#apple setup in school

[404icy]

Getting Back into Coding - Returning Home

Hello! I have been missing in action for about 2 years. To be frank, I am a bit rusty with coding. After my tech internship, life hit me with some lemons and I ended up in an entirely different career path and had to pause with my college degree. That aside, I am ready to get back on track.

So far, during the past month or so, I have been dabbling with coding just for fun and I was exploring Swift - the coding language for Apple products. I immediately fell in love with it. It’s so easy and very beautiful to work with. I’m glad that Apple has a ton of learning resources, from Swift Playgrounds where you can experiment with code (very beginner friendly) to well written documentations. With my love for Apple products — I am also very deep in the Apple ecosystem and my newfound obsession with Swift, I thought maybe I should give coding a try again. So here, I am.

I am trying to take baby steps and ease myself back into it. Perfection does not matter, as long as I am consistent with creating.

[wchswift]

ଓ The apple pie life

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader Summary: you and Dean are tasked with going undercover as a married couple in a suburban neighborhood to investigate a string of mysterious disappearances linked to a local HOA. Content: fluff, one kiss, angst (kinda), idiots oblivious to their own feelings, hunting/working a case, mentions of murders, demons, spells, not proofread, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 4k a/n: I've been keeping this in my drafts for a while now and while life happens and I work on my dofp!logan one shot, I decided to post this :) I hope you enjoy it

mdni 𖤐 18+

“Yeah, no. This ain’t happening.” Dean Winchester stood at the edge of a freshly mowed lawn, surveying the neighborhood like it was a Hellmouth in disguise. Which, for all they knew, it very well could be. Rows of cookie-cutter houses lined the street, each painted in calming shades of beige, sage, or blue. Even the mailboxes were identical. Dean glared at one as if it had personally offended him.

Sam sighed, arms crossed, watching his brother’s tantrum. “Dean, it’s a neighborhood. Not a death sentence.”

“You’re asking me to pretend to be Mr. Suburbia. Me. You know I don’t do...” Dean gestured vaguely at a garden gnome. “This.”

Standing between the two of them, you held a faux wedding photo that Sam had printed for the cover story. “We’re married. You’re a mechanic. I work from home. We moved here for the good schools. Sound familiar?” you said with a smirk, holding the picture up.

Dean snatched the frame and scowled at the image. “I look like a hostage,” he muttered.

“You always look like that,” you shot back. “Now come on, let’s get unpacked. Our ‘friendly neighborhood welcome committee’ is stopping by in an hour.”

Dean groaned, but there was no backing out. Sam had been adamant: five people had disappeared from this very block in the past six months. The only connection? All were new to the neighborhood, and all had been avid participants in the HOA’s activities.

“Fine,” Dean grumbled, hoisting a box from the Impala. “But I’m not calling you ‘honey.”

Dean’s idea of "unpacking" consisted of dumping boxes onto the floor and shoving furniture into place like he was playing Tetris with his life. You trailed behind him, trying to make the house look halfway livable. It wasn't easy; the entire setup resembled a sitcom scenario, complete with ruffled curtains and throw pillows that Sam insisted would help you blend in.

Dean picked up one of the pillows, squinting at the stitched slogan: Home Sweet Home. “This thing screams demon bait,” he muttered, tossing it onto the couch.

“Maybe if you acted like a halfway decent husband, it wouldn’t,” you quipped, earning a low chuckle from Sam.

“Yeah, hilarious,” Dean shot back, hauling a box of what appeared to be mismatched kitchen supplies onto the counter. “This is my nightmare, by the way. Thought you should know.”

“It’s not exactly a dream for me either, sweetie,” you replied, stressing the endearment with a sugary grin. Dean’s eye roll could’ve powered the whole neighborhood.

The doorbell chimed just as you finished arranging a vase of fake flowers in the living room. Dean peered through the peephole like he expected to see a mob of demons. Instead, a group of impeccably dressed neighbors smiled back at him.

“Kill me now,” Dean muttered, opening the door.

A blonde woman with a Stepford-wife grin and a clipboard stepped forward. “Hi there! Welcome to the neighborhood! I’m Lana, the HOA president. And these are Sheila and Rick, your next-door neighbors!”

Dean gave his best approximation of a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. “Uh, hey. I’m Dean. This is my—uh—wife.”

You plastered on your most winning smile and shook hands all around. “So nice to meet you all!”

Lana’s eyes swept over the living room, clearly appraising your decor. “You’ve done such a lovely job already! Oh, and Dean, we’ll have our weekly HOA meeting at the clubhouse tomorrow night. We expect all new residents to attend. You’ll come, won’t you?”

Dean opened his mouth, likely to come up with an excuse, but you elbowed him. “We’d love to,” you said quickly.

“Wonderful!” Lana chirped. “I’ll leave you with the neighborhood handbook. Everything you need to know is right here.” She handed over a spiral-bound monstrosity of rules and regulations before bustling off with her entourage.

Dean stared at the handbook like it might explode. “Fifty bucks says they’re part of a cult.”

That night, Sam joined you both in the kitchen, where you poured over the HOA handbook. Sam had come by under the guise of helping you move in but was really playing the role of a nosy family friend who conveniently lived a few towns over.

“Okay,” Sam said, flipping through pages. “This is weird. Every house here has to have a specific type of lawn ornament? And look at this—rules about curfew, holiday decorations, even what kind of car you can park in your driveway.”

“Classic control freaks,” Dean muttered, popping open a beer.

“Or something worse,” Sam countered, pointing to a line about mandatory attendance at neighborhood socials. “People start disappearing, and the HOA gets more power over the remaining residents. It seems like they're under some spell… perhaps they made a pact? Maybe with a demon.”

Dean groaned. “Great. So it’s not just bad casseroles we have to survive.”

“We need to hit that meeting tomorrow,” you said. “Whatever’s going on, that’s where we’ll find the first clue.”

The next evening, you and Dean made your way to the HOA meeting at the neighborhood clubhouse, blending in among the perfectly groomed crowd. Everyone was dressed like they were auditioning for a suburban magazine spread: crisp polos, floral blouses, and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.

Dean leaned closer to you, muttering, “Tell me this doesn’t feel like a Stepford reboot.”

You elbowed him lightly, smiling for the neighbors. “Try to look like you’re not plotting their demise, honey.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, adjusting his flannel like it was armor. “Let’s just hope these people don’t sacrifice newcomers to their God of Lawn Care.”

Inside the clubhouse, Lana, the HOA president, stood at the front of the room, clipboard in hand. She welcomed everyone with her signature cheerfulness, but you couldn’t miss the way her eyes scanned the crowd, lingering on the newcomers—you and Dean.

“Now, let’s get started!” she chirped. “First order of business: Mr. Peterson’s garden gnomes. We’ve had complaints they’re too whimsical.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at you, mouthing, too whimsical? You struggled not to laugh.

The meeting droned on, a mix of petty complaints and rigid enforcement of bizarre rules, until Lana’s tone shifted.

“And finally,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, “a reminder that all residents are expected to attend next week’s neighborhood barbecue. Remember, harmony is our greatest strength. We’re all part of something... bigger here.”

Her words sent a ripple of unease through the room. Most of the neighbors nodded dutifully, but a few glanced nervously at each other. You caught Dean’s gaze, and his expression was sharp, all traces of humor gone.

Later that night, back at the house, you pored over what you’d observed with Sam and Dean.

“It’s not just the rules,” you said, pacing the living room. “It’s the way they act. Like they’re afraid of stepping out of line.”

“And what’s with Lana’s ‘bigger picture’ speech?” Dean added, tossing the HOA handbook onto the coffee table. “She’s definitely hiding something.”

Sam tapped at his laptop. “I did some digging. Lana moved into this neighborhood ten years ago, right before the HOA’s rules got so strict. Before that? No disappearances, no creepy cult vibes.”

Dean frowned. “So she’s the ringleader?”

“More like the summoner,” Sam replied, turning the screen to show an old news clipping. It detailed Lana’s involvement in occult studies years ago. “If she’s behind this, it’s not merely a pact. It’s using the HOA to enforce perfection, as it literally sustains the spell that keeps it anchored here.”

“So, the HOA handbook’s not just a pain in the ass,” you said, glancing at Dean. “It’s the demon’s playbook.”

The next morning, Dean decided to “blend in” by taking his role as a suburban husband to absurd levels.

You came downstairs to find him in an apron, flipping pancakes with an exaggerated flourish. “Morning, sweetheart!” he called, his grin annoyingly smug.

“What are you doing?” you asked, still half-asleep.

“Being the perfect husband,” he said, loading a plate with a stack of slightly burnt pancakes. “You should try it sometime, darling.”

The sarcasm in his tone made you roll your eyes, but you couldn’t suppress a small laugh. “If this is your idea of perfection, the demon’s going to smite us before lunch.”

Dean’s antics didn’t stop at pancakes. Later that day, he decided to tackle the front yard—shirtless, of course, because “that’s what husbands do, right?”

You stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching as he wrestled with the garden hose like it owed him money. His flannel was tossed onto a nearby fence, leaving his t-shirt in a crumpled heap in the corner. The summer sun glinted off his shoulders, and despite the ridiculousness of it all, you couldn’t help but stare.

“You know,” you called out, fighting a smirk, “the neighbors are going to think you’re some kind of exhibitionist.”

Dean glanced up, his grin wolfish. “Or they’ll think you’re married to the best damn landscaper on the block.”

“You missed a spot.” You pointed at a section of the lawn.

He mock-groaned, holding a hand to his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Man slaves away, and this is the thanks he gets? No wonder I’m burned out on marriage.”

“Burned out implies you ever tried,” you shot back, leaning against the doorframe.

Dean’s expression shifted, just for a moment—a flash of something vulnerable, quickly buried under his usual bravado. “Yeah, well... guess I never found the right reason to try.”

The air between you grew heavier, the teasing edge dulled by an undercurrent you didn’t quite know how to address. He broke eye contact first, turning back to the yard. “Don’t just stand there, princess. Grab a rake or something.”

The barbecue was the kind of event you’d have laughed at if you weren’t actively part of it. Neatly arranged folding tables with checkered cloths stretched across the neighborhood park, and neighbors mingled with drinks in hand, every one of them smiling just a little too wide.

Dean leaned against the grill, flipping burgers with the same intensity he used while sharpening knives. “This is a trap. You know that, right?” he muttered, glancing around.

“Obviously,” you replied, sipping a too-sweet lemonade. “But we’re undercover, remember? Try to act like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Dean’s grin was laced with sarcasm. “Oh yeah, I’m having a blast. Love talking about lawn fertilizer and HOA-approved fence heights.”

Just then, Lana appeared beside the two of you, her ever-present clipboard tucked under her arm. “Dean, those burgers smell amazing! And you—” She turned to you with that polished grin. “You’re just glowing, aren’t you? Married life suits you two so well.”

Dean, never one to miss an opportunity, slung an arm around your shoulders. “Well, Lana, we’re just one big, happy couple.” He punctuated the sentence with a quick kiss to your temple, the smug look on his face daring you to react.

You forced a tight smile. “Couldn’t be happier.”

Lana beamed, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wonderful to hear. It’s so important to maintain harmony in the neighborhood.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping. “After all, everything falls apart if even one house doesn’t meet expectations.”

Dean’s arm stiffened against your shoulder, his instincts flaring. “Is that right?”

Lana nodded, her expression unreadable. “Absolutely. Well, I won’t keep you. Enjoy the barbecue!”

Once Lana was out of earshot, you and Dean regrouped with Sam near the dessert table.

“She’s hiding something,” you said, cutting straight to the point.

“Definitely,” Dean agreed, setting his plate down. “And what’s with the whole ‘harmony’ thing? She sounded like a cult leader.”

Sam nodded, keeping his voice low. “She is. It is indeed a deal, an exchange. The more the neighborhood conforms to the rules, the stronger it gets. People who can’t meet the standards? They’re the ones who disappear.”

You frowned. “So the HOA rules aren’t just annoying—they’re literally fuel for this thing.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Well, good news. We’ve got the perfect distraction right here.” He gestured at himself and you with a smirk.

“Perfect distraction?” you repeated.

“Think about it,” he said. “We’re new, we’re not exactly HOA material, and if anyone’s gonna tick off a demon about their precious rules, it’s us.”

Sam sighed. “Just be careful. If the demon gets wind of what you’re doing, it won’t wait for you to break a rule—it’ll come for you directly.”

The first crack in the HOA’s perfectly polished façade came two days after Dean decided to rebel in his own loud, stubborn way. The offending incident? A single garden gnome—brightly painted and flipping the bird—set proudly on your front lawn.

You crossed your arms, staring at the gnome as Dean lounged against the doorframe. “Really?”

Dean grinned, proud as a kid showing off a bad report card. “What? It’s art.”

“It’s bait,” you corrected, shaking your head.

“Exactly.” He smirked, arms crossed. “Lana won’t know what hit her.”

Sure enough, Lana arrived within the hour, clipboard in hand and fury barely masked beneath her painted smile. “Dean, we need to discuss your lawn decorations,” she said through gritted teeth.

Dean stepped outside, wearing the smuggest expression you’d ever seen. “What’s the problem, Lana? Don’t you like art?”

She blinked, momentarily stunned by his audacity, before recovering. “This neighborhood thrives on harmony. Your—choice of ornament—disrupts that balance.”

Dean leaned casually against the porch railing. “Huh. Didn’t see anything in the handbook about freedom of expression being against the rules.”

You watched from the window, biting back a laugh as Lana sputtered, her usual control slipping. She left with a curt, “This isn’t over.”

After Lana stormed off, you expected Dean to be all bravado and quips, but instead, he started fixing the fence. It was such a rare sight that you almost did a double take.

“What are you doing?” you asked, leaning against the porch post.

“Making sure the place doesn’t fall apart,” Dean replied, hammering a nail into place. “If we’re staying here long enough to take down a demon, might as well make it look good.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were so handy, Mr. Winchester.”

He smirked, not looking up. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m full of surprises.”

That night, you found Dean in the kitchen, you noticed Dean seemed... different. Focused. Almost like he belonged here. He stirred a pot of chili with a level of precision that rivaled his aim with a gun.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” you remarked, leaning against the counter.

Dean shrugged. “I used to cook for Sammy when we were kids. Guess some habits stick.”

The soft admission caught you off guard. For all his bravado, moments like these reminded you of the man underneath—the one who took care of everyone else, even when he didn’t have to.

“This is weird,” you muttered, setting the table.

Dean looked over at you. “What is?”

“You. Doing all this domestic stuff. It’s like you’re... enjoying it.”

Dean shrugged, placing the bowls of chili on the table. “I don’t hate it. Beats getting shot at every day.”

“Guess you’re not half-bad at this husband thing after all,” you teased.

Dean smirked, his usual cockiness back in place. “Don’t let it go to your head, sweetheart.”

Later, the two of you sat on the couch, flipping through channels. Sam had gone back to his motel, leaving you and Dean with a rare bit of downtime.

The sound of the TV faded into the background as Dean spoke up. “You ever think about it? A normal life, I mean.”

You looked over at him, surprised. “Sometimes. Why?”

He leaned back, one hand draped along the back of the couch, his expression unusually serious. “I don’t know. It’s just... this case, all this fake domestic stuff... It’s kinda nice. Not worrying about what’s lurking around the corner every second.”

“You’ve never thought about it before?” you asked gently.

Dean gave a short laugh, his gaze distant. “Nah. Figured it wasn’t in the cards. Even when I was a kid, normal wasn’t exactly in the Winchester playbook.”

His words hung in the air, heavier than you’d expected.

“Maybe it’s not about the cards you’re dealt,” you said softly. “Maybe it’s about finding your own kind of normal.”

He turned to look at you, his green eyes searching yours. For a moment, the air between you felt charged, but he broke the gaze first, his usual smirk returning. “Well, my kind of normal definitely involves better TV shows than this crap.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Fair enough.”

The tender moment passed quickly as the two of you turned back to the case.

The next morning, Sam returned with a crucial discovery. “Lana made a deal with a demon ten years ago. She wanted the perfect neighborhood, and the demon delivered. But the cost? Anyone who doesn’t fit her version of perfection gets sacrificed to keep the deal going.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “So she’s trading lives for lawn perfection? Well, that’s messed up.”

Sam nodded. “It thrives off the conformity she enforces. The more people play by the rules, the stronger the demon gets. The ones who disappear? They’re used as sacrifices to maintain the spell.”

Dean stood abruptly. “Great. So we take down the demon, and her whole Stepford act goes up in flames.” He looked at you. “But first, we gotta piss her off enough to make a move.”

After talkng with Sam, you and Dean turned the dial on your undercover roles.

You started your day loudly arguing in the driveway about “trivial” things—how Dean never folded the laundry right, how you “always” bought the wrong coffee creamer.

Dean played it up like a pro, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “Fine! Next time, you go grocery shopping!”

“Oh, because you’re so busy, huh?” you shot back, struggling not to laugh.

So you two just keeped violating the rules. Determined to push Lana past her breaking point, Dean added strung mismatched Christmas lights across the front porch, even though it was July.

“Dean,” you said, standing in the driveway with crossed arms, “I’m pretty sure even the demon is rolling its eyes at this point.”

Dean grinned as he plugged in the lights, which flickered in a garish rainbow. “Oh, come on, admit it. This is the most fun we’ve had on a case in months.”

You couldn’t argue with that. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re married to me,” he shot back, winking. “You know,” Dean said, leaning in close as you adjusted the strand of blinking lights, “we make a pretty good team when we’re breaking all the rules.”

You smirked. “Better than your pancake-making team, that’s for sure.”

He laughed, the sound rich and unguarded. “Touché.”

Lanas’s car pulled up just as Dean propped his flamingo lawn ornament next to the mailbox. Her expression was a masterclass in repressed rage as she stepped out, clipboard in hand.

“Dean!” she barked, her voice sharp enough to make the neighbors glance over from their gardening.

He sauntered up to her, feigning innocence. “Morning, Lana. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Her smile was brittle, her grip on the clipboard tightening. “We need to talk.”

Dean’s escalating antics had done the trick. By the time night fell, Lana’s perfectly polished demeanor had cracked. She called an emergency HOA meeting, under the pretense of “addressing a disturbance in harmony.”

“You ready for this?” Dean asked as the three of you crouched outside the clubhouse, peeking through a window.

“I’ve been ready since the gnome,” you replied, flashing him a quick grin.

Sam whispered, “Looks like she’s prepping for a ritual. We need to stop her before she completes it.”

Dean nodded. “Sam, you cut off the ritual. We’ll handle Lana.”

“We?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dean smirked. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not as far as I can throw you,” you shot back, but the teasing tone didn’t quite mask the warmth in your words.

The two of you burst through the clubhouse door just as Lana lit the final candle on an ornate altar covered in sigils. The neighbors, all eerily quiet, stood in a semicircle around her, their expressions blank and glassy-eyed.

“Lana!” Dean called out, his voice cutting through the room. “You forgot to put this on the HOA agenda.”

She turned, her face twisting into something feral. “You don’t understand,” she hissed. “This neighborhood is perfect because of me. Because of what I’ve done!”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, your definition of perfect kinda sucks.”

Lana snarled, grabbing a knife from the altar and lunging at him. You moved instinctively, stepping in to block her path. Together, you and Dean fought her off, moving in perfect sync.

She was fast, unnaturally so, but you matched her step for step, Dean covering your back with practiced ease. At one point, she swung the knife in a wide arc, and Dean caught her wrist, twisting it just enough for you to knock the blade free.

“You good?” he asked, glancing at you.

You nodded, catching your breath. “I’m fine. You?”

“Peachy,” he replied, his grin full of adrenaline-fueled bravado.

Behind you, Sam chanted Latin, his voice steady as he worked to dismantle the ritual. The sigils on the altar began to glow, flickering as the power binding the neighborhood started to unravel.

Realizing she was losing, Lana screamed, “You’ll ruin everything! Without this deal, this place will fall apart!”

Dean shrugged, stepping closer. “Good. Then maybe it’ll feel a little more human.” With a final swing, he knocked her unconscious, the force of it sending her crumpling to the floor.

Sam finished the ritual just as the sigils burned out entirely, plunging the room into silence. The neighbors blinked, their blank expressions fading as they seemed to wake from a dream.

“It’s over,” Dean said, his voice low.

Outside the clubhouse, you leaned against the Impala, catching your breath. The air felt lighter now, the oppressive weight of the neighborhood’s perfection finally lifted.

Dean stood a few feet away, looking at you with an unreadable expression. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

“You okay?” you asked softly, stepping closer.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Just... thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” you teased, but the smile you gave him was gentle.

Dean’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Before you could think, he closed the distance between you, his lips crashing into yours.

The kiss was intense, filled with all the emotions he’d been holding back—relief, affection, gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Took me long enough, huh?”

You laughed softly, your hand resting against his chest. “Yeah. But worth the wait.”

᭝ ᨳଓ𓂃⋆.

The next morning, as the three of you packed up to leave, Dean was back to his usual self—mostly.

Dean hesitated, glancing at the house. “Gotta admit,” he said, his voice softer than usual, “this whole domestic thing... wasn’t the worst.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? I thought you hated it.” Dean smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, turns out I don’t suck at it. Could even get used to it, maybe.”

“You know,” he said, leaning against the Impala as you loaded the last bag into the trunk, “this whole married thing has its perks.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked. “Yeah. Hot meals, shared insurance benefits, someone to remind me when I forget my wallet.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly. “God, you’re insufferable.”

He shook his head, but there was a warmth in his gaze as he looked at you. “Maybe in another life.”

You didn’t answer, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. Dean opened the driver’s side door, his usual cocky grin back in place. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s hit the road.” You climbed in, Dean kissing you on the head before closing the door.

As the Impala roared to life and the too-perfect neighborhood disappeared in the rearview mirror, you couldn’t help but think about Dean’s earlier words. Maybe this undercover mission had been more than just a case.

Maybe, in some small way, it had given both of you a glimpse of what could be.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[zepskies]

Take Me Home - Part 1

Pairing: Beau Arlen x F. Reader 

Summary: You are another lost soul at Sunny Day Excursions. You’re aiming to settle in Helena, Montana, where Beau Arlen is the new sheriff in town. But you’ve both got a past you’re running from. 

AN: Welcome to my first ever Big Sky series! I’ve been wanting to get to this for a while now. I’m so glad I finally get to start sharing this with you! I truly hope you enjoy the ride. (Note: This is set towards the beginning of season 3.)

Song Inspo: “Fly Away” by John Denver. And remember, you can listen to the full Take Me Home Playlist ⬅️ here.

Word Count: 4,400

Tags/Warnings: A bit of angst, a bit of setup, “Glamper Girl,” and a side helping of cops enjoying baked goods…

❤️ Series Masterlist

Part 1: All of Her Days

“This really feels like cheating,” you mused.

Yet again, you surveyed the sheer size and luxury of this tent you were supposed to be “camping” in.

Between the giant king-sized bed with crème and burgundy comforters, a two-seater dining table, a dresser (with a vanity), and even a small bookshelf, it looked like the Taj Mahal of glamping.

“Can’t you just enjoy it?” your best friend replied, poking a teasing finger into your side. She smirked when you flinched and gave her some playful side-eye. “My parents are the ones footing the bill, anyway.”

“Of which, I intend to pay them back for my half,” you said. Mary just rolled her eyes and waved you off. Her parents’ money was something she’d never had a problem spending.

“Come on, they’re getting ready to go on the hike without us,” she said, tossing her little purse over her shoulder. You were a bit more practical with your backpack, filled with a bottle of water, a couple snacks, bug spray, and your sketch pad.

Mary bumped your shoulder with hers as you two walked out of the tent, and you gave her a smile. You were glad she insisted on this little week-long excursion. It gave you exactly five more days to enjoy the fresh air of no responsibilities, before you returned to reality.

“So where are you guys from?” you asked a couple of walking companions on the early-morning hike.

The woods of Helena, Montana were vast and deep, and you found them a bit intimidating. You were a city girl, through and through, but you were learning to appreciate the mountains and the steep trails flanked by dense trees. You were also grateful that you weren’t alone. 

Emily seemed to be a nice girl around sixteen, while her stepfather Avery was a lightly graying man in his 40s. You pegged his accent as English, the “casual posh” kind. On a scale from Dame Maggie Smith to Dick Van Dyke's attempt at cockney, you’d put Avery on a Benedict Cumberbatch level.

“Well, I met her mother in Houston,” Avery replied, nodding at the girl beside you. “She and Emily joined me here in Helena after we were married this past spring.”

Emily confirmed with a nod. “Yep, starting school here in a few months.”

At that, you could smile. “Me too, actually.”

Emily gave you a confused look while she fiddled with an app on her phone.

“What? You’re still in school?” she asked.

“No,” you laughed. “I’m—”

“She’s a college professor,” Mary tacked on. “AKA: a giant nerd.”

Emily tried not to smile at your expense. You just shook your head at your friend.

“Thanks,” you said wryly, despite your amusement. “We can’t all be personal trainers. One can only take so much Spandex.”

Mary rolled her eyes and prepared to fire back a retort, but your attention shifted back to Emily, who seemed to be debating whether to press a red button on her phone. You thought it looked like a voice recording app.

You followed her line of vision and saw Paige and Luke up ahead—a young “happy couple” here at Sunny Day Excursions. They were whisper-yelling at each other, sniping something about Luke’s birthday. Apparently, he had a problem with getting another year older.

Don’t we all, you thought, with no small amount of sarcasm. The guy had been a sour apple since the start of this trip, and to be honest, he was starting to get on your damn nerves.

“This is like, prime time stuff for my podcast,” Emily whispered.

You looked over at her. “Oh yeah? What’s your podcast about?”

“Relationships, lies, that sort of thing,” she replied.

You almost grimaced. Good luck finding willing subjects for that one.

Mary snickered on your other side. She leaned close to your ear so only you would hear.

“God, Paige’s voice is so effing annoying. Like a chipmunk on helium,” she said. “I feel sorry for him.”

You shot her a dry look. “He’s the one asking for it, if you ask me. But they’ve been going at it the whole time. Makes me feel sorry for both of them.”

You shook your head and kept walking on the trail. Mary sobered as she stared back at you. She was reminded of why you two were really here, and what you’d been through this past year…

What you all had been through.

You and Mary fell behind Avery and Emily on the trail, giving Mary the opportunity to touch your arm and stop you in the middle of the trail.

“Do you really plan to stay here?” she asked. “In dusty-ass Montana? With the snakes and the bears and the old hicks?”

“Well, I got the key to my apartment before we got here,” you said. And she knew that. “My aunt is letting me crash with her until the rest of my things ship over in a couple of weeks, and I start a new job in the fall. So yeah, I’m staying.”

Mary’s lips pursed. She gave you a long look, but you held your ground. You even popped your Airpods in for good measure. You were done with this conversation.

She huffed and kept walking.

You watched your friend go in annoyance. You knew she would try to talk you out of your decision at some point on this trip, but you hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

Heaving a sigh, you looked up at the clear sky above you, filtered through the tall trees. You took a moment to collect yourself in this great big no man’s land, where you could finally let yourself slow down for a minute, and breathe.

You raised the volume in your Airpods when a particular song came through.

“All of her days have gone soft and cloudy. All of her dreams have gone dry,” crooned the soft melody. You nodded to the rhythm of the mellow notes, but all the while, you tried to blink through the sting of tears.

“All of her nights have gone sad and shady. She's getting ready to fly…”

You rubbed your left hand, where you still had the tan line of the ring you used to wear.

“It’s really okay, sweetie,” Mary tried to console you, rubbing her hand between your shoulders.

After the hike, you all had returned to camp and sat down to brunch. It was an amazing spread, with waffles and muffins and Danishes, eggs done three different ways, toast with jam, assorted sandwiches, coffee and orange juice (and sparkling wine for the adults).

But even with a huge plate of appetizing food in front of you, you were sulking a bit. You had your face covered by your hands as you rested your elbows on the table.

“One of my only goals on this trip was to ride a damn horse, and I couldn’t even do that,” you said.

Sunny Barnes and her husband Buck were the heads and hosts of this whole trip. And after the hike, their son, Cormack, had tried to help you onto the nice chestnut mare the handler had brought out of the stable for you. But your entire body had locked up in fear at the prospect of being vaulted onto the horse.

In fairness, she was huge. And you were both afraid of heights, and animals that could buck you off its back and trample you.

You hadn’t been able to speak. You just shook your head vigorously every time Cormack asked you if you were okay.

So he’d graciously patted your back and gave the mare to Emily instead.

“I’ve never been able to ride a horse either,” Avery offered in commiseration. You lowered your hands and gave him a wan smile.

Emily was carving an apple with an impressive (and somewhat scary) looking pocketknife. She shrugged.

“It’s not so hard,” she said. But, perhaps realizing how she sounded, she looked up and gave you an apologetic look. “Sorry. I mean, I’m sure you’ll get it! It’s hard in the beginning, but once you get used to it, it’s like riding a bike.”

Right. A bike with hooves, you thought, ripping a piece of bread from your egg and cheese sandwich.

Mary bumped your shoulder with a teasing smile. “You just got showed up by a high schooler. Again.”

You pursed your lips in amusement. You tossed the piece of bread. It hit her dead between the eyes. You giggled at the way she jumped with a start.

“Real mature,” she shot back.

“Yeah,” you replied, taking a giant bite of your sandwich for good measure. “I learned from you.”

Even Emily snickered, making Mary roll her eyes in amusement.

Shortly after, Avery and his stepdaughter were finished with brunch and got up to get back to their tents.

You glanced over and noticed that Emily had left her knife on the table, now closed in its sheath.

Sheriff Beau Arlen may have still been relatively new in town, but he considered himself a consummate professional.

He’d agreed to accompany Cassie, the local private investigator (and his friend), up to this mountain pass to look for a missing backpacker. Questioning Buck and Sunny Barnes and their crew was just good old-fashioned, thorough police work.

But if it also gave Beau a chance to check on his daughter up here “glamping” with her half-baked stepfather, then he couldn’t pass up on that opportunity, now could he?

After talking to Buck and Sunny, who hadn’t seen hide or hair of the backpacker, Beau let Cassie take care of questioning Cormack Barnes while Beau found his daughter outside her tent. After giving her a big hug and inspecting her “tent” (Really? he thought. Looks more like a hotel room than a tent.), he asked her how her trip was going so far.

“Good, Dad. But you really didn’t have to come all the way out here just to check up on me,” Emily said. She was amused, but no longer surprised to see him.

“No, no, no. I didn’t, okay?” Beau refuted. Though at the look on her face, he knew he wasn’t fooling her. She was a sharp kid. “All right, maybe not the only reason. We had to talk to Sunny about a missing backpacker. It’s something Cassie’s investigating.”

Emily’s amusement faded into surprise, and then concern.

“Wait, what?” she said.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. Just, you know…parents probably didn’t get the memo that ‘off-the-grid’ was part of the deal,” he said, giving her a meaningful raise of his brows. Maybe his daughter didn’t have to screen so many of his calls while she was on this trip.

“Overprotective parents, huh?” Emily dryly remarked.

“The worst,” Beau agreed, shaking his head.

But he smiled. Just seeing her made his whole week better…and it alleviated some of the hurt in his heart. Not getting to be with her on a trip like this stung. And knowing Avery was the one who got to be there for her grated on him.

Beau was already missing too much of his daughter’s life, and he still wasn’t too sure on how to deal with that.

Speak of the devil, he thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Avery approaching. Beau forced himself to look as close to pleasant as he could get around his ex-wife’s husband.

While Mary went back to the tent to freshen up, you grabbed Emily’s pocketknife and went to look for her so you could return it. It had a wood-carved hilt and had her initials, E. A., engraved on the side. The knife looked special, not the kind of thing you wanted to lose.

You found her outside her tent with her stepfather, and a man you didn’t know. He had broad shoulders and short brown hair that swept above his brow. When he turned to look at you, the first thing you noticed was the cut of his bearded chin, and then the green of his eyes.

You didn’t realize it, but your insides stilled, just for a moment. Then you remembered to smile.

Avery looked a bit tense, as did the newcomer. You sensed you were interrupting a tete-a-tete. 

“Uh, hi. I’m sorry,” you said, and extended the sheathed knife toward Emily. “Just wanted to get this back to you. You left it at the table.”

“Oh! Thanks,” Emily said gratefully.

“Well, hi there,” said the new guy. He was tall, you noted, wearing a beige jacket over a buttoned-down shirt, some jeans, and boots. It was a casual look, but all worked very well for him…in a rugged cowboy sense.

“This is my dad,” Emily supplied.

“Sheriff Beau Arlen, ma’am,” he said, giving you a more friendly smile that you matched in kind when you shook his hand. You also gave him your name to go along with it.

“You here for a little belated vacation, Sheriff?” you added.

“No. Matter of fact, I’m here on police business,” he replied. That concerned you, but he was quick to wave a dismissive hand. “Everything’s okay here. Just checking on a missing backpacker. But it looks like we’ll have to continue our search for him elsewhere.”

You hummed at that in concern. “Well, I hope you find him.”

“I do too,” he agreed with a nod.

Then, Emily took the slight pause in the conversation as her chance to escape.

“Okay, Dad, well, we’re gonna go hike down to the lake,” she said, gesturing at Avery. “But as you can see, I’m fine. We’re fine.”

Beau’s smile became a bit tight, but he nodded in understanding. He gave her a big hug, and you could see he was reluctant to let her go. Avery stood behind them. He held tension in his shoulders. You felt a bit awkward yourself, being in the midst of what was clearly an uneasy family dynamic.

Beau released his daughter. After she took off with Avery following close behind, Beau turned to you next. You tried not to blush at the sight of his handsome face.

“Sorry, again,” you said, raising a placating hand. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

His lips twitched upward, and he shook his head. “You’re fine. Though you don’t look like a local. You from outta town?”

I could say the same thing about you, cowboy, you thought. There was a slight southern drawl in his voice that sounded like Alabama. Maybe Texas?

“You got me,” you nodded. “I’m from Chicago originally, but…I’ve actually just moved here to Helena.”

“Ahh, a city girl,” he remarked. “Small world. I just got here a few months ago myself. Houston, Texas.”

Your smile brightened. Right on the money.

“Yeah, I figured,” you couldn’t help teasing him a little. His grin kicked up in the corner.

“How’re the mountains and fresh air treating you then?” he asked. “Better than that blanket a’ smog in Chicago.”

“We do not have smog…or, well, not that much,” you laughed, “but yes, I’m actually really liking it here so far. I mean, I just got here about a week ago. I’m still learning. Though Emily actually tried to help me ride a horse today.”

“Yeah?” His brows raised. “How’d that go?”

You had to laugh. A kind of self-deprecating laugh that had you half-covering your face to stem off your blush.

“Not well,” you admitted.

Beau ducked his head with a smile. He met your eyes in amusement, but not without kindness.

“Well, here’s a tip for ya,” he said. He planted his feet, held his hands up into lightly clenched fists. “The trick is in the legs. Grip tight, but not too tight. He’ll think you’re rarin’ to go.”

You blinked a bit wider. Was that just honest advice…or was he sort of flirting with you?

It made you blush in earnest.

“Ah. Good to know,” you said with a laugh. He treated you with a tip of his imaginary hat.

“Hey,” someone called out.

Both of your heads turned to a tall black woman with long curly hair. She gave you a polite smile before she nodded up at Beau.

“You ready to go?” she asked.

“Ah, yep,” Beau nodded. He gave you an apologetic look. “Sorry, gotta get back to the station.”

“Oh, of course,” you said. But you held up a finger. “Wait, just a sec.”

You hastened back over to the table of confections from brunch and offered them a chocolate chip muffin each for the road. Cassie politely declined, but Beau gladly took his.

“Although, are you trying to stereotype me or somethin’?” he teased.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, but after a moment, it hit you. You’d just given a cop a baked good.  

“At least it wasn’t a donut,” you quipped, despite your embarrassment. Beau still looked bemused, but he let you off the hook.

“That’s okay. I’ve never been known to turn down free food,” he assured.

“He really doesn’t,” Cassie confirmed. You noticed how she was waiting, arms crossed.

“Well, there you go! Sorry for keeping you,” you said.

“Not at all, darlin’,” said Beau. His smile had a charming gleam. “Nice to meet you.”

You quirked a smile back. “Wow, you are from Texas.”

You didn’t think you’d ever been called darlin’ in your life.

Beau’s good humor shifted into slight embarrassment himself.

“Sorry. I’ve been told to stop doing that,” he said. When he chuckled, you did along with him. You weren’t offended by it, just surprised by the old-fashioned endearment.

“It’s okay,” you said. “Nice to meet you too, Sheriff.”

You raised a hand in goodbye, and Beau returned it, watching you go. Meanwhile, Cassie watched him with a small smirk. He stepped down from the short platform in front of Emily’s tent to meet her.

“Were you just checking out Glamper Girl? In front of your daughter, no less,” Cassie remarked.

Beau shot her a look of denial. “I did no such thing. I’m a professional. And a gentleman, mind you.”

Cassie rose a brow at him. It stirred up a bit of his defensiveness. 

“But, I’ll have you know that Em had already moved on when I had a friendly conversation with the glamper,” he said.

Cassie rolled her eyes. Right.

That afternoon, you decided to bring your sketchpad and your modest collection of paints to the lake. You sat on the bank and tried to paint, while Mary joined the others in swimming.

“That looks nice,” Emily’s voice startled you from behind.

You twisted to look at her, and she gave you an apologetic look. She was dressed to go for a swim in a one-piece bathing suit and some shorts. She seemed more of a conservative dresser than typical high school girls her age. Maybe that had something to do with a policeman being her father, or maybe that was just her personality.

“Sorry,” she said, raising her hands.

“It’s okay.” You waved it off and gestured for her to sit beside you if she wanted. She did so, admiring your work over your shoulder. You felt a little embarrassed by it, but you didn’t mind her watching you try to paint ripples of light on the water.

“Are you an artist?” she asked.

You shot her a smile. “You’re very sweet, but no. I just started this year.”

You’d just Googled some therapeutic techniques instead of, you know, going to therapy. You just knew that if you did, your aunt would probably tell your parents, who would never let you hear the end of it. Specifically, why it was a waste of time. Your father especially would have something to say.

But one of the sources you found suggested trying out some creative outlets to calm the mind and think productively, but not create more stress for yourself. You’d tried a few different things, but landed on painting. It was working for you so far, even if you didn’t think you were that good.

“How do you like Montana so far?” you asked your companion. “Your dad told me you guys just moved here too, a few months ago.”

“Yeah, when my mom got remarried, my dad moved to stay close to me,” Emily explained.

Your brows raised. Your painting hand paused with the brush near the page.

“Well, that’s a good father,” you said. You smiled at the thought of Beau Arlen. The way he hugged his daughter before, like she was his entire world, and the fact that he’d moved entire states just to stay with her, told you a great deal about the town’s new sheriff.

Emily nodded, but her lips were pressed. “He’s a bit overprotective.”

“Well, he is a cop,” You said, smiling. “I assume that’s just part of the package.”

“I get that,” she said. “It’s just…a bit much sometimes.”

You gave her a sympathetic look. “I understand. My dad can be like that too. He’s got his soft moments, but he can be a real tough nut too… He’s a retired fireman.”

“Wow, that’s cool,” Emily said. She looked impressed. “Did you ever want to be a firefighter?”

You chuckled. “No, and he never wanted me to. It just wasn’t my beat, anyway.”

In the many years before your father had risen in the ranks to firehouse chief, your mother had often worried about him when he was on shift. Being a firefighter in inner-city Chicago had brought some hard and dangerous calls.

But you had always been more bookish, and both your parents were grateful for that.

You sighed. Your paintbrush made a stroke of deep green on the page, creating darker shades in the bottom of the lake.

“I did end up dating one though. Almost married him too,” you muttered, before you could stop yourself. You forgot you were talking to an insatiably curious girl.

“Really? What happened?” she asked. You looked over at her, and she was staring at you with her full attention. You remembered then that her podcast was supposed to be about relationships, but you had no desire to be a subject.

“It didn’t work out,” you said at last, and with difficulty.

“Why?” Emily asked.

Your internal struggle kept you quiet. It gave time for Emily to really see the withdrawn, almost pained look on your face, the slight hunch of your shoulders. She deflated guiltily.

“Uh, sorry,” she said.

You offered a small smile. “It’s okay, honey.”

“I’ll uh, just let you get back to painting,” she said. You waved her goodbye after she got up and left, giving you one last look before she joined her stepfather in the lake.

You let out a deep breath. The teen was tenacious, and naturally curious. That in itself wasn’t such a bad thing. But as you watched her splash at Avery, laughing that weightless laugh that kids got to have, you realized how much you missed being that young and free in your heart.

Again, out of habit, you set down your brush and rubbed at your empty left ring finger.

Mary finally joined you back in your shared tent after a long night of socializing by the fire. You had kept to the tent, reading Much Ado About Nothing for one of your classes that would start in the fall. It wasn’t your first time reading the Shakespeare play, by any means, but you did want to brush up on it.

“You know, you’re actually supposed to be vacationing on this vacation,” Mary pointed out. She started changing into her pajamas for bed. You were already cozy in one of your old college hoodies and some shorts, not to mention snuggled under the warm blankets.

“I am,” you said defensively. “I hiked, I painted, I ate no less than one burger, a basket of fries, and three smores, and now I’m reading.”

“Yeah, for school,” she pointed out. “I may not be as smart as you, but I know homework when I see it.”

You shot her a smile. “You’re plenty smart, M.”

She snorted and slipped into bed beside you. It felt like the sleepovers you two used to have in college, years ago, when she’d come to crash in your dorm, or you in hers. She’d been a philosophy major (despite not giving two shits about Socrates), forced to attend college by her parents. You were an English major, working three part-time jobs just to get you through until graduation.

“Hey,” she said, laying a hand on your shoulder. You turned to her in question. She seemed more serious than usual.

“I’m worried about you,” she said. “And I’m not the only one.”

You sighed. Lowering your book, you leaned back against your pillows and stared up at the tent’s fairy lights.

“I know,” you replied. “But you don’t need to be.”

“Yeah you keep saying that, but you know the real reason I’m here, right?” Mary asked. Her insistent hand on your arm made you meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to do this," she said. "You don’t have to move out here and leave everything behind. You should just come home with me. Your parents, our friends—everyone wants to be there for you, like we have all year.”

Your lips pursed, and you shook your head.

“I’m not going to change my mind. So if that’s really why you’re here, and not to just spend some time with me, as my friend, then you should just go home,” you said. “I’ll leave here and go to my aunt’s house. I’m sure your parents can negotiate some kind of refund.”

Mary got angry and huffy, just like you thought she would. You weren’t playing around though. This was your life, and your decision.

If your friends and your family couldn’t be happy for you, or at least understanding, then they could at least respect you. You just weren’t sure when they’d get the hint that this was real.

You were moving to Montana, permanently.

On the drive back into town from the camping site, Beau ate his chocolate chip muffin and tried his best to listen to Cassie—to her theories on where the backpacker might’ve gone, and how best to tell the parents to keep her on this investigation.

A good part of him was still thinking about his daughter, wishing he could be there with her right now. 

And maybe, his mind occasionally wandered…thinking about the pretty shade of your eyes when you smiled at him.

AN: And there we have it, Part 1 of a new series! If you liked it, please let me know! 🥰

And a special Happy Birthday to @jackles010378! 💖 I was going to say we're both Aries (mine is next month) but forgot Pisces comes first lol. ♓

Next Time:

The trees were tall and dark now. The moon was filtering through them like the sun had during other day hikes, but it was much more ominous at night.

“Shit,” you muttered. You gripped your flashlight in worry as panic started to well up in your chest.

Now you were lost.

You jumped with a start when the hoot of a bird passed by overhead.

Shiiiit. This was very bad.

You kept moving forward on what you thought was the trail. That was all you could do, keep moving forward. You made a few turns around some trees, occasionally calling out for Sunny, or Mary, or anyone to hear you.

▶️ Keep Reading: Part 2

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Series Masterlist

Big Sky Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List:

@kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb @roseblue373 @brianochka @branj19 @globetrotter28 @hazel-eye-coffee-shop-girl-blog @ades106

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[ducksido]

Epel’s Birthday Surprise

Epel Felmier was no stranger to the occasional teasing about his accent or his “country bumpkin” roots, but he didn’t let it get to him. Not much, anyway. Sure, he had his insecurities, but he didn’t mind a little good-natured ribbing here and there. However, when it came to his birthday, Epel had one wish: he just wanted to feel special for once, without all the dramatics and unnecessary fuss. A simple day with a little extra attention—nothing more, nothing less.

But you weren’t about to let that happen. You knew how much Epel longed to feel appreciated, and you were determined to make his day unforgettable. Not with a big party or anything too extravagant, but with something that would make him feel truly seen and valued.

On the morning of his birthday, you showed up at the door of his room with a basket in your hands. It was filled with freshly baked pastries, a small bouquet of wildflowers, and a hand-written card that had a simple but meaningful message inside: "Happy Birthday, Epel. You deserve all the best."

Epel blinked in surprise as you handed him the basket. “Yuu... you really didn’t have to. I told ya I wasn’t all that into birthdays.”

You smiled warmly, a hint of mischief in your eyes. “I know, but I couldn’t let your day go unnoticed. You deserve a little extra love, even if you don’t always ask for it.”

Epel’s cheeks flushed slightly, though he quickly hid it with a small laugh. “Well... I’m not gonna turn down free food.” He grabbed a pastry from the basket and took a bite, his eyes lighting up. “Mmm, these are delicious! Did you make these?”

You nodded. “I figured I’d make you something special for once. A little taste of home, in case you were missing it.”

His heart warmed at the thought, and for a moment, all the usual bravado in his demeanor seemed to soften. “You really do know how to make a guy feel good,” he muttered, his voice quieter than usual.

After enjoying the breakfast together, you took him outside to a small clearing near the school. The area was decorated with simple yet charming touches—wildflowers scattered along the ground, a small picnic blanket, and even a few handwritten signs that read, “Happy Birthday, Epel!”

“I figured we could have a little picnic,” you said, watching his reaction carefully. “I didn’t want to go overboard, but I thought it might be nice to spend some time together—just the two of us.”

Epel blinked at the setup, his usual stubbornness giving way to something more vulnerable. “Yuu... this is really somethin’ special. You didn’t have to do all this for me.”

“Of course I did. You’re one of my closest friends, Epel. You deserve this.” You patted the blanket, motioning for him to sit down. “And besides, you never get the attention you deserve. You’re always trying to be strong for everyone else. Today, let me do something for you.”

He hesitated for a moment, clearly touched by your words, before finally sitting down next to you. The two of you enjoyed a quiet, peaceful afternoon, chatting about everything and nothing. Epel opened up more than he usually did, revealing how much he appreciated the little things in life, like the simple joys of a quiet day in nature, far away from all the pressures of school and expectations.

As the day turned to evening, you brought out a small, homemade cake—a classic apple pie, just like the ones from his village. “I thought you might like something like this,” you said, cutting a slice for both of you.

Epel looked at the pie, his eyes shining. “It’s just like the ones my granny used to make...” His voice trailed off, and there was a nostalgic smile on his face. “It’s perfect, Yuu. Really.”

You handed him the slice and leaned back on the blanket, watching as he took a bite. “I’m glad you like it. It’s nothing compared to what your grandma would make, but I tried.”

“It’s more than enough,” he said, his voice thick with gratitude. “You really know how to make a guy feel at home.”

You smiled at him, feeling the warmth of the moment between you. “You deserve it, Epel. You’re a lot more than just that tough guy with the accent. You’re someone who’s always looking out for others, and I want to make sure you know how much I appreciate that.”

Epel’s cheeks flushed, and he smiled sheepishly. “You’ve always been good to me, Yuu. I guess... I guess I’m glad you’re around.”

As the evening drew to a close, you both lay back on the blanket, watching the stars twinkle in the sky. Epel’s birthday had been simple, but it was perfect in its own way—just the two of you, enjoying the kind of quiet, meaningful celebration that you both cherished.

It wasn’t about the grand gestures or the attention; it was about making Epel feel special in a way that truly mattered to him. And in that moment, it was clear that he felt exactly that.

[baby-you-you]

Could you do a bat regressor please?

things for a bat regressor !!

🦇 activities

Hanging out (literally) in a blanket or hammock Watching bat/nature documentaries or bat-themed cartoons (Stellaluna, Hotel Transylvania) Coloring pages with bats, moons, or caves Making paper bats or bat wings from craft supplies Playing with glow-in-the-dark or UV-reactive toys Flashlight play in a dark room (like echo-location!) Flying game (running around with wings and "flying" noises) Hide-and-seek in the dark (with a caregiver)

🦇 Clothes

Cozy pajamas with bat prints (stars, moons, or Halloween-y) Hoodie with bat wings under the sleeves Fleece onesie in black, purple, or grey Earmuffs or a headband with bat ears Cape or wearable wings for flapping Glow-in-the-dark socks or night-themed slippers Fingerless gloves

🦇 Toys

Bat plushies (Stellaluna, TY Beanie Bat, handmade bats) Squishmallow bats or fidgety bat-themed toys Stuffies with crinkly wings or glow eyes Hanging hammock for plush friends Echo-location toy game (use sounds to find things) Flashlight projector (bats, moons, stars) Hanging sensory toys with bells or shakers Little "cave" setup with blankets

🦇 Games

Bat-themed coloring apps Matching game with night animals or fruit bats Pretend cave exploration (hide small “bugs” or fruit) Echo-location tag (only allowed to find things with sounds!) Flapping game — fly from spot to spot on a “hunt” Hide-and-hang: hang upside down or curl in a blanket to “sleep” (Not for too long!!) Fruit hunt — collect pretend fruit around the room “Bat school” pretend play — learning how to fly, hang, and squeak

🦇 Food & Drinks

Warm fruit punch or berry juice Grapes or berries (fruit bat snacks!) Banana slices or apples with cinnamon Mini sandwiches shaped like bats or moons Chocolate pudding "mud" with fruit bugs (gummy worms) Black or purple yogurt (with sprinkles or crushed Oreos!) Bat trail mix (fruit, mini cookies, cereal) Warm drink in a cauldron-style cup (hot chocolate or berry tea)

🦇 Nicknames

Lil' bat Little bat Echoer Flappy Squeaker Snugglewing baby bat Baby boo boo bat little noctic cryptid cutie

[adafruit]

🎄💾🗓️ Day 2: Retrocomputing Advent Calendar brings us the TRS-80! 🎄💾🗓️

Released in 1977, the TRS-80 (also lovingly called the "Trash-80") was a popular personal computer by Radio Shack and Tandy Corporation. Designed for affordability and approachability, it was one of the first mass-market computers, bringing computers into homes, schools, and small businesses.

Powered by a Zilog Z80 processor running at 1.77 MHz, the TRS-80 Model I came with 4KB of RAM (expandable to 16KB) and an 8KB ROM, preloaded with the Microsoft BASIC programming language. Its black-and-white display supported a resolution of 64x16 characters. It used external cassette tapes for storage, which offered a low-cost solution before floppy drives became more available.

The TRS-80's also had an ecosystem. Radio Shack offered complete setups, monitors, printers, and software - making it easy for beginners. The machine became a favorite for hobbyists and programmers, popularizing early text-based adventure games, educational software, and business applications.

Eventually overtaken by the IBM PC and Apple systems, the TRS-80's legacy lives on!

I had some so-so photos, but these from the Smithsonian are the best I've seen, along with their section on their site -

Have TRS-80 memories, or retro computing memories? Post’em up in the comments, or post yours on socialz’ and tag them #retrocomputing #firstcomputer #electronics see you back here tomorrow!

[bonesxbows]

Once Upon A Dream - Chapter 4 (Lucifer X Reader) (Alastor X Reader)

My Masterlist

In a sleeping beauty-inspired AU, a curse is placed over you when you strike up a deal with Heaven to protect baby Charlie, causing you to lose your memory. You remember nothing once the curse takes over; not your marriage with Lucifer, not the family you had with the two of them, nothing. So when a strange smiling demon offers you a place to stay when you can't remember where 'home' is, you take him up on his offer. 

(WARNINGS)

Gendered terms used (mom, good girl, wife) but otherwise gender neutral pronouns used

Heavy depressing themes

Loss of a parent (temporary)

(CHAPTER WARNINGS)

Relationship coercion/manipulation

Updates might be a little slower now due to school and everything but I promise I haven't given up on this story! Also wanted to say that this is still mainly a Lucifer X Reader, he's coming back into the picture soon I swear, I'm just pulling some strings behind the scenes for now ;)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4 (You are here), Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17

Banners by @strangergraphics

It was an awkward-looking building, monstrously tall and squatting on top of a hill, cobbled together from various parts and visibly repaired multiple times. But it had an air of charm to it that you didn’t mind, it seemed…homey. Comforting. Alastor had walked you through the door, arm still linked with yours. 

“Alastor! Sooo glad you're back! We’ve been meaning to look into branching out our recruiting services and we were wondering if…we…could…” A bubbly blonde bounced in front of the two of you but she lost her energy when her eyes landed on you, her whole body coming to a dead stop as her words faltered and died into silence. You could feel the heat rise to your face as she stared you down. 

“A moment, Charlie, if you would. I found this lovely individual wandering the streets and in need of some help. They’re looking for a place to stay, poor thing can’t seem to remember much of anything currently. Surely we have room for them here?” The static surrounding his voice seemed to fill the room. 

She seemed caught off guard by his question, as if she had been locked in a trace staring at you. “Oh…oh! O-of course! Yeah, absolutely! Um…why don’t you show them to one of our empty rooms for now,” she told Alastor, then turned back to you, “and then I can show you around the place after you get settled in? There’s a few others I’m sure you’d like to meet. My name’s Charlie, by the way, but I’m sure you already figured that out.” She smiled, blush adorning her pale cheeks. 

“Wonderful. We’ll catch up soon, then!” Alastor answered before you could, pulling you away from Charlie and towards the grand staircase on the other side of the room. 

You acted fast, twisting your head back and telling her, “It was nice to meet you, Charlie,” as he practically dragged you away. Her name seemed to click off your tongue. Strange. You didn’t know any Charlies. Maybe you had? 

The place was sprawling, twisting hallways that all looked alike, spidering off in all directions. You were grateful Alastor was with you, however creepy he seemed. One wrong step and you could have easily gotten lost here yourself. Your eyes roamed the halls as he guided you, cane clicking against the hardwood as he hummed a tune. Crimson red wallpaper lined every wall, adorned with a print of off-color snakes, apples, and wings. There seemed to be tacky circus decor everywhere; decades-old if the layers of dust were to speak. This place was odd, and even with your stunted memory you could remember a lot of strange places around Hell, but this one took the damned cake. 

“Here we are, your new room!” He opened the door, revealing a quaint little hotel room, set with what you had expected; a bed, dresser, desk, and a small armchair. “It’s a modest little setup, I admit. If you’d like, I’d be happy to help fetch you some things to make it more of your own. All you need do is ask.” He leaned his back against one side of the door frame, ears brushing the top of the framing with his cane outstretched in front of him, as you curiously roamed the room. He sounded sincere but that smile was still so…off-putting. 

“Thank you, Alastor, I’ll…consider it. I’d like a moment, alone. Please.” You plopped down on the bed, mentally exhausted. Well, your bed now, you supposed. 

“Hm. Very well! I’ll let Charlie know you’ll be down shortly, then.” And with that he disappeared, sinking into a black cloud of smoke and vanishing through the floor. Your door was still wide open, but you didn’t care, flopping backwards against the mattress and sighing. Your hands smacked against your face, covering your eyes as your whole expression scrunched up in frustration. This whole situation was more than you could handle. Tears burned underneath your eyelashes but you forced them back, anger replacing the despair. You felt a lot of things, but feeling sorry for yourself would not be one of them. 

A sniffle broke through your barricades anyway. 

This shit was hopeless. 

“Are you…doin’ okay?” You heard a voice call out, a knock reverberating off of the wood of your door as they spoke. You shot up, spooked, and pulled your knees up to your chest, curling into a ball against the headboard of your bed. “Woah, hey, sorry, didn’ mean to scare ya. You just…seemed like you coulda used a friend.” He held up his arms in peace, all…four…of them, as he walked into your room, still staying a good distance away from you on the bed, though.

“Sorry, it’s been…a really long day.” You relaxed a little, lowering your guard. This demon was different, far different than everyone else you had met today. He was dressed femininely, all pink and short hems, long spidery legs accentuated by tall boots. But his smile was kind, the metropolitan accent rolling off his tongue in a way that put you at ease. 

“Sure looks like it. You’re new, right? Neva seen your face round before.” He sat on the very edge of your bed, still conscious of giving you space. 

“Yeah, I…I just arrived today.”

“You got a name, sugar?” 

“It’s…” You hesitated, debating if you could trust this demon with the truth of your situation. He seemed sincere enough. “I don’t know, actually. I can’t remember.” 

He leaned back on all four of his arms, his eyes widening as he processed what you had said. But eventually he closed them for a moment as he nodded his head; a look of sympathy. “Memory problems, huh? I can understand that. Name’s Angel Dust, though you can jus’ call me Angel, sweet cheeks.” He winked playfully and you couldn’t help but stifle a small laugh. He was adorable, in an over-the-top eccentric sort of way. “Charlie show ya around yet? Meet the rest of the bunch stayin’ here?” 

“Not yet. I stopped here for a moment first to…catch my bearing, I guess. Didn’t seem to help as much as I’d hoped, though I appreciate you trying to help, Angel.” Your shoulders slumped, but there was a small smile on your face as you thanked the spider. 

“Course, sugar. Wan’ me to walk you down to the lobby? This place can be a fuckin’ maze if you’re not used to it.” 

“I’d like that, Angie.”

He beamed at the nickname, golden tooth shining in his sharp toothy grin. 

When the two of you made it down the stairs you knew you were in for a long night. The patrons of the hotel were sitting around in sofas and armchairs in the foyer, surprisingly only six of them, and they were a colorful bunch even from afar. 

Alastor and Charlie, whom you had met earlier, along with a fluffy-looking winged cat, a peculiar woman with a missing eye, an anxiously jittering snake, and a tiny cyclops girl who was perched atop Alastor’s head, tiny hands busy stringing dead roaches together on a string. As soon as Alastor saw you descending the stairs next to Angel his face creased and his smile became strained. He picked up the girl off of his head as he stood up, placing her down where he had been sitting. She hadn’t seemed to notice. 

“Ah, there you are dear! We were beginning to wonder when you would grace us with your presence again.” Alastor’s voice carried twice as much static than usual as he walked over to you. Out of the corner of your eye you caught Angel grimacing, but you couldn’t tell if it was out of fear or disgust. You hadn’t been around him long enough to know. 

It had sounded almost sarcastic to you, until Alastor grabbed your hand gingerly and placed a gentle kiss onto your knuckles. The gesture sent heat straight to your face. 

Before anyone else had time to react to the strangely loving gesture he had grabbed your hand and led you over to the circle of furniture, taking a seat next to the small girl he had placed on the couch earlier and pulling you down to be next to him, not giving you any other option of whom you could have chosen to sit by. 

It was disorienting at first, being manipulated like a doll, but once you settled into a comfortable position you realized everyone’s eyes were on you. Your eyes widened and then fell to the floor, the stained carpet suddenly a lot more interesting than the people in front of you. Anxiety thrummed through your veins as you shifted uncomfortably under the group’s gaze. 

“It’s rude ta stare, ya freaks.” You heard Angel speak up, breaking the aggressive silence. He was sitting across from you, lanky legs outstretched almost to the point of touching yours, and your eyes flicked upwards towards him at the sound of him defending you. You mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ to him, grateful for the rescue, and he nodded in return. 

“Would you like to introduce yourself? And we can share about ourselves too, get to know each other better!” Charlie exclaimed, a beaming smile on her face as she gestured a pointed finger between you and the group. You heard the winged cat grumble in the corner after her statement. 

“Well, I, um…I’m having memory issues, I guess? Can’t remember my name, can’t seem to remember much of anything, really. That’s why I came here. I’m looking for help to fix…whatever this is.” The words had started to tumble out but you eventually put your train of thought on a coherent track. The reactions around the room were mixed. 

“We’ll help in any way we can! Though we don’t specialize in that sort of thing here. We’re more…rehabilitation focused.” Charlie had seemed the most reactive to your disclosure, her face shifting from shock to sadness to understanding to sympathy within seconds. 

“If I become too much trouble I have no problems with finding a place elsewhere to stay.” You told her, giving her a nod of your head confidently. You refused to be a burden on these people, even if you had just met them. You weren’t incapable of fending for yourself. 

“Nonsense, there’s plenty of room here for you to stay for however long you’d like. Though we will need some way to address you, of course. Can’t have you running around this place without a proper name.” Alastor shot your words down and threw an impossible task at you all in one breath. He had leaned back into the couch, his body tilted towards you, arms outstretched and leaning against his cane propped in front of him on the floor. 

His smile seemed to mock you. A name? Where were you supposed to get a name from? Your mind was a mess! 

“Um…”

You wracked your brain for something, anything. There had to be some memories left, buried underneath the layers of fog. Your brow furrowed as you weaved your way through your subconscious, getting lost in thought. It was mostly static, blips of scenes and half-finished faces, all of which would flit away before you could focus. But there was one that kept resurfacing, scratching at the back of your mind. It was fuzzy, but it was there. A blurred-out face, someone important, calling you by a name. 

“Ducki. I'd like to be called Ducki.” 

They had all been arguing with Alastor, apparently, while you were lost in thought, but their attention snapped to you once you spoke. 

“That’s a weird name!” The little girl exclaimed, speaking for the first time that evening, her hands flying into the air and showing off her now-finished dead roach garland. 

“Nifty!” Someone scolded her. 

“If that’s what you’ve chosen then Ducki it shall be,” Alastor said, supporting your choice. 

The group fell into casual conversation after that, chatting with one another, and you, about anything and everything. Though there was a sense of nagging crawling through your skin as you talked with the other residents. It was persistent, and you couldn’t place your finger on the reasoning, until you scanned the room, tired of the feeling and desperate to find the source. 

Charlie’s eyes had been boring into you the entire time.

To be continued in Chapter 5...

Taglist - Let me know if you would like to be added!

@kyo-kyo1 @voxslays @the-enderwolf-princess @fangthesandwing @hayamie @qardasngan

[evilminji]

As I have recently discussed, with the ESTEEMED Quirk Scholar @mayfay !

Suprise Quirk Accident Babies! Gotta love um!

They're the, ironically enough, love child of "suprise child acquisition" and "suddenly pregnant" troupes! But SPEEDRUN! Because THAT IS A TODDLER/BABY! Right here. Right now!

Just?

POOF!

✨️~BABY~✨️

And now YOU! Yes, YOU! Get to deal with it. All those vague "do I want to be a parent someday? Would it be SAFE? I am READY?" Questions AND MORE! Suddenly NOT SO VAGUE.

Suddenly VERY RELAVENT. Immediate. People are asking you questions you are GOING to need to answer. And?

You are not the only parent.

You might be JUST out of fucking high-school. Staring down a top lister, high 20, maybe TOP TEN, Hero. Who is society gonna choose here? Your barely adult ass... or them? You might never see your kid again if they decide to take them. Decide to be an asshole.

They have enemies, too.

Can... can you HANDLE those enemies? To protect your kid?

It's been less then fifteen minutes. Fight has barely ended and your sitting under a shock blanket. Decisions are going to have to be made. And all you can think is the sound of your own panicked screaming. Static white noise. The reporters and shady Goverment officials already circling like sharks. Gotta make a decision. Gotta make a decision. Gotta....

It is? The BEST.

The more unlikely the combos the better! My asexual ass is thriving! Fuck yeah! Free baby, no sex!!! You can have platonic child rearing shenanigans! Interesting Self Insert Setups! New OCs! Character dramas! Or romance, if your into that sorta thing!

But you know what I think would be funny as hell?

The continued bloodline curse of AfO being so Platonicly Yandere at his own kin that they go Rabidly Feral Wet Cat and try to claw his throat out, bare minimum! Because obviously HE isn't the problem here! No, no, it's everyone ELSE that caused the issues last time! He doesn't have to learn from past mistakes! He's perfect! (Spoken by the world's most delusional man)

He ALSO has lost track of how many minor quirks he has shoved in metaphorical pockets at the moment. As he is, as always, a kleptomaniac. The way the react to each other? Cascade and shift? React to OTHER outside quirks?

Ha! He's never fucking studied that. Why would he study that!? He has power to steal.

So... set the scene~

Toshinori v. Afo: Kamino Ward.

Make the changes you please, add or subtract Heros, but the BIG TWO are there. They clash. Like Titans. Like GODS. AfO getting frisky with his quirk use, throwing everything at the wall. But?

Oh. This time. THIS TIME, you bastard! Toshinori is NOT ALONE!

The power of community, of an ARMY, is not to be underestimated. They make be struggling. Have broken bones and worse. But they know he just... just needs ONE shot! They... they can give him one shot.

Even if it's the last thing they ever do.

Because? They are god damned HEROES.

AfO feels his legs rip out from under him, just as he's about to dodge. It's going to be a killshot. He may... potentially... THEORETICALLY... conceivably... possibly... panic... just a bit. MAYBE. A microscopic amount.

He lashes out.

With everything.

And he DOES mean everything. Yes, including that "grow flowers" and the "summon apples towards you"Quirk, for all the good THOSE would have done.

Something? Happens.

The blast hits the Oaf infront of him... and? Resonates. Like the striking of a great clear bell. It RINGS. Deafening. Without noise. The damn brat...rewinds? No. He's not younger. He RESETS! OH YOU MOTHER FU-!

Something sliding off him. Like dust. From the reset. Drifting towards other dust.

Swirling. Some merging, like planets forming. Most not enough. Turning grey and falling to the ground. But... but he can SEE it. A whisp of white hair gets in the way. HIS hair. Ha. Ha ha hA HA HA HA HA!!! Reset! NOT JUST YOU, ALL MIGHT!

The heroes are getting up. It doesn't matter. He'll just put them BACK on the ground.

INTO it this time.

But then?

The dust from him, all might, so many others. Solidifies, compresses, the pops like a firework. Dumping a very started black hair, blue eyed, toddler on the ground.

AfO connects the dots first. He has AfO hair texture. Quirk weirdness just happened and their is ALWAYS a cost or drawback to Quirks. Such as... any overflow creates an infant? Did he just make his own child?

Not risking it.

He lunges.

All Might lunges for the simple reason of "oh GOD SUPERVILLIAN AND A BABY!" D:> same as every other hero there.

Meanwhile DANNY? Retired Halfa Superhero, Zone Councilman, and LATE to his DnD night... is beginning to suspect THIS is what Clockwork meant when he said "some roads take longer to get home".

Was that that a "Lol good luck buddy"!?

@mutable-manifestation @babbling-babull @legitimatesatanspawn @hypewinter @hdgnj

[ui-alcoholic]

One of the most defining 16bit computers was introduced in June 1985.

ATARI ST 520

DESIGN HISTORY & STRATEGY

The Atari ST series was born in a turbulent time: Atari had just been acquired by Jack Tramiel, founder of Commodore, after leaving that company. Tramiel pushed for a quick-to-market product to compete with the Apple Macintosh and Commodore Amiga.

Development time: Less than one year — an aggressive schedule for a 16-bit GUI-based machine.

Initial models: The Atari 520ST was the first to ship, showcased at CES in 1985.

Innovative design: All-in-one casing (mainboard + keyboard), like the Amiga 500, but with better modularity (external floppy drive, monitor, etc.).

Former C=64 developer Shiraz Shivji led the design team. He tells a story about the Atari ST/Commodore Amiga history (source) "It is very interesting that the Warner Atari difficulties were due to Tramiel’s Commodore. The Commodore 64 was much more successful (I would say wildly successful) compared to the Atari Computers such as the 800 and the 400. We were also taking away sales from the video games division, the Atari 2600. Jay Miner was at Atari in the old days and was involved in the design of their products. He left Atari to design the Amiga. Atari had funded some of this effort and had an option to buy the Amiga. When we took over Atari in July 1984, the first order of business was to decide what to do with this option. The problem was that the Amiga was not quite ready and would need a lot of money to acquire. We decided to pass on Amiga, but this put enormous pressure on our own development team. Commodore, on the other hand, did not have an internally developed 32-bit graphics-oriented machine and did not have the confidence to develop the machine internally. They ended up buying Amiga for between $25-$30 million and spent a further $20 million or so and yet came out with a product a little after Atari. The roles were reversed, the Atari ST has a Commodore pedigree, while the Amiga has an Atari pedigree!"

MIDI AND MUSIC PRODUCTION

The 520ST included built-in MIDI ports — a revolutionary move. At the time, most other computers needed expensive third-party MIDI interfaces.

Key Software:

Steinberg Cubase – became the industry standard for MIDI sequencing.

Notator – early version of what later evolved into Logic Pro.

Pro 24, Dr. T's, and Hollis Trackman – widely used for composing, sequencing, and syncing synthesizers.

Used by Artists:

Fatboy Slim composed with the ST well into the 2000s.

Jean-Michel Jarre, Vangelis, The Chemical Brothers, and Underworld used it in studio setups.

Many studios kept an Atari ST just for MIDI due to its tight timing and reliability.

SOFTWARE ECOSYSTEM

TOS/GEM: A fast and responsive GUI OS that was very usable on 512KB of RAM.

Productivity apps:

Calamus DTP – high-quality desktop publishing

NeoDesk – an improved desktop GUI

GFA Basic – a powerful programming environment

Graphics tools:

Degas Elite, NeoChrome – pixel art, animation

Spectrum 512 – used clever tricks to display 512 colors

While the Amiga had better graphics and sound, many games were first developed for the ST, then ported to Amiga. Key games:

Dungeon Master – first-person RPG with real-time mechanics

Carrier Command, Starglider, Blood Money, Rick Dangerous

Flight simulators, strategy, and adventure games flourished

CULTURAL IMPACT

In Europe (especially the UK, Germany, France, and Hungary):

The ST became a cornerstone of bedroom coding, Demoscene, and music production.

Local software houses and users created a vibrant community around the machine.

The Atari ST was used in schools, small studios, and households well into the early '90s.

In education: The ST's affordability and easy-to-use software made it a favorite in European schools and computer labs.

DECLINE & LEGACY

By the early 1990s, the ST line was losing ground to IBM-compatible PCs and faster Amigas.

Later models like the STE, TT030, and Falcon 030 tried to revitalize the line, with limited success.

Atari shifted toward consoles (like the Jaguar) and left the computer market.

Long-term legacy:

The Atari ST's MIDI legacy lives on — it helped standardize digital music production workflows.

Many musicians and retrocomputing fans still collect and use STs today.

A vibrant retro software/demo scene remains active, especially in Europe.

[khromeangel]

Can you do a school guide ? When you have time ofc no pressure !

school is way easier when you look good, feel good, and have a system. This isn’t about being “perfect” or burnt out, it’s about being intentional.

My setup: MacBook Pro + iPad + Apple Pencil + GoodNotes 5.

• GoodNotes is where all my handwritten notes live — color-coded, tabbed, and way too cute.

• I keep templates for readings, vocab dumps, and even lecture mind maps.

• Everything syncs with my MacBook, so I can reference notes while typing papers or making my own study guides.

Use PDF inserts like digital sticky notes, pastel highlighters, or even your own handwriting font.

Start When It’s Assigned — Not When It’s Due

We don’t do chaos over here. Even if it’s just a brain dump or writing out a to-do, get something down early. It lowers stress and gives you room to finesse instead of scramble.

Also: readings before class? Underrated. You’ll actually understand what’s going on.

Professors Are Secret Cheat Codes:

• Go to office hours just once

• Send a follow-up email thanking them for their time

• Ask one smart question after class

They’ll remember you. And when you need a reference, internship plug, or grade help? You’re not just a name on a spreadsheet.

Micro-Involvement on Campus

No need to be a student body overachiever. Find one cute little org to join.

Journaling club? Cultural society? Wellness committee? Book circle?

You’ll make casual connections, have things to look forward to, and still keep your social battery intact.

Campus Style

• Lululemon

• Aritzia TNA

• Alo Yoga

• basically athleisure is your bestie. of course do not have to only wear that, regardless you want to be super comfortable on campus.

BAGS. I rotated between a black North Face and a cream canvas tote. Backpack for laptop days, tote for library-chic.

Have everything you need from beauty/girl maintenance as well as just things that will make your day feel easier. For example, my campus was extremely hot so I always had a little mini fan and a cooling face mist since I’d rarely wore makeup on campus. I just had everything that I could possibly need to make the day comfortable and simple!

Supplies

Even if you’re mostly digital with your iPad and laptop in class, these are cute to have:

• Five Star notebooks (clean layout, durability)

• Paper Mate Clearpoint mechanical pencils (satisfying)

• A mini pencil pouch that’s super cute

Study Sessions = A Ritual, Not a Chore

Setting the tone is everything.

• Lo-fi jazz, academia classical, or rain sounds

• Candle or essential oil diffuser (lavender or eucalyptus)

• Mug of tea (mint, matcha, or oat milk chai)

• Light snack

• Cozy oversized zip-up or a blanket

I use the Pomodoro method (25 min focus, 5 min break), and it actually works. Especially when I’m pulling long sessions. I also rewrite my notes, build my own outlines, and make custom guides before exams.

Extra

• Color-code your iPad folders like it’s your second brain

• Romanticize rainy library days with a book and an overpriced drink

• Wear blue light glasses

• Keep a silk scrunchie, mini perfume, and lip gloss in your pencil case

Being a smart, stylish girl isn’t about having everything figured out!! it’s about flow, rituals, and owning your pace. You don’t have to overcommit to feel accomplished. Just stay consistent lol

[vonteasevintage]

Sharing is Caring! : Communication is Key

As we all know, pinup is very empowering and is a safe, supportive space for many. Sometimes, depending on what people go through in their lives, may be a bit timid to open up and discuss things with their fellow comrades.

You're not a bad person. This is completely normal.

You worked your behind off on creating THE most perfect setup for the stage. That outfit may be one you feel will guarantee land you on the podium you've been vying for (for what feels like) ages. The thought of someone trying to one up your idea and snag that win from your grasp can be intimidating and make you want to keep your ideas locked in your treasure chest until the day of the show. This can be brought on sometimes due to experiences in life that have made you build up a wall after being burned a few times. Once again, completely normal feeling.

Myself, I am a cards to chest kind of person solely due to the fact of I love incorporating the element of surprise to all the day of the show. I love performing just as much for my fellow sisters as I do with the audience. It's a fun time, and we all deserve fun surprises! That being said, I also am open with my fellow sisters to avoid some common occurrences from happening. We want our time to be fun together, right?

Why can communication be key?

First and foremost, it helps build a bond between yourself and others.

I love to create and can sometimes have a load of ideas that need to be bounced off of someone who shares that same passion and spark in their soul. It can help you if you come to a fork in the road, and help you see things a bit clearer, or help you discover an idea that would work even more fabulously!

Remember in school how it was deemed to be a no-no for yourself and someone else to be wearing the same item? It kind of hit you in the feelings, considering that was supposed to be YOUR look for the day.

I communicate regularly with one of my pinup sisters who is very much like myself, and is a charismatic dynamo as well on stage! Since we are so much in kin, we have been openly discussing our planned outfits and props for the shows we will both be attending this season. This way, neither of us takes away from the other's shine.

Some contests will have group pages where they ask the contestants to share their outfit they will be wearing. I feel this should be a common safe practice, or for those who are cards-to-chest as well and not as comfortable sharing, the person running should privately message to keep track and make sure no doubles show up (and if so, how can they make it their own, if indeed allowing both to wear the same 'fit).

We're all in this together to create an amazing show. The others are not your enemies. Albeit, there is always the occasional bad apple in a batch, but for the most part you are safe to be you. As stated above, feeling hesitant to share with others is a normal feeling. I highly encourage others to help create a safe environment for open communication.

Be kind and unwind!

xo Bree Von Tease

[cyraelin]

Hihi🥰I’ve tried my hand at writing a story about Freesia. To be honest, I didn’t like her much at first when I watched the 44th Hunger Games. She seemed too harsh toward Jewel (I thought Jewel’s first student would be someone who respected her more 😢). But her conversation with Jewel before entering the Games was intriguing. I'm not sure if my understanding of Freesia's character is accurate, and I hope you don't mind if I got it wrong🥹. Her relationship with Phoebus really messed her up. She was so desperate to escape him that she volunteered for the Hunger Games, only for Jovian to end up taking her life. Personally, I think Freesia choosing to volunteer was a pretty desperate move—she joined a game where she was most likely going to die, just for a shot at survival. And, well, luck clearly wasn’t on her side. Honestly, in this year’s Games, she would’ve had to be incredibly strong and determined to even stand a chance, but she was just... average. And she definitely had her flaws (like she's so harsh to Jewel, who genuinely cared about her). But I think that also shows how trapped she was in her own mindset. She felt like a girl being pushed along by the times, and the "way out" she was searching for was nothing more than a mirage. I really like this kind of character setup,it adds so much to the cruelty and tragedy of the Hunger Games.

---

The curtain rises, and she finds herself standing on the stage, her molten gold hair adorned with blooming flowers. The stage lights cast dreamlike shadows, and paper willows sway to the hum of machines. She hears herself singing a song, a song that belongs to Ophelia. The audience rises to their feet, applauding and shouting her name—Freesia, they cry, Freesia! But amidst the praise, an unwelcome intruder slips in, like the golden apple of discord that brings sin. A bitter, cold voice whispers in her ear: "You can’t always be this lucky, sweetheart."

In an instant, the stage falls into silence. When she comes to her senses, she realizes she has stepped into a cold river. The mud transforms into the desperate hands of the drowned, dragging at her white dress. "Come down, Ophelia!" The willow branch snaps with a sound like a child’s mocking laughter. She sinks deeper into the river, and that pitiful elegy continues to echo in her ears.

The clock strikes six. Freesia Leslie opens her eyes under the dim morning light, her pillow damp with sweat. For a while, all she can hear is her own trembling breath and the ticking of the second hand. Those near-cursed words float up from the river of her past: The first person to say this was a girl who competed with her for the role of Ophelia. Freesia has forgotten her name, only remembering that she trained at the same center, with the same green eyes. When the director announced Freesia’s name, she heard the girl mutter bitterly to her friend: "She can’t always be this lucky." The most recent person to say this was her mother. Yesterday, she had a falling-out with Phoebus, returning home with tears and bruises. Mrs. Leslie was trying on a new emerald necklace. "You can’t always be this lucky,”she said. “A boyfriend who’s rich and kind? Just endure it.” The necklace sways in her mind, the clinking of its beads turning into an anxious ringing. Freesia answers the phone, and the receiver fills with incoherent apologies, finally coalescing into one sentence: "Darling, I want to attend Jewel Fairchild’s victory tour with you."

The crowd erupts in boos as Jewel takes the stage, the sound surging like a tide. Phoebus wraps his arm around her. In the sunlight, his arm looks like a priceless shackle. “Pathetic,”he says coldly.

Freesia, unusually, doesn’t respond. She listens to the victor’s speech, but her mind drifts to a month ago at school. Her classmates’ whispers turn into angry shouts: “Vetiver should have lived!” The electronic screens cast a furious glow in their eyes. She hears someone rhythmically chanting the name of the dead boy from District 1, like the beating of a war drum. Soon, that name appears in her mother’s mouth. Mrs. Leslie plays with her daughter’s hair, as if appraising a piece of silk: “So, it’s over? Pathetic. She should have chosen Vetiver over that District 12 miner.”

“But Mom, Vetiver already had a girlfriend,”she reminds her. Mrs. Leslie shrugs indifferently: “So what? Vetiver was more reliable. Darling, if you don’t want to become a failure despised by the entire district, find a more reliable man.”

Failure. She silently chews on the word. But Jewel Fairchild survived. Those glorious Career tributes—Vetiver, Seymour, Bellona, Meredith—all entered the underworld with their honor. Memories flood back: She thinks of Jewel’s coronation, the golden crown burning on her head, while the ring Phoebus gave her leaves her finger bruised. The Fairchild family’s debts melted away with the new snow, but her mother’s divorce settlement left a layer of frost on her heart.

“What do you think of her?”her boyfriend asks.

She looks at Jewel and replies coldly: “I don’t like her.”

One last time. Freesia covers the bruises on her neck with foundation. These will be the last marks Phoebus leaves on her. She solemnly swears her oath before the electronic screen. Mrs. Leslie urges her to reconcile over the phone. Must she really have Phoebus’s diamond ring, a pale marriage contract, and endless days of hiding fresh wounds? No, never. She won’t go back. The 43rd Hunger Games replay in her green eyes. Her grandfather’s gambler blood boils in her veins. She decides to enter the life-and-death casino of 24 teenagers, using her youth as chips and knives as dice. The screen shows Jewel’s final image. The victor of the 43rd Hunger Games gazes at her retreating figure with a Madonna-like pity: Her pale blue skirt flutters like bright wings, a parrot from District 1 flying free from its golden cage.

“Darling, what are you thinking about?”

The District 2 boy’s sweet voice is like maple syrup poured over pancakes. He knows exactly how to win sponsors from the Capitol—a perfect love story. Freesia thinks of her mother’s final compromise in that phone call: “Then find someone better. You’ve just had bad luck.” She stays silent, letting Jovian’s sun-kissed hands caress her neck. There was a time when she shared such tender moments with Phoebus, before he lost control. Now he’s probably watching her, furious. The thought makes her laugh, though perhaps Jovian’s kiss is too fervent for her to notice the bitter undertone in her laughter. It’s like someone playing a battered violin.

During the pre-Games interview, Caesar brings up Jewel. The Capitol cameras turn into little white mouths, and Freesia hears their mockery: "Look, this golden girl ruined District 1’s reputation, and now she’ll ruin you too. You’ll never escape being compared to her. ：The crowd’s cheers rise like waves, drowning her heart in a river of resentment. Why does Jewel Fairchild earn glory with a blade, while her mother only cares about a wedding ring? In a daze, she sees the girl who competed with her for Ophelia, now wearing Jewel’s face, holding up a shattered mirror and smiling: "You can’t always be this lucky. "

So the words slip from her lips like an unsheathed dagger: “...You know I’ll do better than that pathetic woman.”

Her vocal cords sting, and Freesia belatedly realizes her voice sounds just like her mother’s. But the Capitol lights and cameras are so dazzling that, in the end, she doesn’t have time to think.

When Jovian’s strong hands tighten around her throat, just like Phoebus’s once did, Freesia suddenly wants to laugh. Jewel’s warning from that late-night conversation still echoes in her ears. She should have known she was just jumping from one cage to another. Under the lake, she watches her golden hair wither. "Ophelia, Ophelia." She hears her broken throat singing that elegy.

“There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.”

The curtain falls.

That was really beautiful, thank you very much!

Either way, I wanted to say that you did a great job writing her character. My idea was that, yes, she volunteered to escape her toxic environment. Her attitude towards Jewel was because, as you guessed, she perceived her as a rival instead of a mentor and an ally. Her background made her project her insecurities onto Jewel, believing in the propaganda that her dishonourable actions in the games were a stain on District 1's reputation. Her naivety and vulnerability caused her to fall into Jovian's trap, believing that she would make her boyfriend jealous with their romance. In the end, Freesia became a scapegoat for the careers' vengeance towards Jewel, who, according to them, stole the crown from the more rightful contenders.

One more thing I have to say is that Fairchild is her mother's middle name. Her full name is Jewel Fairchild Brimsworth, but she presented herself as Jewel Fairchild in front of Panem as an act of defiance to the family from her mother's side, who tried to erase her. Jewel’s mother, Loupe, came from an aristocratic background, but she was disowned after Allen Brimsworth, a man who used to work in the mines, got her pregnant. Jewel was seen as an illegitimate child, and reclaiming her mother's maiden name was her way of saying, "Now everyone knows my name and you can no longer deny my existence" to her mother's family. Of course, her lore is more complicated than what I wrote in the wiki, so I understand that most people had no idea. It's my mistake, but I am planning to expand on her background and life before the games at some point.

Either way, since I felt inspired by your post, here's Ophelia for you.

[mouses-ear]

what is daphne’s relationship with jackie like? what abt with shauna? who is she as a person? who else is she close with on the team? is she on the team or does she have other hobbies/interests? TELL ME EVERYTHING.

Thank you for the questions!! <3, going for pre-crash dynamics for this.

Jackie&Daphne - their parents are both only siblings who's parents died when the girls were very young so they have very little extended family causing them to be quite close. Summer holidays and Christmas were full of make believe games of fashion shows and fairy princesses. However, as soon as Shauna entered the picture Daphne was put on a back burner. They're still close but Daphne's the second choice and she knows that, the setup for dates Shauna won't go on and the company for parties when Shauna's sick. Daphne still idolises Jackie, She's on the jv team to be with Jackie, half her wardrobe is Jackie chosen or Jackie rejects.

Shauna&Daphne - They're quite similar and honestly would make good friends if it wasn't for Jackie. They're both very aware of how they're essentially the same person to Jackie. While if they had met on the lit magazine at uni or a summer internship at brown they would've been quick friends as it is they are mearly friendly. They have a closer music taste than either with Jackie so the two will lend each other tapes occasionally.

Daphne& the other team members -On the team, she's good friends with Rachel, who she talks a lot about music with, a lot of it is Daphne making fun of Rachel for listening to oasis. Outside of it she's friends with Mari, despite the girl being in the year above (they're definitely massive haters together). Before the crash, Natalie definitely doesn't really register in Daphne's head though they become close in the wilderness.

Hobbies & soccer- Daphne's on the jv team and only really tried out because of Jackie but she likes it. Her stamina is good and she's a good runner. She gets along well with the other jv players and always turns up to practice with snacks.Other than soccer, she's on the swim team which she's good at, she absolutely hates the smell of chlorine, though. After school, she wants to study English, she's a big creative writer and loves writing short stories for school competitions. She loves listening to music,it's a predictable selection of pop rock and indie rock (Fleetwood Mac, Fiona apple, Elliot Smith, pj Harvey, ect).

[thebigrideproject]

Connecting across time and space

So I made it to Chicago. 80 miles yesterday. I took my time of course, stopping for a few minutes at a park bench somewhere south of Milwaukee. Ate the last of my apples and a bunch of almonds.

The path I took from Milwaukee to Schaumburg/Arlington Heights was a nice one at times, deeply frustrating at others. The path through Waukegan was perhaps the most frustrating bit of riding, with stop signs every block along the bike route. There's no flow, no momentum, and I can feel myself burning through my brake pads and my brake rotors. I begin to think that riding on the road and trying to behave like a car as much as possible is actually superior to this stop-go, stop-go quality of urban/peri-urban bike paths.

I even made a sing-song game of it. The game goes that you sing the words "stop sign" to yourself as long as it takes for them to stop being words and start being just mouth noises.

Try it. I'll wait. My record is about 20 seconds.

Any-who, it doesn't help either that Waukegan and Racine are not particularly "nice" cities in terms of their level of care and presentation. It feels like the corner where Chicago's sprawl pushes its lower socioeconomimc class (largely black and brown communities too). Peri-urban grunge with an annoying bike path.

Once you get past Waukegan, you actually get some nice flow with fewer stop signs on the path (the McClory path, by the way) and you come upon a small town absolutely crawling with cyclists. Lake Bluff I believe it's called?

I was feeling the need for coffee and a bit of a break at that point (I think I'd riding for four, maybe five hours at that point) and, seeing all the cyclists in town, I decided that was a sign.

Cycling is very interesting as a community, as we walk around with what are essentially big conversation starters. The bicycle (and, to an almost equal extent, your attire) is symbolic or suggestive of so may things, if you know how to interpret the signs. Most, if not all, of us 'brand' ourselves in some visible manner. That isn't to say that we wear clothes with brand names all the time, but rather that we present ourselves in a way that communicates our identities, whether we're aware or not. We certainly make judgements about each other based on visual appearance and, if you can interpret the signs, I would even guess that most of us are pretty accurate.

One of the biggest lies that we are told as children is that "you can't judge a book by it's cover". Although maybe it's too harsh to call it a lie, so much as it being more nuanced. Truth is, we judge everyone at first appearance. We present ourselves strategically, even if not consciously.

And of course it can be bad when that initial judgement overrules your actual experiences with a person when you get to know them better, or prevents you from opening that door to begin with.

There is a group of cyclists sitting around a table, and one of them compliments my bikepacking setup. So we chat, and they ask where I'm coming from. I say the UP. They ask where in the UP, because one of them is apparently from the UP as well. When I mention "Houghton", their eyes light up. One of them graduated from the high school there, and went to the university I teach at now.

I ask when he graduated, and he says 2004, the year before I did. We were in school together. He's the brother of one of my classmates, and we were in the Boy Scouts together.

When I'm about to tell him my name, I pause. When he knew me, 20 years ago, I had a different last name. If I use my new name, it would be meaningless. So I use my old name, a dead name. He recognizes the name.

Small world, made smaller with bikes. It's a unique idea to reflect on, that a bike can carry us across distance with some flexibility that can make things seem closer (the issues with inconsistent bike infrastructure notwithstanding), but like any visible displays of identity, can also connect us to each other. In this case, it's a connection across time and space: here we are, hundreds of miles from our birthplace, bumping into each other for the first time in 20 years.

But the name...it doesn't bother me that I had to dead-name myself so much as it is something that I think about for the rest of my ride. When we want to make that connection across time, it's required for us to remember who were we then. We have to reconstruct our identity from that time based on an imagining of how we were seen by this person, and present that past self.

I spend an hour or so in Lake Bluff. I get a cup of coffee, and hunt around for the bike shop. I find it, nestled in the basement of a downtown building. The guy who seems to run the joint, Nate, is a pleasant man, and fixes my broken cleat. I buy new brake pads from him too.

I spend more time there than I expected, just talking about bike stuff. We talk about the direction of our discipline, and ogle over his new bike (a Kona Ouroboros, a fascinating looking bike from a company we all thought was going under a year ago).

Bikes are a connection across people. After all, it's hard to hide a bike.

I'm sitting here in the hotel lobby, the next day, writing this entry. I try to journal everyday, but yesterday I was shattered. The kind of exhaustion where you don't have the energy left to get out of your clothes, to feed yourself, to clean yourself. Even lying down takes more energy than you want to expend. You just find the nearest chair and slump forward, your elbows on your knees and your head hanging down like a weeping willow.

So today is a day of rest. Physical rest anyhow.

Because today, the work in Chicago begins.

[thanotaphobia]

torn (like windblown sand)

i'm having feelings about frubbo and q!tubbo like ohhhh my god. his heart is so heavy the weight he bears so great WAHHH

crossposted to ao3

⋆

He’s dripping on the floor.

His clothes are soaked, he’s drenched to the bone, the kind of chill that doesn’t go away even when you stand in the light of the sun and pray for something– anything, even if you have no idea what it is you’re praying for.

His hair is still plastered to his forehead, dread and loss and anger mixing like the world’s worst school dance in his stomach, stamping the soles of shining loafers and high heels and sweaty, uncomfortable emotion turning his stomach over on itself. The floor of Sunny’s train is wet, water gathering in little puddles on the wooden slats and draining slightly away from him, along the dips and cracks of the walls. He didn’t mean to track it in, but he didn’t bother to dry it off either. With his hair covering most of his eyes and the rain still making his cheeks shiny and wet, he at least has plausible deniability for the tears. 

They’ve been a steady constant stream since he arrived at the small funeral setup a half hour earlier. They hadn’t stopped, not even when he’d choked a eulogy out in front of two faceless Federation workers. He’d pushed past the shame of it, because, well– who would they tell? He’s also pretty sure they’d have been crying too, if they had any eyes or tear ducts. Their words had been soft but mournful, their demeanors well-mannered and gentle toward him. Tubbo had appreciated it.

Across from him, Sunny is snoring. She’s still got her tutu on, but her leather jacket is hung over another chair across the room and her sunglasses are folded neatly on the side table by her bed. Tubbo can only see half her face as she sleeps, spread like a starfish over the bed, limbs hanging off the edges and blanket twisted around her like she’s a burrito. She looks peaceful. 

Tubbo puts his head into his hands, grinding his palms into his eyes until he sees stars.

He has a daughter now. And the grief hits even harder then, because he knows he’s lost something like her before, someone like her, someone like Fred. The feelings are indescribably familiar. The tears leaking down his cheeks slot there like they’re just following pre-carved canyons in his face, the warm anger in his stomach eating away pits into the muscle lining it with ease. He knows these feelings, and it scares him.

There is a white-washed wall in his brain, and Tubbo’s a little frightened of what he would find if he went searching for the missing paint. What story would be revealed? Does he want to feel this way again? He lifts his face from his hands in order to look at Sunny again and a wave of emotion washes over him, sending his thoughts spiraling.

Anger. Despair. Frustration. That is the heaviest hitter– why does no one take him seriously? Fred did. Even those workers today did. It’s strange how out of everyone, the Federation seems to be the most sympathetic. They understood his pain, or at least, they went along with it. They didn’t make fun of him or treat it like a game; they grieved with him, patted him on the shoulder and gave him flowers and words of condolences.

He pulls the daffodil out of his Inventory, twirling the stem around in his finger. He watches the petals dance and sway, and he shivers with sudden cold. The flower goes back, and he’s left staring at his empty hands. 

“I can show them,” Tubbo murmurs to himself, keeping his voice low so as not to wake his daughter. She’s a heavy sleeper– he still doesn’t want to risk it and have her see him like this. “I can make them pay.”

It’s a tempting thought, revenge. An apple hanging on a low-lying branch, glistening with morning dew. The crunch would be so satisfying between his teeth.

But there’s nowhere to direct that frustration and revenge towards. He doesn’t know who killed Fred, all he knows is that it happened and it was brutal. He aches to rip into someone himself and get payback, but how can he do that if the payback is only to empty air?

An investigation is in order. He’ll have to do it himself, since no one else will want to help. They probably won’t even care if he mentions it, so he won’t– he’ll keep this one to himself, and start putting out feelers for what happened. A few suspects come to mind first, people he doesn’t exactly get along with on this island anyway, and he grimaces. He snaps back into reality when Sunny moves, shifting in her bed and rolling over with a loud snore. Tubbo lifts a hand and wipes away the tears that have been steadily streaming down his face, now drying up in the heat of his determination. Sunny’s going to wake up soon. The sun is rising, breaking over the horizon and shining through the windows, painting the damp floor with streaks of honey and tangerine.

Carefully, he brings out the daffodil again. It sits in his hand with petals soft and preserved by whatever Inventory magic keeps it alive, and he twirls it again in his fingers. Tubbo reaches up and tucks it behind his ear, neatly between his goggles and hair, still within reach of his Inventory so it stays fresh and alive. He’ll have to change quickly before Sunny wakes up, get rid of his wet clothes, maybe mop up the floor of her train car so she doesn’t complain or question him when she gets up– fondly, he thinks of her pouting face, and smiles. Just a bit.

“Keep an eye on her, Fred,” he says, moving to stand up from the chair, his limbs heavy and sluggish. He’s exhausted. His nails are cracked and his eyes have bags, but he’s got revenge to enact and a daughter to look out for. No more time to grieve. He should’ve left all that behind at Fred’s funeral anyway– it’s bad for him to drag it around with him, especially into Sunny’s space. So he heads for the door, glancing up at the ceiling briefly before he steps out to change into dry clothes. “Keep an eye on her while I’m gone.”

[pastelpiggielol]

Apparition Training - an OC angst oneshot

Very much back in my Harry Potter phase and thought I might post a oneshot I wrote a couple months ago!

Word count: 2310

Characters: Belladonna Hemlock (OC), Esmerelda Hemlock (OC)

Warning for verbal abuse and gore!!!

I hope you enjoy!

Bella stared into the cold glare of her mothers eyes as she surveyed her with an unmistakable detachment. Looking around the room, she saw a thin, wooden hoop lying in the middle of the rug, a pitcher of apple juice on the coffee table and the wrought iron fireplace guard pulled across their connection to the floo network alongside the usual furniture. A frown pulled onto her face in mild confusion as she tried to piece it all together, though was unable to draw any conclusions before the sharp voice of her mother cut across her thoughts.

"Welcome home Belladonna," she said in a steady yet icy voice.

"Hello mother... what is this?" Bella gestured to the hoop as she closed the large door behind her.

"Sit." she ordered, gesturing calmly - almost unnervingly so - to the arm chair across from the settee she herself had perched on. Without a word or so much as a micro expression, she drifted to the seat and sat.

"You'll be turning seventeen during your coming school year, which means I'll be sending someone from the ministry to Hogwarts to teach students how to safely apparate," she began, her voice as cold and even as ever. "As the head of the Department of Magical Transportation and as your mother I will not have you embarrass me by failing your exam." Though clearly not finished speaking, Bella cut across her in an attempt to defend herself.

"But I wont-"

"Do not interrupt me girl." she overpowered sharply. Thinking it best to not push her luck, Bella nodded and continued to listen in silence despite the nagging feeling in her stomach. "You will not embarrass me in front of the Hogwarts staff. Therefore, I have decided to take it upon myself to teach you as much as I can before you return to school. You will master this faster than any of your peers if you wish for time with your friends." she stated coldly, putting a sneer into her last word. She knew without speaking another word that she didn't mean her Hogwarts friends - Evie Wolfe, Rosabel Gould and Vicki Alvarado - but was referring to the only person she felt safe with, the only person on this earth that she cared about more than herself: Draco Malfoy.

Her chest tightened at the mere thought of having to manage her homework and living under her mother's rule for the next few months while not being permitted to see Draco. Though she would never admit it out loud, the time she spent with him was the only time she felt like herself and didn't have to pretend. She would give anything to make that time last as long as possible and so the threat of losing it altogether was devastating.

"Yes mother. I'll practice when I've finished my homework." she agreed, her mouth rather dry.

"No, you're starting now. Up." she ordered shortly, standing as she spoke. Bella quickly rose to her feet as well, not wanting to test her mother's patience, and followed her to the small setup.

"Stand there." she pointed a slender finger to a spot roughly three feet from the hoop on the ground and ,without a seconds hesitation, Bella positioned herself there. "Now, apparating is easy enough that some of the most pathetic excuses for wizards have achieved a license so I should expect it to be childs play for you." she began, stood menacingly on the other side of the hoop with her arms folded and her icy blue eyes locked fiercely on her daughter. "You teacher at Hogwarts will likely tell you to remember 'the three D's; Destination, Determination and Deliberation, but my way is much more effective and better for you. Before I explain further, you will learn the correct movement." she stated, her sense of superiority never ceased to surprise Bella.

Already there were questions popping into her mind about why she wouldn't be learning the usual way, what did the three D's mean? If she was so confident Bella could do it easily, why was she teaching her now? The ruthless look in her mothers eyes showed she would do best to hold her tongue.

"You will probably be told to simply 'spin on the spot' but people are so often blundering incompetent fools that they fall to the ground without moving an inch so you will learn the most effective way to practice the movement without embarrassing me. Ignore all the blithering idiots around you that try to lead with their shoulders or their hips, cross your feet and use your ankles only to turn yourself. Like this." she demonstrated a simple, full body rotation without taking a step. Feeling slightly insulted that she was being taught how to perform a twirl, she copied her mothers action and rotated in place, making an effort to not express her exasperation.

"Oh for the hallows sake Belladonna this is the easiest step! Do it again, properly! I can't continue until you do it right." she barked. A small jolt of fear raced through her body at her suddenly raised voice, but to prevent the situation from worsening, Bella took a steady breath and quietly spoke.

"What did I do wrong, mother?" she asked, her voice flat and quiet.

"Your arms girl! Did you watch me at all?! Your arms should follow your body tightly, not flailing beside you like a beached grindylow! Do it again!" she yelled, her chest rising with anger and her gaze hardening viciously. With a small nod, Bella repeated her twirl, this time holding her arms more rigidly. Once again however, her mother blew up thunderously, this time telling her she was holding her head incorrectly. This pattern followed several more times until she was meeting her mothers expectations, albeit tired and slightly dizzy. She hadn't even been told how to apparate yet and she was already exhausted from the ceaseless berating and yelling. Right now all she wanted to do was lock herself in her bedroom alone.

"Finally, you look like you at least want to apparate. Now I can teach you the principles." the fierce witch started.

"Mother, can't I get a drink first? Or perhaps sit down?" she pleaded, trying her best to not sound as though she were begging. Her request was met with a disdainful scowl.

"Emmy! Come!" Esmerelda called out. Seconds later, a loud crack echoed through the room as a small house elf with big, lopsided ears and one large, blue eye with a deep divot where the second should have been. The old fur lining of Medusa's old bed hung loosely from Emmy's shoulders, the hem frayed and tattered where the holes were cut for it to become a garment. There were still a few black cat hairs left from its previous occupation.

"You called, mistress?" the small elf squeaked, her voice much softer than the other elves in their manor. Bella hastily turned away from the elf, rather repulsed by her dirty rags and grotesque appearance.

"Yes, get Belladonna a glass of that apple juice. And keep it filled." she snapped, barely affording the elf a mere seconds glance. Emmy obeyed in her soft little voice and fetched Bella a full glass of apple juice, holding it up to her while looking down at the ground.

"Here you are miss." she spoke quietly as Bella bent down and took the glass with a small grunt rather than a thank you. When the flavour of the sweet liquid spread across her tongue, she felt her whole body relax slightly. She never quite realised how effective something as simple as a sugary drink could be for helping her cope with her mother's lessons.

"Stay out of the way, can't have you losing another eye and becoming even worse at your job." Esmerelda slated the elf as she carried herself out of the way. "Now, the principles of apparition are simple: know where you want to go, focus your mind on that location, channel your energy into entering that location and follow through with the simple twist movement. If you do all of those things without making any foolish mistakes, you will be successful every time. You need to apparate into that hoop. Go." she ordered coldly, her explanation and instructions as though she were reading from a script rather than teaching. Nevertheless, Bella took a deep breath and focussed her thoughts on the inside of the hoop, picturing it as vividly as she possibly could in her mind. She then tried imagining herself standing in the hoop and followed it up by holding her breath and performing the meticulously practiced twirl.

And she hadn't moved an inch. Her shoulders sunk with frustration and disappointment, she thought she had done everything right yet she hadn't managed to do anything. To her surprise, Esmerelda didn't say anything aside from a sharp "Again." And so she did. Bella repeatedly tried to apparate several times, all entirely unsuccessful, each failure causing her mother's face to grow ever more stony and cold.

"You foolish girl, you should have made progress by now! Watch me and copy exactly how I do it." she snapped, storming toward her and tugging her roughly out of the way by the arm. Now stood where Bella had been, Esmerelda performed the exact twirl they had practiced for twenty minutes and successfully apparated into the hoop. "There. You have to focus, no wandering thoughts about potions or curses, you have to focus all of your mind on getting into that hoop." she glowered at her daughter before stepping out and returning to their previous positions.

Several more failed attempts and rounds of fierce berating saw them through to sunset, the sky now a blend of purple and deep blue. Bella had not managed to apparate yet, however she was beginning to feel some sensations in her hands and legs - though she was unsure if that was just pins and needles from being stood for too long. By now, her mother had seated herself on the settee to watch and scold Bella's attempts, ignoring her protests when she asked for a break.

"We are not finishing this until you make some progress! Now do it again!" she yelled, enunciating every word of her last order. The tired girl nodded silently, patting away the tears threatening to spill with her sleeve. She took another drink from the nervous elf before making another attempt. She closed her eyes, envisioned the hoop, mentally placed herself inside the hoop and focussed all of her efforts into getting into it, then followed through with the twirl. Within a split second she felt as though she had been hit by a huge, rolling wave that was gone as fast as it came, replaced by a white hot, searing pain ripping through the left side of her body. A wild scream burst from her lungs as the pain worsened by the second. She couldn't think of anything other than the agony crashing through her like lightning. She tried to breathe but found she could not catch her breath, her breaths were so shallow and fast she was becoming lightheaded.

Unable to make sense of anything, she forced her head to look in the direction of the source of the pain. And when she saw it her screams flooded with fear. Her left arm was slashed gruesomely in half, her hand was missing and she could plainly see the entire length of one of the bones in her forearm. Panic swelled larger than it ever had before, her heart beating so fast she thought it might burst. All she could hear was her own shrieking and wailing, punctuated only by ugly sobs and loud gasps. Warm blood was soaking into her clothes and hair, staining her skin and overwhelming her senses.

It seemed to last an eternity as she couldn't feel a thing else to know whether she was being helped or not, though her question was answered when a large purple cloud surrounded her and the pain began to fade. When the air around her was clear, there was no more excruciating pain or bones, but she was still crying uncontrollably and wholly unable to stop her muscles from shaking. The panic had not decreased in the slightest and her lungs were burning, she had thought she was about to die - perhaps she still was.

A hand found its way to her back to help her sit up, another placed on her chest. Slowly her senses were returning to her and she could process the sight of her mother holding her carefully. There were still gashes and cuts along the length of her arm, blood pouring over her now returned hand.

"That is called splinching. It happens when you are not fully confident in your apparition, where you leave parts of yourself behind." she told her, unusually calmly. "Emmy, drink." she barked at the elf, who hurried over with the pitcher and glass. Bella couldn't bring herself to utter a word, tears still streaming uncontrollably down her face and her breathing still ragged and fast. Esmerelda took the glass from the elf and pressed it to her daughters lips, very carefully helping her drink. She was able to manage a few sips before needing to breathe, though she found her breathes more steady. They repeated this a few times until Bella could breathe properly and stand by herself.

"I think that progress is satisfactory for now, we'll try again another time. There's dittany in the potions storage. You can go." she told her daughter, the tone of cold indifference resumed. Still shaking, Bella turned toward the fireplace and shoved the guard aside before grabbing a handful of floo powder. She didn't stay long enough to hear her mother's words as she weakly muttered "Malfoy Manor" and let herself get rushed away by the bright green flames.