, and Mira suspected that there must be a very serious reason she had come to her like this.

“I… apologize for my appearance.” She was embarrassed, clearly.

“That’s alright. Is something the matter?” Her eyes were soft. Ishtar sighed quietly.

“I haven’t been able to sleep. I think I need to talk to someone.” She hesitated. “I apologize for waking you for this.”

“It’s fine, Ishtar.” Her voice was soft. She sat on her bed, patting the spot next to her. “So what has been bothering you?” Ishtar took a deep breath.

“Have you ever regretted something you’ve done?”

Mira paused for a moment to think. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve… I’ve made mistakes in my past. I knew they were wrong at the time, and yet I still made them. They weigh on me oppressively, it seems. I thought I would be able to move on, and yet now…” Her voice trailed off.

Mira looked serious. “So you feel trapped, you’re saying?” Ishtar nodded.

“I suppose you could put it that way.”

Mira paused, trying to gather her thoughts. “But you’re not really trapped, are you?” Ishtar looked confused. “Those actions in your past, you left them far behind in Jugdral. They can’t reach you here. Here you have the chance to leave them behind and make something new of yourself.” She smiled. “I mean, I never judged you. And I doubt anyone else did.”

“Do you… do you really think that?” Tears had begun to well in the corners of Ishtar’s eyes. She wiped at them quickly, struggling to hide the signs of her emotion. Her companion silently nodded.

“You’re here somewhere new. You don’t have to be bound by the past anymore. Now you can choose a different path.”

Ishtar paused, breathing deeply and trying to steady herself. “Thank you, truly. I think that helped me.” She rose from the bed. “I will leave you to your rest now. Farewell.” Before Mira could say anything, she quietly left, shutting the door behind her. Mira shut her eyes, having to calm herself just as much.

She never thought she’d see her like this.

~~~

A few nights later, the timid knock returned, and with it returned a very fragile looking Ishtar.

“Mira? Would you mind if I spoke with you again?” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft still. Mira responded by scooting over on the bed and making room.

“Thoughts keeping you up again?” Ishtar nodded grimly.

“I thought about what you said, about not being trapped. I can’t help but feel like I’m bound to these mistakes forever. And Julius…” She went quiet.

Mira paused before she spoke again. “Is this about him?”

Tears quickly filled her eyes again, faster than she could brush them away. Mira began stroking her hair, quietly speaking to her. In truth, she was panicked. She never knew how to handle crying, and seeing her friend like this hurt deeply. But she had to try.

Soon, Ishtar’s sniffles stopped and the streams of tears down her cheeks slowed. She could still barely bring herself to look Mira in the eye, visibly humiliated by such an unbecoming display of emotion. And yet, when she finally spoke, that wasn’t what came out of her mouth. Instead she said:

“Do you mind if I hug you?” A quiet sniffle punctuated her sentence. Mira responded by opening her arms. Ishtar hesitantly reached for her, resting her face against the other woman’s shoulder as her arms wrapped around her. The room was silent for a moment, with nothing but the soft sounds of the night outside.

“...I am sorry. I truly am.” Ishtar’s voice shook with emotion and embarrassment. Mira gently stroked her back.

“You don’t need to apologize to me. I just want you to feel better.”

~~~

Ishtar’s visits, once unusual, had quickly become a regular part of Mira’s evening routine. Instead of her coming only when she was struggling with insomnia, she would visit most nights just to speak with her. The two would chat for hours, about life, the other Heroes, their thoughts, anything that came to mind.

So it was very unusual when Ishtar again appeared at her door, her eyes serious and her lips pulled into a tight line.

“Is everything alright, Ishtar?” She asked.

“...I need to discuss something with you. Something very serious.”

Concern bubbled in Mira’s gut. Had something happened? Or maybe she did something wrong? She had no idea. Ishtar entered the room, sitting with her on the bed like they had every night. She took a deep, audible breath before speaking.

“I am going to end my relationship with Julius tomorrow.”

Mira’s eyes widened as she was caught off guard. She knew they had discussed Julius before, but she never expected this.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” she asked dumbly. Ishtar nodded.

“Absolutely certain.”

“I-in that case, I’m definitely here to support you.”

Ishtar’s face still looked so serious.

Mira spoke again. “Was that what you wanted to tell me? If so, I’m-”

“Well, truthfully, it was not just that. I plan on leaving him, true. But there was something else I needed to say.”

She hesitated, struggling to free the words from her throat.

“Is something wrong?” Ishtar took a breath.

“Mira, I did not just want to leave Julius to free myself. In truth, I’ve developed feelings for someone else.”

Mira looked confused. “Who is it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’ve… I’ve really appreciated you being here for me recently. Having someone I can talk to like this is so new, and it took me until now to realize just how much you mean to me.” A slight stammer showed itself in her words. Mira herself was frozen in shock. “I think these feelings are more than just friendship, and I haven’t felt this way in some time. I feel that I shouldn’t go any longer hiding this from you.” She hesitated. “I’m in love with you.”

Mira stared, desperately hoping for words to come when they wouldn’t. “I…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Ishtar quickly interjected. “I understand if you don’t feel the same.”

“No, that’s not…” Now it was Mira’s term to stammer and struggle. “I… I think I feel the same.” The two looked at each other, sharing the shock and confusion, but underneath the turmoil, something warmer.

“To tell you the truth, I wasn’t prepared for you to share.” Ishtar laughed, nervously, but with the slightest joyful note that was not lost in Mira. A smile quickly spread across Mira’s face.

“If that’s what you want from me, I will stay by your side wherever you choose to go.”

#my writing #les cygnes noirs (with ishtar)

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creativitytoexplore · 4 years ago

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Who To Call In Case Of Emergency by Marina Rubin https://ift.tt/35BZ5iG Tulip's mundane work environment is brightened by her adventurous, bubbly and promiscuous co-worker; by Marina Rubin.

You can learn a lot about other people's lives when you ask for their emergency contact number. A daunting task Tulip undertook with a mix of idealistic dedication and administrative weariness, when one of her colleagues, a senior underwriter, Didi Estefanos, fainted at work. Everyone ran around the office, scrambling to find a number for her next of kin as she lay on the floor unconscious, her feet in thick brown stockings protruding from the partition of her cubicle. As the crowd swayed above her, spewing water on her face and wailing Didi, Didi, someone found her profile on Facebook, tracked down her son and sent him an SOS message. By the time two masculine paramedics rolled in and strapped Didi onto a stretcher, someone was already on the phone with her frantic son, Nicholas, instructing him to meet his mother at Mount Sinai Hospital. "Would you look at that man?" Senna, the new girl from marketing, whispered into Tulip's ear, smiling at a tall paramedic with a sleeve tattoo. "It's true what they say - New York has the best looking men!" Senna had recently relocated from Florida so most of her sentences began with "It's true what they say" and were awe-inspired declarations about her new city. Tulip had seen the tall paramedic before. Twice. Once, when the Operations Manager collapsed with a stroke and, of course, the staff struggled to find his emergency contact number since the one on file in HR was from twenty years ago - his father who had long been gone; and the second time, when one of the salespeople had a seizure while closing a deal on the phone. "What kind of business is this?" the paramedic sneered, shoving consent papers into his EMS bag. "Everybody gets rolled out on a stretcher! What do you people do here?" "Healthcare insurance." Tulip shrugged, failing to see what he was implying. Then she watched Senna, in a surprising display of concern, chase Didi's stretcher down the hall and plunge into the elevator, like a puma, behind the handsome paramedic. Tulip returned to her desk and, as if on a mission, composed a fervent email to the entire department letting them know she was collecting emergency contact numbers, "so we can avoid another Didi situation". In the coming days, emails floated from every direction, from benefit clerks to C-level executives, offering up names and numbers of loved ones: "...My wife Susan... my husband Edward... my brother Boris... my mother Beverly..." hoping they would never be used, the urgent phone calls that would never have to be made. Tulip included her husband George, although he was impossible to reach, a criminal attorney who spent most of his day in court. Tulip's boss, McNally, a devout Catholic and a perpetually angry ex-alcoholic barked, "If I drop dead, I don't want you calling anybody. Let them throw me to the dogs!" As the spreadsheet expanded into several pages and circulated around the office like some kind of a death list, there was still no news of Didi. Some speculated she was in a hospital undergoing observation, while others joked she was already on the beach in Barbados, collecting disability. One morning Senna appeared in Tulip's cubicle and, pressing her body against the grey fabric panel, said enigmatically, "I know you are collecting emergency contact numbers, I'm going to give you my children's father's number." "Sure, that's fine," Tulip replied, not looking up from her computer. "Well, he's my ex-husband, actually," Senna clarified, hanging her face on the divider and staring at Tulip with oval eyes full of longing. "But we are not together; the children are with him though... well, they're in boarding school." An attractive woman in her late 30s with long bleached hair and large breasts, Senna told everyone she had always wanted to live in New York, it had been her life-long dream. She was renting a basement apartment in Brooklyn that she called a dungeon. "It has the allure of a dungeon," she once said at a staff meeting, with tenacity and pride. "I didn't know a dungeon could have allure!" McNally jeered behind her back. But Tulip liked Senna. There was a certain endearing quality to her, she was like one of those porcelain dolls, one minute beautiful in a box in a pastel ballerina skirt and the next ashen and warped, left outside in the rain with one eye broken and a dirty dress. "Actually let me think about it, maybe I will give you someone other than my ex-husband," Senna said broodingly and walked away, bumping into McNally. "What did she want?" McNally asked, dropping off a report on Tulip's desk. "She was giving me her emergency contact number." "Weirdo," McNally hissed and disappeared. Next day Senna told Tulip by the water cooler, "I'll give you my Daddy's number." "Great. Is your father here or in Florida?" "No, he's not my father," Senna laughed. "He's my Daddy... you know, like my master." "You have a master?" "I'm in an S&M relationship," Senna said, beaming. "It's true what they say - you can be and do anything you want in New York!" At home during dinner, Tulip told her husband George about the new girl Senna who apparently had a master. George nodded and yawned, "to each his own." That night in bed, he rolled on top of her and, nuzzling her ear, teased that he was now her master and she better obey him. On Friday, McNally announced that Didi Estefanos was not coming back to work any time soon, she was officially on long-term disability, and no, he didn't know what was wrong with her. The team filed out of the conference room with an intense sense of envy and resentment towards their sick, stay-at-home colleague. Senna came over to Tulip's desk and declared, "I'll give you a different emergency contact number. It's my neighbor..." "What happened to Daddy?" "We had a fight." "I'm sorry to hear that." "He's such an inconsiderate jerk!" Senna confessed, biting her nails. "He set up a date with this girl and forgot to tell me so I could schedule a date for myself too. Who does that?" Tulip shook her head. "I hear you. Men are the worst. My husband won't even put his plate in the dishwasher after he finishes eating." Then she leaned in closer. "So it's kind of like... an open relationship? Sorry, I don't know much about these things." "Open but very committed. We do play dates together and separate, with couples, and singles. It keeps our love fresh and exciting... It's just that he should have given me a heads-up so we could sync our calendars, you know what I mean?" "Right... right," Tulip nodded. "You think it's ok if I give you my neighbor's number?" Senna asked, still agonizing. "Senna, it's just a list! A formality. In case of emergency. If anything should happen to you in the office. Hopefully nothing will happen to you in the office and they won't have to carry you out on a stretcher. Your neighbor's number is just fine! Don't worry." "Of course. Nothing will happen." Senna smiled, holding up tightly crossed fingers. In time, Senna and Tulip became chatty confidantes. When they met in the elevator on Monday mornings, they inquired about each other's weekend. Senna was always eager to share her stories, no matter who was around to hear them - here she was making a guest star appearance at some elite orgy, or dressing up as a bumblebee in a simple threesome. Tulip's weekends lacked the same kind of luster and sensationalism, but still, she kept up conversation by recalling her two days of cooking, cleaning and driving her ten-year old daughter, Abby, to ballet classes and gymnastics. When the two women bumped into each other in the hall, they shared a giggling hi-five. When they met in the kitchen for a snack, they always took a minute to whisper what an insufferable prick their boss, McNally, was and couldn't someone just put him out of his misery. Eventually they discovered they both liked foreign films - naïve romantic comedies starring unattractive yet lovable French men with big noses. They also enjoyed the same kind of music - brooding guitar ballads by Joni Mitchell and Joan Baez. They started having lunch at a little Indian place down the street called Ms. Bombay, where they always ordered the same appetizer, aloo papri chat - chickpeas in tangy sauce - and shared chicken tikka masala, wrapping chunks of meat in Peshwari naan. "Can you believe this naan?" Senna gushed every time. "It has raisins and nuts! Only in New York!" Senna told Tulip about her life back in Sarasota, how she married her high school sweetheart and gave birth in succession to two boys, Chris and Kyle. How she came to be interested in the underground S&M scene; at first her husband joined her at parties at the swingers' club, and when it escalated to dark cellars, chains and fetishes, he opted out, said he was concerned for her safety, but by that time they had nothing in common, and he couldn't stop her. She was still a young, attractive woman and didn't want to live in a matrimonial tomb. So she moved to New York. She met Daddy on-line. "There are websites and user groups for this kind of thing," Senna explained to Tulip, who listened, wide-eyed, her cheeks pudgy from Indian bread infused with nuts. She even told her how she once had sex in suspension, "You haven't had sex until you've done it suspended in the air!" "Ok, stop, please!" Tulip yelled, covering her ears, "I don't think I want to hear any more."

"So you're now friends with the dominatrix?" Tulip's husband George snickered one night, brushing his teeth before bed. "I hope she doesn't recruit you into the world of bondage." "You don't need to worry about that," Tulip laughed. "It's the last thing I would want to try! She is sweet, you know, and amusing. I'm not even sure if what she says is true... But she has this touching enthusiasm for life, New York, sex, even naan! Plus, she is not a dominatrix, honey, she must be a submissive, right? She has a Daddy." George, gurgling mouthwash, muttered something along the lines of you know better, and went into the bedroom tugging at his pajama pants. "Did I tell you I had a date with the paramedic?" Senna broadcasted one day in the kitchen. There were other people around, stirring oatmeal, making coffee, slicing grapefruit. Senna did not care what anyone thought. Tulip often wondered if she did it on purpose, shocked people. "How was it?" Tulip whispered, signaling for Senna to keep it down. "We met for a drink, then went back to his place. It was very vanilla." "Vanilla," Tulip repeated, nervously looking around. That word, the flavor of ice cream she never ordered, came back to her on the train going home to Glen Rock... Vanilla... Was Tulip's life in suburban New Jersey vanilla? As in plain, dull, without flavor or spark? Her job, her marriage, her sex life? Not that she wanted to have sex in suspension, or wear leather in a room full of strangers, hell no, but the thought, as small as a sliver of an almond in a Peshwari naan, nestled between her teeth and would not budge. She was happily married, she loved her husband; when they met in college he was applying to law school and they were such a team, so committed to getting him through it that by the time he graduated and got a job at a prestigious law firm, yes the spark was gone and so was the passion, but this was their joint achievement, a real triumph, plus they already had a beautiful daughter, and Tulip was all gratitude, but that word - vanilla, that sliver of an almond... For their office summer outing the company organized a scavenger hunt. Everyone ran around the Meatpacking district, agonizing over trick questions and looking for clues in the bricks of the buildings and inside the elevators of the overpriced Chelsea Market. "Which structure used to be a church, a nightclub, a shopping mall and now a sports club?" Insurance adjusters and claim processors struggled to answer on a sweltering day in Manhattan. Senna was wearing a pair of tiny jean shorts and high heels as she leaped over cobblestones, solving demanding brainteasers, winking at construction workers and tossing excited exaltations about the history and beauty of the city. "Look at her," McNally grumbled as he trudged alone, behind all the teams, smoking a cigar and scratching his rotund stomach, "the only thing she's missing is a balloon cluster!" Senna's team won. Wearing medals around their necks that looked like chocolate wrapped in gold foil, they celebrated in a seedy bar in Union Square. Tulip had to leave early to attend Abby's ballet recital, so Senna stayed with the analysts from Logistics. Later on she was joined by a petite, dark-haired woman with a wedding ring and a briefcase. "This is my neighbor and lover Francesca," Senna introduced her to a few remaining, intoxicated co-workers. They reported that the two women were fondling each other at the bar until a glistening Mercedes came to pick them up and whisked them to an unknown destination. Next morning Senna told Tulip how sorry she was she missed Francesca, her neighbor and her lover, the one she was telling her about, the one who would be her emergency contact. "It's alright," Tulip insisted, "I don't need to meet your emergency contact." The following week, on Friday, Senna was all pins and needles, awaiting a FedEx delivery. "Have you seen the postman?" she asked every executive assistant, madly dashing towards the reception area to see if anything had arrived. She and Daddy were leaving for the long weekend at an exclusive S&M retreat in the Catskills and she had bought a lamp on Amazon to decorate their tent. "It's a beautiful white lotus lantern with twenty leaf string lights," she told Tulip, almost in tears, showing her photos on the Internet. "I was going to hang it around our tent like a garland, so it's festive and inviting, and more people will come to visit us." "Don't worry," Tulip comforted her. "It's still early, I'm sure it'll arrive." Oh, how Senna screamed when the FedEx man appeared on the floor. A week later, the building security office was conducting a fire drill and forced everyone to leave their desks and assemble in the hall by the elevators. As the fire warden droned on about what to do in case of an emergency, Tulip noticed how three women from Payroll with strangely similar hair bobs were whispering to each other and pointing in Senna's direction. "I need two volunteers to be Floor Searchers," the warden announced, looking at the gloomy faces in the crowded hallway. "One male and one female. The role of a Searcher is very important. In case of fire, you must search the restrooms, offices, conference rooms and instruct all the floor occupants to evacuate. Do I have any volunteers?" There was an ear-piercing silence and everyone looked at each other. "Alright, I'll do it," Greg, the HR Manager, like a white angel, descended onto the floor. "I guess I could be the female Searcher," Senna raised her hand. "Great! Please come up to me and give me your names. This concludes our fire drill, thank you," the warden said in a raspy voice, as everyone trailed back to the office. "Knowing her, she'll be checking the men's room first and we'll never see her again," McNally snorted under his breath, loud enough for the interns from Group Benefits to exchange glances and burst out laughing. The word about Senna was spreading around the firm, and Tulip felt bad for her friend. "You know, you don't have to tell everyone about your life," she said to Senna in one of the little nooks of the office. "No one needs to know about your lesbian affair with the neighbor, or the hot date with the paramedic, or Daddy and the orgies you attend every weekend. Really, it's no one's business. It's your private life!" "But my life is not a secret," Senna insisted. "I married young and lived like a nun for years until I realized I deserve better. I have nothing to hide. I'm proud. I'm finally living!" For her birthday, a pair of shiny thigh-high boots in black patent leather with laces up the back was delivered to the office. Senna hiked up her skirt and tried them on at her desk. "Daddy sent them!" she exclaimed excitedly. "He's taking me to the opera! We're seeing Aida at the Met!" "You're not wearing those to the opera, are you?" Tulip asked in a thin, shocked voice. "Oh no, of course not. These are for the party we are going to on Saturday." "What do you wear them with?" Tulip asked, feeling the pleather with her fingertips. "Anything you want, really, or nothing at all! You can always dress them up with a pair of long gloves, or a classic headband." "Well, have a great time at the opera!" Tulip wished her friend, just as she noticed, from the corner of her eye, McNally standing in the middle of the office, shaking his head back and forth and staring at the black sleek boots, as if they were the cadaver of an animal. A month later, completely by accident, Tulip met Daddy. On some idle Tuesday when Tulip's husband was working late and her daughter was at a sleep-away camp, Tulip and Senna were having a drink after work. A man in a grey suit and tie surprised Senna from behind by covering her eyes and commanding her to smell his fingers. Bald, stocky, in thick dark-rimmed glasses, the man whom Senna introduced as her Daddy, her master, her lover who fulfilled every one of her fantasies, literally looked like her father, a severe man with a humorless expression, someone the IRS would send to conduct an audit at an automotive company in Detroit. Senna and Daddy insisted on driving Tulip home. Tulip sat in the backseat, watching Senna weave her arms around Daddy like a willow tree, as he drove in silence with the tempo and precision of a German tankman. Tulip wondered why they were driving her to New Jersey, so completely out of their way. Did they know no one would be home, was this a ploy to get her into bed, did they want her for a threesome, was she being recruited into the world of bondage? They dropped her off in front of her house just as George was pulling down the curtains on the bay window. Tulip breathed a sigh of relief. Daddy stepped out of the car and gallantly opened the door for her. "Who was that?" George asked when Tulip walked in. "You are not going to believe it. That was Daddy!" "Daddy? You mean, your crazy co-worker's S&M master? He looked more like a Certified Public Accountant from KPMG... Do we have anything to eat?" Sometime in November, it suddenly became bone chilling and viciously windy. "It's true what they say - New York is a toothless witch of a winter," Senna announced. Having moved from Florida, she did not have any warm clothes, so she layered her summer shirts and wore the company sweatshirt advertising their new PPO plan on top. Tulip hated watching her shiver in the revolving doors of the building. Daddy should have bought the poor girl a coat, instead of those hideous knock-me-down-and-fuck-me boots, Tulip thought to herself, fuming. Instead of saying anything, she opened her closets. With care and dedication, she picked a few warm sweaters, a scarf, a hat, woolen socks, even mittens. Then she added a Burberry double-breasted cashmere coat she had snatched up on sale at Neiman Marcus. Something every lawyer's wife should own, she wore it once to a holiday party at George's law firm, now it adorned her closet like a mistletoe, something pretty but useless. She took it off the hanger and threw it in the bag. "You can have these for the winter," she handed the bag to Senna on Monday. "Oh my God, you shouldn't have. Thank you so much. That is so sweet," the Florida ex-pat jumped up and hugged her friend. Then she tried on the coat and even though she was taller and bigger in the bust than Tulip, the coat fit her perfectly. And then the morning arrived when Senna was circling Tulip's cubicle, fidgeting and fretting about something, until she finally came out with it and asked Tulip to be her emergency contact. There was something so heartrending and pitiful about the way she asked, smiling, standing by Tulip's desk, still wearing the coat, holding out banana bread she had made over the weekend in a plastic container like some kind of sacrilegious offering, that Tulip had to look away. "What happened to Daddy?" "I don't think he wants to be my Daddy anymore," Senna said, biting her chipped nails. "He found someone younger, and prettier." "I am sorry. What about your lesbian lover, that neighbor Francesca, or something?" "Her husband found out and threatened to divorce her if she didn't stop seeing me." Tulip sighed. "Look, Senna, I can't be your emergency contact, it's ridiculous. We work in the same office. It has to be someone from outside, you know, like a family member or a friend." "Why?" Senna objected. "Well, for starters..." Tulip tried to elaborate, until she realized she couldn't come up with anything reasonable, and that's when she folded, "You know what - okay, you got me!" "Really?" Senna lit up. "Great! Can you put it down in the spreadsheet?" At night, Tulip was having dinner with her husband and her daughter, a new crock-pot roast beef recipe she was trying with red-skinned potatoes, when her phone rang. It was Senna. "I'm just calling to activate my emergency contact number," she said, laughing like a gloriously happy child.

Sometime around Thanksgiving, rumors, like pocket-sized mice, were scurrying across the office and making squeaking noises in the walls. Employees congregated by the water cooler, in the hallways, in the kitchen, whispering, shaking heads, weighing in on the latest news. Didi Estefanos was not coming back to work, in fact, she had slapped the company with a massive lawsuit, claiming everything from emotional abuse to sexual harassment, ageism, racism, and all kinds of atrocities that had caused her to collapse in the office and get rolled out on a stretcher. What was wrong with her exactly, what particular ailment she was inflicted with, no one knew. Since all the tests came back negative, the doctors assumed it was stress. She hired a high-powered attorney who specialized in harassment in the workplace. The company executives from around the country flew into the New York office and spent long days in glass conference rooms, behind closed doors, talking into round speakerphones that lay in the middle of the table like UFO plates. They walked out, exasperated, wheezing, loosening their ties, pooh-poohing the process, and hurried along to lunches and dinners at the lavish New York restaurants they enjoyed on their expense accounts. Greg, a highly respected HR Manager and a proud gay man since the 80s, was seen standing outside the building, wiping his face with a paper towel. McNally was in and out of meetings, giving testimony, defending himself. "Sexual harassment my ass," he was heard screaming, "that old hag was a hundred years old!" Meanwhile, a Thanksgiving sale was in full swing at Bloomingdale's down the street. All the girls from the office were shopping in the intimates department. Tulip always joked how their check was directly deposited into the iconic department store. "I need your honest opinion." Senna came up to Tulip one day with a shopping bag. "I bought this corset for a party on Friday. But I'm not sure if it fits me right. Could you please take a look and tell me the truth, please!" "Sure." Tulip nodded. "Let me just finish this report." "Great, meet me in the bathroom in ten minutes." When Tulip walked into the bathroom, the small vestibule with a full-length mirror and a few armchairs, was empty. She proceeded into the lavatory, it was empty as well, except for the one stall at the end where Senna was fiddling with zippers, swooshing fabric. Someone had left the water running in the sink, Tulip turned off the faucet and waited. Finally, the stall door opened and Senna appeared, wearing just a corset and a pair of a high heels. "Oh wow!" Tulip squealed, veering her face to the side as if someone had just punched her. "Wow," she repeated, violently, "wow." "What do you think?" Senna asked, standing in the middle of the bathroom, anxious, alert, her breasts bulging from a see-through corset, her shaved pale vagina on display. "Looks great," Tulip said, her hand raised to her temple, partially blocking the view. "Does it make me look fat?" "No, it looks fine, not fat at all," Tulip stuttered, looking away, focusing on a crack in a tile. She did not expect to see her friend wearing nothing but high heels and a corset. She reasoned there was no real necessity to take off her pants or the skirt that she was wearing, let alone her underwear, to demonstrate a corset, especially one that went only to her belly button. And why the high heels? For the full dramatic effect, the big picture? "Do you think it's tight in the back?" Senna turned around, flexing her muscular buttocks. "No... Not tight at all." "You don't think it's too small in the breasts?" "No, it's great," Tulip repeated, making an effort to hide her embarrassment. "Are you sure? You're not just saying it?" "Definitely! You'll be a huge hit at the party on Saturday," Tulip assured her, as she hurried out the door, blaming an urgent report she forgot to do. She ran out of the bathroom and walked down the hall, shell-shocked, frazzled, smoothing wisps of hair on top of her head, grinning to herself, imagining her husband's face when she told him tonight what had just happened, how he would fall off his chair, laughing. "What's so funny?" Tulip bumped into McNally, who was always stalking the hallways and had an uncanny talent for appearing at the most opportune place at the most opportune time. "What is it?" he demanded, studying Tulip's face. "You look strange... Is everything alright?" "Yes, fine," Tulip, taken off guard, giggled in a surge of nervousness. "I was in the bathroom with Senna, she asked me to look at this corset she bought at Bloomingdale's, but... she was wearing nothing but a corset, you know..." Tulip laughed uncontrollably. "Oh, and high heels too," she added, slowly gaining composure and realizing her mistake. McNally stood quietly, his arms folded on his stomach, listening. That night, when Tulip told her husband about the encounter in the office bathroom, he did not fall off his chair laughing, as she expected. He turned surprisingly serious and asked her all kinds of questions, as if she was a witness on a stand, or a victim, or maybe even a co-conspirator. "And what did you do?" "Nothing, I ran out of the bathroom..." "Why did she do that?" "I don't know, she's probably an exhibitionist..." "What is the nature of your relationship?" "You can't be serious, honey... That's it. I am going to bed." A few days later, Tulip was in the office kitchen, draping almond butter onto a Granny Smith apple, when Greg, the HR Manager, approached her and invited her in for a chat. In a corner office crammed with ceramic bowls and teacups that Greg made in the pottery class his partner Rob bought him for his birthday, the tired HR Manager offered Tulip a chair and asked if she wanted anything to drink. She looked at the large pitcher of water sitting on the side of the table, a testament to the many people who came through this office in the last few days, and immediately said, "Greg, I don't know much about Didi, or whatever her claims are... She seemed like a nice lady, very erudite, but other than that I have nothing to add." "Tulip, I didn't ask you here to talk about Didi," Greg said in a serious tone. "Okay..." she looked at him, waiting. "I want you to know this is a safe place and everything you say here is confidential." "O-kay..." "Tell me what happened with Senna," he said compassionately. "We have zero tolerance for sexual harassment and abuse in this company, and you did the right thing by reporting her." "What?" Tulip jumped up. "What do you mean what happened with Senna? What do you mean, reported her?" "McNally came into HR and filed a complaint on your behalf. He said that your colleague, Senna Andrews, has created a sexually abusive environment for you... Tulip, if Senna has sexually abused you, or harassed you in any way, you need to tell me right now." "Sexually abused me?" "Look, we received a complaint... It went all the way to the CEO. Of course, the big wigs upstairs are worried about you suing the company, but I care about your well-being." "Suing the company? Is this some kind of a joke?" "There is nothing funny about sexually unwanted advances, especially in the workplace, especially now - with the MeToo situation, we take these matters very seriously." "This is not a MeToo situation!" she burst out, enraged. "No one harassed me! Not me! This is a NotMe situation!" "Okay," Greg looked at her keenly. "Then why did you report her?" "I didn't," she covered her face with her hands. "Well, you communicated the entire bathroom incident to your manager, Eric McNally. To tell you the truth, I was surprised. I thought you and Senna were friends." "We are friends," Tulip sighed, a tear rolling down her cheek. "Then I don't understand what happened. Why did you report her?" "I did not report her... McNally snuck up on me. That's what he does - he stalks the hallways like a creeper, and he just caught me off guard..." "I don't know if you realize it, but your accusations could get Senna fired." "No!" Tulip exclaimed. "It was a mistake, a misunderstanding. I don't want her fired. It was a mistake. Nothing happened. Greg, you have to help me. Don't let her get fired!" She rushed out of the office and took the elevator down to the lobby. She ran across the street, sat down on a fire hydrant in front of her building and dialed her husband George. He didn't pick up. It was late afternoon and he was usually in court at this time. She kept dialing his number frantically and it kept going into voicemail. She looked at the gnarled trees around her and it suddenly occurred to her that if this was an emergency, if she was sprawled out in the middle of the street unconscious, or taken out on a stretcher from the office, no one would be able to reach George, and she finally understood what Senna had been agonizing over all this time. Tulip looked up at their building. Senna was somewhere on the 24th floor, and so was McNally, and HR, and the big wigs; what was happening up there, she wondered, what were they doing to Senna now? At night when Tulip finally saw her husband and told him about her surprise meeting with HR, he put down his fork and somberly expressed his disappointment - she had played it all wrong, she should have consulted him first. "You can't be serious, George." "When your HR rep said they were worried about you suing the company, he was right. They should be worried, because this was an open and shut case. And if you had teamed up with this Didi woman and joined her lawsuit this would have been a winning case. But instead you chose to defend your little girlfriend." "I can't believe you're saying this nonsense," she hissed. "I would never accuse a friend of such wrongdoing and get her into trouble like this." "What are you defending?" George scoffed. "Your lusty little encounter in the fitting room?" "It wasn't lusty!" Tulip shrieked, slamming the door. "And it wasn't a fitting room, it was a bathroom!" she corrected him, slamming the door again. There were many slammed doors that night which ignited a bit of spark in Tulip's otherwise vanilla life.

When she came to work the next day, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Every one of her colleagues was sitting at their desks, in their cubicles, in front of their computers, doing what they were paid to do. Greg was in his office with his door closed. McNally was on the phone with his back towards the exit. Tulip looked across the floor, studied the layout of the office, and for the first time noticed the precise division of the cubicles, the symmetrical way in which the partitions were mapped out, like prison cells, or a closed mouse maze. Senna did not get fired. Whether it was Greg's humanitarian efforts or McNally's endless maneuvering, she was transferred to another group, the only division that did not report to McNally. Was she ever called into HR, reprimanded, given a warning? Did she ever find out who reported her, Tulip often wondered with trepidation. But after the bathroom incident, she started avoiding Senna. When Senna asked if she was free for lunch at their favorite, Ms. Bombay, Tulip told her she brought lunch from home, or had an important client meeting, or was running to a spin class at the gym. When Senna invited her for drinks after work, Tulip lied again and blamed PTA meetings, ballet recitals, and date nights with the hubby. One day Senna came over to Tulip's desk and asked her if she would look at a necklace she bought downstairs. "You would tell me the truth if it was gaudy, right?" "Sure, let me see it." Tulip nodded with an old familiar smile. But when Senna told her to meet her in the bathroom, Tulip looked at her for a long time and finally said, "We don't really need to go to the bathroom to try on a necklace. You can just put it on right here in this cubicle." Senna went to get the necklace and never came back.

#FICTION on the WEB short stories

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beatricethecat2 · 7 years ago

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if/then - 7

I've been fussing over the mechanics of the next few chapters for a while now, figuring out when and where to drop clues, as some pushback will happen in the upcoming arc. I apologize for the lack of Helena in this chapter, but she'll reappear, fully formed, in chapter 8. Also, I admit I know nothing about Italian, so I hope the little I've dotted into this isn't horribly wrong. This is still clunky, but I'd rather put it out and move forward than get stuck on form. (editied 8/18).

Previously: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6

Read first if you are new! gutted/sorted and wax/wane…if/then is a continuation of those two.

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“Nothing so far is even remotely what Mrs. Frederic’s looking for.”

Myka’s annoyed, both at the man sitting in front of her and her clusterfuck of a morning, which began the minute she stepped foot in Italy.

“Scusa?” the man says as his overly smiley face droops beyond that of a practiced salesman.

“This is what I’m here to see.” Myka sets down her expresso then taps her tablet awake and slides the device across the table.

Myka stretches her neck as the man flicks through inventory then rubs the bridge of her nose in hopes of minimizing the headache she’s had since landing. Clearly, her lack of sleep is catching up with her, yet she doesn’t regret that promises of “later” were fulfilled, rather pleasantly, once her application was complete. Hence she downs the rest of her coffee and considers ordering another; if she has to wait while this guy compares their notes, she might as well be over-caffeinated.

She curses herself for believing him when he'd insisted everything was in order as she sees him now for what he is: a kid. His baby face hides under his short, sharp beard and his spotted bow tie and pocket square try a little too hard to be professional. He’s probably an intern recently promoted to sales, the only one free to meet her at such short notice.

She feels genuinely bad for Floriana, the woman she was meant to meet, as this morning her son was hit by a motorcycle on his way to school. He’s ok, they’ve learned recently, no broken bones or anything, but the painful reality of a child being hurt must be overwhelming. If that had been Christina—her heart races at the thought—Helena would be inconsolable; she’d hop on a plane and sneak into the country just to be by her side.

As she sips her empty expresso, she considers the fact she’s never worried over a child like that and imagines Helena’s day to day worry must be tenfold. She kind of checked out when she got to London, allowing work and Helena to envelop her; she assumed Christina’d be fine since responsible adults were there to care for her. She should really check in unprompted and send some photos, tonight from the hotel...

“Signora Bering,” the man says, “this is not what Signora Stukowski has given me.” He points to her tablet and hands over his.

As Myka flips through inventory, her nostrils flare: wrong period, wrong category, wrong everything. “When did you get this?”

“Questa mattina. You were in the air.” He points his eyes upward.

Myka breathes in a deep, cleansing breath and closes her eyes, telling herself to stay calm. Of course, Sally sent the wrong files, because if Sally could, she would. It’s happened before, and it's happening again. In fact, she’s beginning to think she does it on purpose just to trip her up. But this time around it doesn't make any sense. Sally needs this client to stay on Mrs. Frederic’s good side; Myka has the advantage of the private sale.

But it is possible Mrs. Frederic changed the roster last minute, while she was in the air. And while she’s checked her messages a million times, Sally's not the most communicative; she could have easily sent the files assuming Myka was already in the loop.

“Let me call Sally,” Myka says, whipping out her phone and scrolling through to her number. When the line goes straight to voicemail, she tries the front desk and learns the entire staff's in an impromptu meeting with Mrs. Frederic. No one's sure when it will end.

“Fortuna?” the man asks as Myka sets her phone on the table.

“No,” Myka says, shaking her head. She looks down at his tablet and flicks through a few pages. “Could we continue with these and see my list later?”

As he flips through Myka's images, the man's cheeks puff out comically as he slowly blows out a breath.

“I'll try Sally again later.”

“Si,” he says, nodding his head slowly as he stares at the device. “We can do."

“Grazie,” Myka says, with genuine apology: it’s not his fault they’ll be working overtime. “Let me buy you another coffee. And some lunch,” she adds, eyes wandering behind him, towards the counter.

The man looks over his shoulder and smiles at the menu on the wall. “Si, si, manga,” he says, “Let us ‘regroup,' Signora Bering.”

“Myka,” she says. “Call me, Myka."

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As she stretches to her full-length on the bed, her muscles groan in relief, their release from gravity long overdue. She and Maritzo managed to view everything on both lists but didn’t finish until well after dinner. In the end, she's glad he was her guide and knows she's lucky he was young was eager to please.

Sally, when reached, confirmed Myka’s list was correct, but there was little apology in her apology over the confusion. If she had the energy, she’d have been angry, but she knew it wasn't worth her time. If this private sale works out, she most likely won’t be working with Sally any longer. In fact, Mrs. Frederic emailed her today, asking, tentatively, if she’d represent the gallery in the pre-sale showing, details to be discussed upon her arrival back in London.

The thought occurs to her she needs to go over her newest “anonymous source” email but admits to herself she’s wiped; it will have to wait until morning. She peels herself off the bed and showers, then texts Helena good night and is out like a light before Helena has a chance to respond.

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Though they’ve met once before and emailed frequently, Myka's nerves surge as she enters Theodora’s gallery, as she’s learned Theodora’s not your average widowed retiree. Her anonymous source clued her into some history: back in the day, Theodora and her husband rubbed elbows with both Mrs. Frederic and James Macpherson, chasing down impossible finds like the one she’s been researching.

Theodora's space is intimate and classically European, boasting elaborate white moldings and intricate parquet floors. The front room is filled with contemporary sculpture she recognizes from Vanessa’s roster, while the back holds unique curated treasures. As she passes through to the office, she walks up to a lectern where an illuminated manuscript sits. It’s in pristine condition, which is unusual for its age, and she wonders where a self-proclaimed “humble gallerist” might stumble upon such a rare find.

She’s put at ease by Theodora’s warm welcome, and when their business is tied up sooner the expected, Theodora insists she stay for lunch. Myka’s flight isn’t until three, so gladly accepts and truthfully, she’d like to get to know Theodora better.

After a short walk down a picturesque cobblestone street, she's soon sipping wine in a charming outdoor cafe, listening intently as Theodora waxes poetic about the old days when she was partnered with Mrs. Frederic.

“What was she like back then?” Myka asks.

“The same as she is now,” Theodora answers and motions to the waiter for more wine. “Always pushing the envelope."

“I’ve only met her once. In her office. It was pretty formal.”

“I’ll tell you this: her intentions are always above board, but not everything goes to plan.” Theodora swirls the wine in her glass, studying it as it spins, then tilts her head back, downing the last swig.

“She likes you,” she says, pointing her newly empty glass at Myka.

“She does?”

“She wouldn’t have sent you here otherwise. And I’m sure she already has you working on something special.”

The waiter returns with a fresh bottle of wine and fills both glasses. Myka watches the liquid pour with reservations, already feeling tipsy.

“I think I even know what she’s got you on if the rumors are true. Henry and I chased it years ago, but never found hard proof it existed."

Myka opens her mouth to answer but hesitates; as a confidante of Mrs. Frederic, she should be able to tell Theodora what she’s researching, but it could be a test, to see what it would take to loosen her tongue.

“Oh, it’s hush-hush, I know, no need to fret. It’s just…”

Theodora stares at Myka as if sizing her up. Myka wonders if she wants to hear what she has to say.

“I seem to recall you have a daughter.”

“I, uh...." Not where Myka thought this conversation was going, but it's interesting she remembers her mentioning Christina. "Christina’s Helena’s daughter, not mine. Helena's my…girlfriend." Partner is the correct word here, and she knows it, but if Theodora knows what the private sale is for, she may very well know of Helena’s connection to Macpherson. It might be best to stay a step back until she learns where Theodora is going with this.

“Ah, yes. Now I remember,” Theodora says, siping her wine. “She’s in London because of a visa ’situation.' She and her daughter are why you’re doing all of this. Correct?”

Myka slides her hands off the table and clasps them together on her lap. How much does Theodora know beyond what she’s told her? Maybe she needs to be careful with what she says.

“Um...yeah.”

“Remember that, as you make decisions moving forward.”

“Remember what?”

“Your motivations.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

That very moment, their food arrives. Theodora thanks the waiter then turns her attentions back to Myka.

“Do you love her?” she says, pointing her fork at Myka before tucking into her meal.

“More than anything.”

“And her daughter?”

“Of course.”

“Then remember, the most important thing in life to nurture is family. Family's what’s left when everything else falls flat.”

“Why would everything fall flat?” If Theodora knows something about this sale or Helena that she doesn’t, she wants to know.

Theodora sets down her fork and straightens her posture, then dabs the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Henry and I did what you’re doing for a lot of years. When we had our kids, it complicated things. We both wanted them, but neither of us was ready to settle down. So we compromised by taking turns, one of us staying with the kids while the other was in the field.”

Does she think Helena’s still working? She must know that’s impossible after the trial. “Do you regret not settling down?”

“I regret not spending more time with the kids and Henry together. Especially when they were little.”

Myka looks on, still confused.

“How old is Helena's Christina?"

“Eight. Eight and a half if you ask her in person.” Myka smiles at the memory of the day Christina told her about her birthday. They were filling out the calendar with Helena’s schedule, but the calendar only went through December, so she wrote out the months following on the last page.

“I know you’re just starting out, and you're excited about your projects, but let me give you a piece of advice. When you’re with Helena and Christina, try to live in the moment, take stock of what you have. It seems silly at your age; you always think they’ll be time later, then suddenly, there’s no time at all.”

Theodora’s gaze drifts off into the distance, and her eyes glass over. Myka reaches across the table and places her hand on top of Theodora’s.

“A-Are you ok?"

“I'm fine," Theodora says, with a small sniff. “When the melancholy kicks in, I tend to babble; another reason why I keep to myself these days.”

“You miss him.”

“Most days.”

Henry must linger in Theodora's memories like Helena's family does in hers.

“Thank you, for the advice. I appreciate it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll all be fine. I forget times have changed, with technology and all.”

Theodora slides her hand from underneath Myka’s and places it on top, then squeezes it slightly. Myka smiles at the gesture.

“I'll tell you, Irene only pushes those she deems worthy, but she’ll push until they break. Make sure you push back before that happens."

“I will,” Myka says, nodding as she slides her hand back across the table. She fingers the stem of her glass and takes a generous sip, wishing she felt more flattered than worried by Theodora’s words.

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

Her concentration’s a bust on the plane back to London; emails left unanswered as Theodora’s words swirl through her head.

Her warnings were overkill, weren’t they? As she said, she's just starting out, trying to fix what’s broken. If she looks at things logically, Helena rescued her in her time of need, and she’s returning the favor, though the stakes are higher now since they’re together. But four or five months of rocky coupledom does not add up to a family, per se, not in the sense Theodora was describing.

In fact, the word “family” leaves a sour taste in her mouth; she'd turned her nose up at the notion with Sam; having more important things to accomplish before settling down. She's aware the word is a trigger as babies and marriage were always Tracy’s domain; she’d roll her eyes when Tracy incessantly talked about both when they were teenagers. But as the oldest, she’d been expected to tie the knot first, expected to produce; luckily that bullet was dodged by Tracy taking the lead, lessening the pressure on her.

But “family” is the best word to describe Helena, Christina, and Claudia, and when applied to them it warms her heart. She’s proud to have joined them along their journey. She smiles at the memory of Christina’s drawing, scribbled in crayon, still hanging on the fridge, depicting her holding hands with Helena. Even at that early stage, she was welcomed with open arms into their fold.

And while she trails behind Claudia in the responsibility department, that dynamic will change when she, Helena and Christina live together. Once their situation stabilizes, everyone’s roles will shift towards the traditional. Is she really ready for that? She's not sure.

She’s been so focused on getting to London she hasn’t thought much about what happens after. Theodora must have seen glimmers of her own lack of vision in Myka, of starting a family but never fully embracing change. She should heed her advice and learn work with it, not fight against it. Easier said than done, but she vows to take Theodora’s words to heart.

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

After a quick stop to freshen up, Myka speeds off to her work mixer, coincidentally located at the same restaurant Helena had scrambled to get reservations earlier. This seemed odd to her, out of all the restaurants in London, but Helena assured her it was a popular choice with the “in" crowd.

The table is packed when she arrives, with a mass cheer rising as she approaches; it’s clear everyone’s been letting loose. When all eyes move behind her then forward to meet her own, she’s hit with a wave of awkwardness. Helena's expected to have tagged along tonight, but she's clearly not present.

She apologizes for Helena’s absence, explaining she didn’t know until she stepped off the plane Helena had to work last minute. Everyone’s been eager to meet her "black sheep” girlfriend since the day Helena met Mrs. Frederic and emerged unscathed. In fact, Helena’s reputation has even tinged Myka with an air of mystique around the office, which she thinks is quite amusing.

A coworker motions for her to sit next to them, saying they’ve saved her a seat and she does as instructed. Her heart sinks at the sight of Helena’s empty spot next to her; disappointed Helena chose to work over her. She knows sacrifices must be made to keep the weekend free for Christina and Claudia, but she was really looking forward to introducing Helena to the group, both to put an end to the rumors and to show Helena off.

Wine flows freely during every course of the meal, and as the table fills with stories and laughter, she leans back and takes stock, recognizing a lightness in her chest she hasn’t felt for ages. She’s having a really good time with these people, an even mix of folks older and younger than her, and is pleased the discussion stays on topics unrelated to kids and school. The evening feels like coworker gatherings in Chicago and Seattle, and it’s reaffirming to be reminded of who she was all those years ago on her own.

As the woman sitting next to her checks her phone, Myka stiffens as she asks the time. Helena begged her to meet for a nightcap at the bar to make up for missing dinner and Myka reluctantly agreed, but at this rate, it will close before she gets there.

“Sorry, I have to go,” she says, rising so abruptly her chair nearly topples backward. “I’ll see everyone tomorrow."

-TBC-

#BERING AND WELLS #w13 #fanfiction #if/then #AU Week #Sometimes when you have too much on your plate #you have to 'relax' by doing other things #things that are still work #but work you are doing for yourself #so you stay up too late #to knock out a chapter of fanfiction #(for the 2 people still reading #hopefully the next chapter will be up sooner rather than later #it actually already written in full #but needs shaping)

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