#basically im just back on my clois feels

[zacksnydered]

Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice (2016) Dir. Zack Snyder Written by Chris Terrio and David Goyer

[artificialqueens]

🏳️‍🌈 The Miracle of Living Pt.2 - Lita

In this world we're just beginning To understand the miracle of living

Lmao I had you in the first half, this is not just a cutesy slice of life family AU and actually gets fucking awful and tragic from here on out, you have been warned. This was originally meant to be a single story but I decided to chunk it into two halves just so it's not unreadably long, which means ALL the suffering gets to be consigned into whatever this is. Anyway, see other part for author notes and shit, apologies in advance xo

Summary: Adore is an adult now, and life is simpler for Bianca. Until an unexpected tragedy shatters her world, and her relationship with her daughter. 

TW: Major character deaths, parental loss, accidental overdose, suicidal thoughts

[1] NEW MESSAGE Ben Putnam ✨🏳️‍🌈 12/9/46 19:08  jinkx is about to call you freaking tf out - don’t listen to them, im basically fine. got into an accident driving home, i look kinda banged up and i think my shoulders dislocated but nothing serious. pls call adore and tell her - if she says shes gonna ditch her concert or anything like that dont let her, she doesnt need to worry. if ur not busy and feel like coming to see me id like that (and i think jinkx could use some moral support lol, theyre taking this harder than i am) but don’t let j convince u that im on my deathbed. love ya, bitch! b xoxo

*****

November 12th, 2046

“Bea…”

Jinkx stands up as Bianca enters the waiting room. Their voice is cloying - too sickly. Too sympathetic.  

Of all of Ben’s various partners since the divorce, Jinkx was definitely Bianca’s favorite. Bianca had been Ben’s maid of honor (or ‘cunt of dishonor’ as he’d affectionately christened her) at their wedding last spring. Jinkx is kind, sensitive - their eccentricities line up perfectly with Ben’s, they’re a good step-parent to Adore, as resistant as she’d been to having a step-parent. However, Jinkx under pressure is prone to amateur dramatics - Ben’s text prediction regarding the nature of their impending phone call had been totally spot-on. 

So Bianca is surprised to see that they look drained - not sad. Not scared. Just tired - their shock of red hair disheveled, eyes puffy and face moist with half-dried tears. Bianca grips the strap of her purse a little tighter. She hadn’t expected this. They had been all catastrophe and hysterics on the phone - sobbing like their life depended on it. Why are they so calm? 

Per Ben’s instructions, Bianca hadn’t dropped everything to go to him. She’d been working late, supervising a bunch of bored, annoyed teenagers doing stocktake - she hadn’t exactly bided her time, heading straight for the hospital as soon as she’d clocked out, but she also hadn’t exactly rushed. 

Two lanes of the freeway were closed because of a car wreck. She figured it wouldn’t be the same one - it couldn’t have been that bad if Ben was awake, coherent, and texting her. As the backed-up traffic crawled past the remains of the scene at five miles an hour, she’d tried not to look. She knew she shouldn’t have looked. But she looked anyway - she’d caught sight of the remnants of Ben’s car at the front of a pile-up, crushed from behind by a smoldering pickup truck, and felt the sting of vomit rising up at the back of her throat. The driver’s side door looked intact. That was something. Ben was fine. Ben had told her himself that he was fine. So Ben was fucking fine. 

On the drive to the ER, Bianca called Adore - anxiety twisting below her ribcage, visions of shattering glass and crumpling metal scorching into her eyelids every time she blinked, desperate for a distraction. The phone had been picked up by her weirdo manager, Winona or Wilma or whatever her name was, who’d decided that a call from her mom, regardless of the matter at hand, wasn’t important enough to bother Adore with before a gig, and had hung up. 

And now she’s been taken into a side room that feels like a fucking morgue, and Jinkx is acting so calm and kind that it’s nauseating. This feels weird. There’s a bible on the table in the middle of the room. What the fuck is happening? 

Jinkx reaches out, and pulls Bianca into an oppressively tight hug. Bianca squirms, determined to extricate herself from the stifling embrace and start asking questions. She’s never known Jinkx to act anything but weird, but this was bizarre even by their standards. When they break away, Jinkx takes Bianca’s hand. It sets her teeth on edge. 

“Jinkx, what’s going on?” Bianca’s voice comes out sterner than she would have liked. 

“Did you call Adore?”

What kind of fucking response is that?

“I tried. Her manager picked up - she’s at a gig, I’ll talk to her tomorrow.” 

“I really think you should try and talk to her now.” 

Bianca really doesn’t like Jinkx’s tone. She also doesn’t know what to do with herself. She figured she was here as emotional support for Jinkx, who seems fine if a bit off-kilter and cryptic - or as a proxy for Adore, who was performing and/or wasted in Austin, enjoying the sudden and somewhat random success of her previously struggling music career. 

“Jinkx, where’s Ben? What happened?”

Jinkx grimaces. They try to convince her to sit down - urging her towards a ugly upholstered chair with their lips pursed. Bianca doesn’t move. 

“Jinkx.” Bianca repeats herself more insistently, folding her arms. Jinkx sits down, clenching their jaw and breathing shakily. “Where the fuck is Ben? I need to see him." 

“…he died, Bea.”

Bianca’s blood turns to ice in her veins. She takes a sharp breath in. 

“What do you mean he died?” Bianca’s voice is thin. Jinkx doesn’t say anything. “He texted me - he was fine like, an hour ago.” Jinkx stays silent. Bianca feels like she’s going to throw up. Why won’t they say anything?  “He’s- Jinkx, what do you mean he fucking died?”

“They thought he was fine,” Jinkx sniffs. “There were other people from the wreck who were hurt worse than he was - he kept saying he was okay so the doctors would focus on them, and then he coded out of nowhere. I think they said he was bleeding in his abdomen or something - nobody realized until it was too late. He was sitting up and talking to me, then he…” Jinkx stops, swallowing hard. Their eyes have welled up. 

“Why didn’t you call me? I would have tried to get here faster.” Bianca’s knees are shaking. She can’t move - can’t admit to the failure of her emotions. Frightening and all-consuming as they are. She’s still wearing her work lanyard, and it feels utterly stupid. Why hadn’t she just fucking left? Why had locking up a goddamn store she could burn to the ground without losing sleep been more important than this? Than Ben? 

“I didn’t know how to.” Jinkx won't make eye contact with her. “I couldn’t tell you over the phone - it didn’t feel right.” 

Bianca sits down before she collapses. Her hands are shaking. Her throat hurts like she needs to cry, but there are no tears. She isn’t crying, and she won’t - not until it’s essential. 

“But you were- you shouldn’t have waited all this time on your own. I would have been here sooner.” Bianca is barely able to talk. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t even know what she’s talking for - trying to fill the awful, empty air with some sort of noise, even if it is wilted platitudes. She’s horribly aware of her own breathing; how hard it is, how much effort it’s taking, how it feels like she’s choking. It’s like she’s drowning in the air and the silence - like a goldfish dropped out of the bowl. 

Jinkx puts an arm around her shoulders. There are tears rolling down their cheeks. 

“I really think you should call Adore again.” 

Adore. Adore didn’t get to say goodbye - Adore didn’t fucking know. That was her fucking dad, and she loved him, and she’d never-

Bianca stops. Something in her brain ticks. A somber conversation at the kitchen table. 

“His, uh- his advanced directive. San Juni-whatever -  Cookie heaven-“ Bianca blurts out, ejecting the words as soon as they appear in her head. The comfort feels cold, but it’s comfort nevertheless. 

She looks at Jinkx. Their face has crumpled. They’re shaking their head. No. 

“They tried - it all happened too quickly, it didn’t work. He was gone before they could…” Jinkx bites their lip. “I’m sorry - I know how much it means- meant to him, I know he wanted…”  

Bianca shakes her head, trying to get Jinkx to stop talking. It isn’t fair - they’ve just lost their husband, and yet it’s them trying to comfort her?  

“It’s okay.” 

It’s not. But Jinkx rests their head on Bianca’s shoulder anyway, and Bianca takes their hand, even though she feels like she’s only making everything worse. What warmth is she capable of? Her presence isn’t doing anything besides forcing Jinkx to stir up their own raw emotions, and reminding them both of the cavernous space between them that Ben’s daughter should be filling. 

Bianca fumbles her phone out of her purse with her shaking hands as Jinkx cries a wet patch into her collar. She needs to call Adore.  

*****

November 24th, 2046

The silence in the kitchen is uncomfortable. Neither Adore nor Bianca knows how to fill it. Ben’s funeral was yesterday morning. Bianca doesn’t know if Adore is okay, but she doesn’t know what to say to her either. She hasn’t seen her cry yet. 

She’s exhausted. The last couple of weeks have been a terrible, sleepless headfuck. All of the funeral planning and formality had fallen into Bianca’s lap - Jinkx had been too distraught to try and think about it, and she couldn’t ask Adore. It was the only real help she’d been able to offer; if there’s one thing that Bianca knows for a fucking fact, it’s that she’s awful at providing comfort. But as usual, she’d taken too much on, and she hadn’t had time to process what had happened - time to grieve, or even just to fucking take a breath and figure out where her own head was at. 

Bianca feels hollow. And Adore won’t speak to her. She’s sitting at the dinner table, with her bright blue hair piled on top of her head in a sloppy ponytail, wearing some tattered band shirt that doesn’t really fit her, and she seems…fine. She’s been home since Ben died, but they’ve been floating around the empty house on two completely different planets; barely making eye contact with each other, let alone talking. There’s a mug of coffee turning cold in Bianca’s hand, and her daughter won’t meet her gaze. 

Adore fidgets with the hair-tie around her wrist. She looks nervous. 

“Listen, Mom-”

“Are you okay?” Bianca blurts out, and then cringes - Adore looks at her with frustration in her glazed-over eyes. 

“I need to tell you something.”

“What’s up?” Bianca tries to inject some warmth into her voice. 

“I know I said I’d stay for a little longer, but I’m…”

Oh god. Bianca already doesn’t like where this is going. She clenches her teeth, trying to contain the stupid, defeated little whimper she can feel rising into the back of her throat.

“I got a call from my manager this morning. My new single drops in a week, and there’s- this big-deal band wants me to open for them on their tour. It’s two months on the road, and I know that I shouldn’t- I mean, it’s a huge opportunity, and the money is really fucking good, and I’m…” Adore’s words are stilted and awkward. 

Bianca takes a second to compose herself. 

“When would you be leaving?” Bianca eventually says. It’s the most neutral question she can think of, and her words come out flat and unbothered. She can’t say what she really wants to - can’t beg her to stay, can’t argue back. Can’t take this from her. 

“Day after tomorrow,” Adore says to the floor, still wringing her hands awkwardly. 

“And why do you sound like you’re asking for permission to go?" 

“Because- I don’t know.” Adore says, equally lacking in emotion. It’s felt for the last couple of weeks like she and Bianca have just been going through the motions of their relationship without any feeling. “I mean- fuck, you’re my mom. And everything is just- I can’t leave you right now. If you said no, then I can’t...” 

“Why do I have to say no?” Bianca tilts her head. Her neck is stiff from the sleepless nights. 

“Because I don’t want to.”

That answer frustrates Bianca, and she can tell from Adore’s body language that she knows it. Adore picks at a loose thread on her shirt - she’s never been able to sit still. Bianca pinches the bridge of her nose.

“I’m not gonna be the bad guy, Dorey - even if you want me to. We’re talking about your career here - not doing it would be fucking stupid,” Bianca says, toneless and insincere again. She pauses. “Do they know that your dad just died?” 

“…No,” Adore grimaces. The first small twinge of emotion flashes across her face for a second, and then it’s gone. “They might give it to someone else. They’ll think I’m gonna be unstable or unreliable or something.”  

“Are you?”

“Maybe,” Adore purses her lips. “It’s kinda still not real. Maybe it’ll stay like that if I’m distracted.”

“And maybe it’ll get real when you’re on the road - you need to think about yourself.”

Adore murmurs something unintelligible by way of response, shakily trying to affirm that she can do it. Bianca stares into her coffee cup. They seem to have reached some level of nonverbal understanding that they’re not gonna talk about this any more. Adore is leaving tomorrow, and Bianca better make peace with that. 

“You’re not mad about me leaving you by yourself, are you?” Adore’s meek voice cuts through the icy reticence. 

“What? No - I’m a big girl, I’ll survive,” Bianca shrugs her shoulders. Why does Adore default to the assumption that she’s always mad? Why does she have to be the villain all the goddamn time? Can’t she just be upset? 

“But like…do you have friends?" 

“Yes, I have fucking friends, Adore.”

And then she thinks about it. Her family doesn’t give a shit, and Raja had broken things off with her a couple of weeks before Ben dropped dead out of fucking nowhere - and yeah, maybe she’s close enough with a couple of people from work that she’d be able to talk to them, but the thought makes her squirm.

She’d not so much asked Adore to stick around for a couple of weeks after the funeral as she had begged her to. The loneliness is choking her, and her daughter is the only person she can face - because they never really talked about their feelings, and even this wasn’t enough to make them start. She just needed someone to be quietly sad alongside. The more that she thinks about it, the more she realizes that the only person she wants to talk to about the pain inflicted by Ben’s death is Ben himself. 

Which she should be able to do. She’s grown more attached to the San Junipero concept than she ever wanted to be. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she’d gotten comfortable with the two of them never having to live without each other. Except that didn't work, and now he’s gone. Forever. 

Bianca had friends. A friend. She’d never needed anyone else, and so she’d never bothered trying to find them. She hadn’t planned for an eventuality in which he’d be dead by forty-six. 

Bianca is crying. Horrible, huge, ugly floods of tears. Adore looks nervous - like she doesn’t know what to do with herself. This isn’t fair. She can’t make Adore deal with her like this. But she can’t stop. Twelve days of awful emotional blockage are clearing themselves all at once, and Bianca’s face is soaking wet and there’s snot running down her chin, and she feels about as disgusting as she probably looks. Adore’s chair scrapes the tiled floor, and she’s standing behind Bianca - wrapping her arms around her, resting her sharp chin on Bianca’s shoulder. 

Adore’s body is starting to heave against hers, and as Bianca tries to blink through some of the blur to her vision and catch her trembling breath, she realizes Adore is crying too. Is this progress? 

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, baby.” Bianca takes one of Adore’s hands in hers, running a thumb across her tattooed knuckles. “It’s okay - it’s okay to be sad.”

“I’m not sad.” Adore’s voice is thin. “And I have to go. I don’t want to be here. I can’t be here without him.”

Adore mutters the admission like it’s blasphemy, and Bianca doesn’t like it, but she knows. Ben’s ghost lingers in every brick and board and fiber of this house. It hurts - that she isn’t capable of being what Adore needs right now. But she understands. 

*****

June 7th, 2047

“Don’t fucking put that on me - don’t screw up my childhood and then keep making me miserable as a fucking adult, it’s not fair-" 

“Ob, cry me a fucking river - you had a great childhood!”

“Did I? Getting dragged up by some fucking idiot who didn’t know what she was doing-" 

“I was a fucking kid, Adore - I was trying my fucking best-” 

It’s dark outside. Bianca feels like shit. She wishes Adore hadn’t left. 

She hasn’t been able to sleep without sedatives since Ben died, and she hates it. She also doesn’t know why - she wasn’t there. It didn’t happen to her. It’s not her tragedy. She fishes the blister pack of xanax out of her purse and swallows one with the tail end of her glass of wine. Sleep. She needs sleep. She needs this shitty, awful, horrible day to be over. Maybe when she wakes up, Adore will be over her tantrum. 

She drops the pills on the kitchen counter. The last dregs of the wine are eyeing her up through the bottle. Bianca hesitates for a moment, refills her glass, and swiftly empties it down her throat. 

She walks through the empty living room, put off by the silence. It’s too quiet in this house. She wishes she hadn’t kept it. Ben deserved it more - he had a partner, and a good life, and hope for the future. Not the pathetic remains of half a dozen short-lived, shitty relationships, and a dead-end job. Adore loved him - she clearly can’t fucking stand Bianca. There would still be life in these walls if he’d taken it, and Bianca had hiked all her stupid clothes and coffee table books and vanity and venom to a crappy bachelor apartment.

It was Ben’s fucking house - it was his career that had paid for it. Bianca felt sick enough with guilt and frustration that he’d insisted she stayed and he left, and then kept ‘forgetting’ to cancel the mortgage auto-payments when he was still alive - just like he kept ‘forgetting’ to stop making her car payments, or kept sending her cheques from some ‘investment account’ they’d apparently set up years ago that she had no memory of. She’d stolen a better quality of life than she was owed from a guy that she was tethered to based on one night of bad decisions when they were in their twenties. It would have been easier on her conscience if Ben had resented her for it. But he didn’t. He’d looked out for her and loved her right up until the ugly end and she didn’t deserve any of it. 

If Ben had stayed here, he would have had to drive a different route to work. That’s why they bought the house - it was close to his job. Maybe he’d still be alive. Maybe it would have been her that died after a rush hour car wreck, of an internal hemorrhage that every medical professional in the vicinity was too busy and too stupid to notice. Maybe things would be better that way. 

The house is too quiet, and there’s too much space - Bianca traipses up the stairs, her fingers brushing over the lingering texture of Adore’s childhood crayon-on-wall scribbles, long since painted over. 

The wine is making her feel worse. She’s angry - hurt, frustrated, upset. But not with Adore. With herself for making her this way. 

Ben was warm, Ben was supportive. Ben could never see a single fault in her - not like Bianca. Bianca was the Bad Cop; the enforcer, the prison warden. Bianca nagged Adore about her homework and her curfew and her room being a mess - Bianca questioned her judgment, Bianca shat on her fashion choices. Bianca tried her best to make sure the kid didn’t turn out like she had. And she’d done it - Adore was successful, she was living a life she could look back on and be proud of. So, no fucking wonder Adore’s ideal future was one that didn’t have Bianca in it.  

“Bull-fucking-shit. You weren’t a kid, you were in your twenties-“ 

“I was two years younger than you are, you think you’d be great at raising a child now? Forget about finding out you’re pregnant when you were twenty-one and having to give up everything you’ve ever wanted in life for-“

“Nobody asked you to do that.”  

“No, they didn’t - but I had to do what was fucking best for you. Fuck my dreams, fuck what I wanted. You think anybody is working in a goddamn Urban Outfitters age forty-fucking-seven because they want to be?”

“I’ve been out of your house for five years, you’ve had time. Go live your dreams, since I’m not a fucking burden on you any more-“

“You’re not fucking getting it - the ‘living my dreams’ ship has sailed, since I had to drop out of fucking college for you. I had to put my life on hold indefinitely for you, and so did your father, so stop being such an ungrateful little shit-“

Bianca keeps replaying the fight in her head. Tonight had started well. Adore was back in town between tour dates and album sessions - not for Bianca. To see friends, and to meet with some record execs that Bianca was too uncool to know the names of. But when Bianca had asked if she had a free night, Adore had humored her. They’d ordered pizza, bought a couple bottles of wine, and for a moment, things felt the way they used to. Bianca was happy, for a fleeting second. 

Adore had been her best friend until she was thirteen. Then some awful melting pot of Adore’s pubescent bitch tendencies and Bianca’s stubbornness and short fuse had kicked off a bizarre ongoing war between the two of them that only seemed to mellow out once Adore left home and they weren’t constantly in each other’s way. It was normal teenager shit - Bianca remembered things being the same way between herself and her mother when she was in junior high. Her mother that she doesn’t fucking speak to any more. 

Bianca loves Adore so much that it’s physically painful, and she felt like a monster the entire time they were at odds. But she didn’t know how to stop it - she didn’t know how to be whatever Adore seemed to need from her. 

Not that there hadn’t been good moments. Adore’s first concert. The family vacation to Cancun. The weekend shopping sprees. Every so often, Bianca caught a glimpse of the fully-formed human being that Adore was starting to become, and she…well, adored her. But sooner or later, the shit would start again; Bianca could feel herself failing her daughter in real time. 

Just like when Adore was a teenager, things had fallen apart tonight just as Bianca was starting to enjoy the good.  

It was her fault. Like usual. Bianca had too much to drink too quickly, and she got emotional. She’d phrased some stuff poorly. She’d upset Adore. It was always her fault - it was always her that made the first wrong step. Adore just reacted to her shitty parenting.  

She’d made an off-handed comment about Adore ‘abandoning’ her. Which, in her crappier moments, she often felt but resolved never to say to her. Adore was an adult with her own life and her own burgeoning fame to deal with, and she’d lost her dad less than a year ago. Bianca’s feelings didn’t matter; she should be seeking her emotional support from someone her own age. So fucking what if Adore had better things to deal with than her mom’s grief and loneliness? 

But she’d said it anyway, and then she’d doubled down. Just like she always did. Adore started crying. Bianca got frustrated. God, she misses Ben. He wouldn’t have let this happen. 

“Leave Daddy the fuck out of this, he’s the only person I never doubted cared about me and I-" 

“Yeah, he did. He really, really fucking cared about you - enough to spend nearly his entire adult life closeted because he wanted to give you some semblance of a normal childhood, enough that the night he fucking died he didn’t want me to call you because he didn’t want to worry you-“

“That’s not a good thing! I wish I’d been there! I wish I knew, instead of coming offstage to find out that my dad had fucking died and my stupid, selfish, uptight bitch of a mother didn’t think it was worth her time to tell me that he was in that accident-“ 

“I told Willam - she said it wasn’t important enough to get you on the goddamn phone! Blame her!”

“You should have tried harder!”

“I didn’t think I had to. Your dad didn’t know how bad it was, he didn’t know what was going to happen - none of us knew, obviously if we did I would have put you on a flight as soon as I-“

Bianca has been trying to write that stupid fucking San Junipero bullshit out of her will for months now. If Ben wanted it and didn’t get it, she’s sure as shit not doing it now. However, the process is a fucking nightmare - eight hundred stupid phone calls to eight hundred useless morons who need to refer her to the next person, to try and sell her on an upgrade or ask her if this is because she wants the payout for the unused credit on her plan. It’s demoralizing and exhausting - the evil spiritual stepsister of canceling fucking cable, but a hundred times harder and with constant reminders of her fucking dead ex-husband and the last request he never got. 

Everything is depressing and shit, and she’s tired. She wants it to end - she wants to return to a normal that she can never get back. 

Bianca lingers at the open door of Adore’s teenage bedroom. It’s a shitshow. She hadn’t tidied up after herself when she left after Ben’s funeral - if anything she’d made more mess, rummaging around in her things and packing and unpacking for that fucking tour she had to go on. Which had done good things for her. In the last six months, her opening spots had turned into festival headliners and talk show appearances; she had an album in the works, and was watching her teenage dream blossom in real time to heights she’d never imagined it would reach. Bianca is glad that she went. Even if she hates her for it a little bit.

Bianca doesn’t want to touch anything. She treads carefully across the messy floor, trying not to disrupt anything; trying to preserve her daughter’s chaos, learn to live in it and love it as she did. Adore’s bed is unmade. The sheets smell like her. 

There’s a framed picture by her bed - a print of a blurry selfie taken at Ben’s niece’s bat mitzvah. She remembers that night. Adore had just turned twenty-one and her hair was purple. They’d gotten irresponsibly drunk on kosher wine, and Adore had climbed into Bianca’s lap to take the picture, pressing her gloss-sticky lips to Bianca’s cheek and telling her she loved her. They’re both smiling like maniacs. 

Adore had just turned twenty-one. That picture hadn’t been there when Adore last occupied that room - she’d moved into her college dorm a few days before her nineteenth birthday. She’d brought that here. And left it here. Bianca feels queasy. She picks it up gently, like it’s a precious artifact. The frame is bright red hard plastic, shaped like a heart - painted on one side, in Adore’s endearingly shitty handwriting: LOVE YOU MOMMY XO

Bianca’s eyes well up. It was a fucking gift that Adore never gave to her. Probably because she’d ruined Adore’s last visit home. Just like she ruined tonight. Just like she ruined her. Bianca drops the frame like it burns to touch, and she hears the glass shatter against the hardwood floor.  

She closes the door as she leaves, hearing it slam and her own breath becoming frantic. She feels that familiar ache, a sob building up in the depths of her chest.  

She’s pressed against Adore’s wall and staring directly into Ben’s old room. She’d transformed it into a pitiful sewing workspace that she’d barely used when he moved out - a weird attempt to kick some sense of purpose back into her life when Adore had flown the nest and Ben was out living his own life, picking up an old hobby that had dominated her teens and fuelled her plans for the future. Plans that had died a death in the bathroom of her old apartment downtown. The mannequin torso sits gathering dust, half-finished sketches litter the table. A waste - like everything else. 

She can’t do this. She doesn’t want to be here. She wants Adore back. Wants to hold her in her arms, breathe in her scent and her warmth, and tell her she forgives her for every horrible thing that had come out of her mouth tonight. 

No, she wants to tell her that she’s sorry. For everything. 

Sleep. She needs to sleep. 

“You just don’t want to admit that you screwed me out of a chance to say goodbye! You feel like I’ve abandoned you? Fuck you! You didn’t love him!” 

“I did-" 

“He was your friend - he was my fucking dad. Don’t try and pretend that what you’re feeling right now is anything like what I’m feeling, because it’s not.”

“It doesn’t have to be - Dorey, we can deal with this together. I want to be there for you. I want to help you. And I miss you, is that such a fucking crime?”

“You miss being a bitch to me - you miss telling me that I’ve wasted my life. You miss having someone else to boss around, because that’s all you wanna do.”

“Adore, I tried my fucking best for you. I didn’t have it in me to be a perfect mother - I didn’t have one, I wasn’t set up to be good at this. I tried my best, and if you feel like I’ve failed then I’m really fucking sorry. But I love you, and-“

Why the fuck are her pills on the kitchen counter? Bianca pops one out and swallows it dry, desperate for her mind to shut the fuck up. She’s drunk and confused and alone and fucking sad, and she wants to sleep.

Should she call Adore? No, that feels desperate. She needs to leave her alone; let her get over this at her own pace, let her come back on her own. If she wants to come back. She’ll come back. 

Bianca didn’t come back. Bianca didn’t forgive her mom for the sin of setting her expectations too high, so why the hell would Adore do the same? Maybe her mom feels the same way about her - maybe she feels deprived of a presence in the life she created, and maybe she loses sleep and paces around the house at night like a madwoman and cries over her too. That feels vindicating - so why does it hurt so much that Adore is probably gonna commit her to the same fate? 

Bianca collapses into the couch. Her body feels heavy. The clock on the wall says it’s just after midnight. There’s an empty pizza box on the coffee table. Adore’s lipstick is stained onto the rim of her glass. 

“God, can you not go five minutes without trying to make me feel like shit? I know. I know you tried, I’m sorry I didn’t turn out the way you wanted me to-“

“Do you think this is what your dad would have fucking wanted?”

“Don’t talk about what he would have wanted - what he would have wanted doesn’t matter. He’s dead, mom. He’s fucking gone. He’s gone, and I’m never gonna get him back, and now I’m stuck with you.”  

“The fuck do you mean ‘stuck with’ me?”

“You know exactly what I fucking mean.”

“What, you wish it was me? You wish I was the one that had fucking died? If that’s what you mean, say it.” 

“If I have to choose one of you then yeah. Yeah, I wish it was him that was still here.”

The couch is soft and warm and Bianca is falling asleep. She’s comfortable - but she feels wrong. Her head is swimming. 

It’s getting dark outside. Bianca watches for headlights in the driveway. Maybe Adore will come home and forgive her. Bianca is tired, and her head is heavy, and she wants to go to sleep. Sleep and forget. Maybe Adore will love her again when she wakes up. 

*****

[1] MISSED CALL  Adore DR 💕😻👩‍👧 00:21

[3] NEW MESSAGES  Adore DR 💕😻👩‍👧 00:23 mom im rlly sorry. i love you. can we talk <33 mom are you okay? talk to me 

[3] MISSED CALLS Adore DR 💕😻👩‍👧 00:29

[4] NEW MESSAGES Adore DR  00:34 mom PLEASE answer ur phone  im sorry  talk to me please im coming over

[5] MISSED CALLS Adore DR 💕😻👩‍👧 00:58

[3] NEW MESSAGES Adore DR 💕😻👩‍👧 01:01 im outside answer the door  mommy i know ur mad at me but i want to talk to u, im rlly sorry i love u so much pls answer the door mom MOM

[8] MISSED CALLS Adore DR 💕😻👩‍👧 01:07

[2] NEW MESSAGES Adore DR 💕😻👩‍👧 01:11 mommy please  im sorry. i love you. 

****

Pride Challenge Points: 6662

[pinesboi]

hello this is a little ficlet that i’ll never write more on but basically Sleeping Beauty AU joe/nicky except nicky was captured while joe slept and aged while joe stayed young. nicky did eventually wake joe up, but he died not too long after from old age. im sorry. 

tw for major character death. beyond the normal for TOG ;-;

Yusuf stands with his head bowed. His horse brays somewhere off to the side, a low, mournful thing that seems to mirror the cloying emotion that clings to the back of his throat. His heartbeat feels less like a drum in his chest and far more like the echo of water droplets in a cave, far too tinny and shallow to keep him on his feet. His legs buckle beneath him, kneeling down before the headstone. He can't quite bring himself to look up at it just yet. He knows what the words will read, he had told the stonemason what to write. But he has yet to see it in person, yet to sit atop the freshly dug plot of earth. The air sweeps around his head, warm with the promise of summer. They had planned to go out to the villa, that year, once everything had died down. Yusuf was going to paint a portrait of him in his current form, only having the ones from years ago when his hair had still been a rich brown and his eyes had not been so crowded by crow's feet.

Yusuf stares now at the grave, clutching the little box in his hand with a white-knuckled grip. The words seem so stark, so blank. Far too lifeless for the man they're meant to summarize. Though no words could have ever done him justice. Yusuf had tried enough times in his poetry to know that. He takes a deep, shaky breath, fighting off tears. He needs to do this. It is perhaps too late now, but he must anyway.

"I'm sorry it's been so long, my heart-" he says, though he stops. His voice wavers nearly too much to continue speaking. He sighs and tries again. "I'm sorry. I wasn't strong enough to come. I hope you'll understand."

He looks up. The stone is neatly chiseled, some of the finest work he could find. It's a white rock, nearly glowing in the mid-afternoon sun.

"Things are fine at the castle. Everyone misses you dearly. I am trying my best to continue to be a good ruler for them. But-" Yusuf swallows. "I can't pretend that it doesn't tear my heart open to wake without you."

"Do you remember- this was before I slept- we went out to the stream to escape some banquet or another my mother wanted me to attend? You plucked berries and fed them to me. Your lips were stained purple with the juice." His eyes slip closed, picturing it as if it were yesterday. "I think I've never seen another color like it. I never will."

"You told me that day that even beyond death your soul would be entwined with mine." The tears truly begin to fall now, falling down his cheeks in a red-hot trail. "Is it horrible that I can't feel you? That I feel so alone, though I know you are with me?"

He shakes his head, laughs some of the pain off. "But, I did not come to disturb your rest with my grief. I have a question to ask."

He stops. Stares at the stone. For a second, he can swear he sees a set of sea glass eyes between the far-off branches of a willow.

"I never got the chance to ask in life, my heart. I apologize for that. But I had to do it one way or another, or I would surely rot inside with regret." He raises himself up on one knee, presents the small box and opens the lid. Inside is a simple gold band, engraved on the inside. He'd never been one for gaudy jewelry in life, it seemed fitting.

"Nicolo di Genova, king over my heart and my soul, with a gaze like iron and cashmere all the same and a kindness like the ocean, would you do me the privilege of becoming my husband?"

Of course, Yusuf receives no reply. However, there is a breeze that caresses his cheek. He sobs, and thinks if he shuts his eyes it could feel like fingers sweeping across the skin.

"Thank you. I will do my best to carry with me all the memories you have granted me my love, my moon, my everything. Until I join you, I am yours."

He buries the ring just to the side of the headstone. It's twin gleams on his own hand in a pure silver.

It takes him a long time before he's ready to stand, knees aching after sitting for so long. The sun has already begun to set behind the castle in the distance. His horse knickers at him, clearly anxious to return. He begins to saddle up, but spares a glance back at the little marker.

"I will be back soon, my love."

[smellycinnamonthundahfudge]

Kdramas mean so much cause they’re good AND they have Asians

you have no idea what that means to a born, raised, and hasn’t even left the philippines, filipina who’s spent most her life obsessed with western media and content

this is just me poring my asian heart out over finally seeing so much asians be awesome onscreen. saranghae and mahal ko kayong lahat <3333

Before i now have to come back to my unfortunately regularly scheduled programming of primarily gushing about western fandoms, i’d just like to take this brief time to talk about how much discovering and finally garnering an appreciation for kdramas means to me

kdramas are popular in my country. while most girls were gushing about oppas, i was the weirdo binging the arrowverse, GOT, grey’s anatomy, doctor who, and various american sticoms and animated series

it kinda made me bitter tbh haha. like, WHY DIDNT THEY LIKE THE STUFF I LIKED? or, WHY DIDNT I LIKE THE STUFF THEY LIKED?

so, i kind of knowingly unfairly decided kdramas sucked ass and were lame and basic and said screw them, the stuffed i watched was AWESOME

and for some part, the sentence i said is still true. kdramas still have a lameness to them and i still really like adore and appreciate the western fandoms i dove into over the years

but, it’s been a hell of a long time since i was only watching a handful of shows. i am now an older fangirl, who’s been through bad runs and writing, cancellations, series finales, and just overally ass suckery in the fandom business

i’ve been through a lot, and frankly, ever since Crazy Rich Asians, Crazy-Ex Girlfriend and maybe Colleen Wing in Iron Fist S2, i just realized how rewarding and awesome it was to see asian culture, cultures very similar to mine, portrayed on screen

it was so awesome to see a badass adorable cute awesome and truly heroic asian woman portrayed in colleen wing by jessica henwick

this newfound appreciation for asian content also made me appreciate Mulan, a classic childhood favorite of mine already, and Melinda May from AOS even further.

as my newfound asian appreciation grew, the more i got sick from seeing the same ol non-asian protagonists in the media i consumed

so, yes, i still very much care about the fandoms i’ve had for some time now. they’re the same old tired non-asian characters i’ve always spent my time with, so i still feel sentimental about them. we have history, for pete’s sake.

but like i said, they’re old and tired and the same damn thing i’ve watched for the past decade and more of my life.

which could be why all this asian representation is just hitting me right in the feels. you truly never know how much representation matters until it happens. and you just... feel it. the joy of seeing yourself on screen. it’s like, you’re finally being seen for who you are.

it just gets me, you know?

so, yes, i am loving all of the representation that we are now getting more and more of. however, the real true reason that i was driven to talk about this just before i go back to what is sadly my normal blog activity (western fandoms, that is), i just wanna highlight over and over and over again that asian content means so effing much to me and i’m really bummed it isn’t what’s normal on my blog, or that it isn’t as popular as what i usually post about

and that annoys the hell out of me, that kdramas are actually pretty and really good (REALLY REALLY EXCELLENT, imo, in cloy’s case), but they aren’t being given the love and adoration it deserves. especially since asian representation matters so much to me. seeing asians be just as cool and badass and gorgeous and awesome as other non-asians but less appreciated bums the frick out of me.

of course i get that the content is quite different. kdramas tend to be more extreme or lean more into character types while western content tends to be more subtle and chill and casual. and there’s the language barrier. so yes, believe me when i say, I GET IT. i understand why most people don’t get into it.

i’m just here as a filipino fangirl pleading the case of kdramas, proposing they’re just as good and imperfect as western media. they’re both good and bad in their own ways.

i wished i talked more about asian content in this blog, i’m bummed that i’m gonna stop rn cus the western content that keeps popping up on my radar is piling up and i want to get rid of em all and have a clean slate.

so for now, i want to leave this post at the very top of my blog for maybe a couple of days since i just want to emphasize that kdramas and asian content mean a lot to me. i wish i could talk about them more, but i also want to share some stuff regarding some of my older fandoms. i am doing this cause i want to say that asian content deserves as much of my time as western content does. i am writing this to say that i still very much care about kdramas to a more meaningful extent than any other fandom i’ve recently joined because they make me proud to be asian.

i am planning to talk about them more some time in the future, but for now, it’s time for a clean slate. im gonna start posting about western fandoms for a bit again. it bums me out they’re the majority of what i automatically see in tumblr but i still feel i have to share em since they’re still good content nevertheless.

asian content matters so much to me, but for now, back to my ol fandoms. i’ll return to kdramas once again tho. i’ll be back. i have to. ( ≧Д≦)( ≧Д≦)( ≧Д≦)ಥ_ಥ

[lexigraph]

Okay, opening up The Mighty Nein set from @scentofawarden ! 

Beau: Gunpowder, coriander, cedarwood, nutmeg and amber with the barest hints of tiger lily. Is dusky a word I can use for scents? The cedarwood is the strongest scent for me here, which for me is the smell of opening up a secret and safe space (I don’t know if my mother’s original hope chest was cedar or not, but that’s what I think of, and the feeling of carefully looking through things I oughtent!).

Jester: Jelly beans, lychee, bergamot and raspberry with base notes of vanilla and frankincense. This had separated a little so I smelled it once, then shook it up and smelled it again. It’s definitely sweet but not cloying! This is how Jester actually smells, I promise. It’s a cheerful scent for sure with a soft maturity lingering underneath and I love it.

Fjord: Whiskey, sweet rum, musk, driftwood and leather with hints of sea grass and dragon’s blood resin. Jesus holy christ this smell is about as perfect as a smell can get without being warm bread or fresh mown grass (my top smells!). It’s like... look I’m waxing poetic in my head about the creak of floorboards and a warm woolen blanket and a nice glass of scotch (though it does not really smell like scotch!), of a conversation with a good friend. Those are mostly not really things that have smells. Fjord smells like them anyway.

Nott: Starfruit, steel, bay rum, juniper and cypress with an undernote of ozone. I thought this one might be a bit too sharp for my personal tastes and I was mostly right. The juniper jumps out at me hard, and it’s not a smell I dislike by any means, but it’s just one I want it smaller quantities, but I’m smelling all of these a lot to get a feel for them and overdid it. The rum (and probably starfruit?) do come through, like whispers. Actually once I caught something outside the juniper this is very pleasant! I’m amused that both of Sam’s characters had an “oh no SHARP!” reactions.

Yasha:  Labdanum, stormy seas and steel shot through with tinges of lemon, patchouli and gunpowder. So, lemon scent and I have an odd relationship borne from being the one to polish wood as a kid (and the polish we got was always lemon scented), so there was an even chance I’d open this and my brain would nope on out. I was pleasantly surprised to find it’s very subtle! If ‘softly stoic’ was a smell, Yasha would be it. It’s very fresh and light, like a house being aired out after a rainstorm? Also it’s lovely stormy color!

Molly: Linen, red wine, cannabis, tobacco leaf, fresh-cut grass and ginger underscored with steel. !!!!!!!!!!!!!! Molly smells even better than Fjord (there’s the cut grass bias I guess!). I am almost convinced Taliesin needs to smell this smell immediately but also that he might not be able to smell it because he secretly smells like this all the time. And so should everyone else, if you want to smell like the comfort of a childhood toy you didn’t even realize you miss. Sorry, this smell just took over my brain a little.

Caleb: Camphor, stephanotis, oakmoss, dragon’s blood resin and myrrh with notes of valerian and ozone. I opened the rest of these randomly but saved Caleb for list because (whispers) he’s my secret favorite. The scent is not as overwhelmingly oh my GOD I’m in love as Fjord and Molly but it is, in fact, perfectly Caleb. It’s crinkly old books and mysterious magical bits kind of smell with the tiniest hint of (don’t judge) not so unpleasant unwashedness to it that is really quite soothing.

All in all, for basically all of these except Nott I thought ‘I would like my pillow to smell like this while I fall asleep’ because I feel like I’d have excellent dreams. Nott is more like... I want the threshold of my house to have the barest whiff of this smell, lingering somewhere in the back of memory.

Hm... may be getting a bit poetical here.

If you’re on the fence about ordering from Scent of a Warden and you AT ALL like complex and interesting smells, please hop on off that fence and make an order! I am like 99% sure that I will HAVE to have more of these, even the ones I did not ...  look, Fjord and Molly just smell REALLY good ok, like probably Molly’s scent is one of the things I’d smell in Amortentia good (there'd be more leather smell). 

[beesmygod]

regarding patreon's recent horseshit effective JAN 1ST 2018

hey guys, im sure you've all received patreon's email about their newest dipshit innovation in running their dumbass website for idiots. as you can tell im over the moon excited about it and not at all ready to run down to patreon headquarters and make them all eat worms.

here is some additional information:

Engaget:  Patreon’s fee change punishes supporters who make small pledges

Open letter to Patreon

ryan north's change to patreon fees

in a frustratingly predictable move, patreon has more or less refused to address the situation with anyone (everyone) demanding real answers as to why they would suddenly move to aggressively screw each and every one of us as thoroughly as possible. anyone with business sense, knowledge of how online transactions work, a moral compass or a brain stem can tell you nothing about this situation makes any sense to anyone unless you are patreon and you just want shit-tons of more money for any reason at all.  they attempted to introduce these changes to us via an insulting and cloying e-mail where they had they audacity to try to suggest that passing the charges onto you would somehow benefit me in some fucked up way. i have no clue. i have been angry about this for 24 hours straight. i will be angry about it until they crack and back down.

i have asked patreon for clarification on how this affects "per-update" creators like myself and have received no answer. i have asked them repeatedly how much their CEOs make and how much their profit was last year in the hopes that might illuminate on why this seemingly completely insane change was made. i have asked why they expect you to pay them more money after they have proven themselves to be unreliable with your personal information and data and unrepentant about the situation.  i have asked why they expect people to pay an additional tax to use what is basically a sub-par blogging website with an inoperable search feature and terrible security that is circumvented by barely motivated content scrapers on a daily basis. they have pretty much stonewalled everyone demanding an explanation.

in a few weeks it's very likely i will have a drip invite and will be making the move over. i am lucky to have an option but there are many people who will not so i am rattling my cage and flinging shit and screaming until something moves. im fucking pissed. if you are too i highly suggest sending patreon as many angry messages as you feel it takes to truly explain the depths of your fury in the wake of their ass-backwards decision the dip-shit committee threw together.

as much as i rely (relied) on patreon's goodwill to not be a shit company to support my comic, i cannot in good faith ask people to eat these fees. i have always asked that you only give what you can afford to without sacrificing any of your own life comforts but this is honestly just enabling unchecked, unfettered greed. i will keep you all updated on what happens as more information/truth slowly trickles out of the local clown college but until then:

if you need to cancel your pledge it is completely understandable and i will not take it personally. this shit is mad fucking stupid

if you keep your pledge, thank you very much

i will attempt to switch over to drip as quickly as possible when i am able to

i do not want to create a ko-fi/donation link. i am an extraordinarily prideful idiot and i want to work for your hard earned money. at absolute worst i will set up a recurring paypal donate button for small amount donors who are getting shafted the worst by these new policies.

sorry life is bad, as always. thank you for reading

[theolddarkmachine]

Kingdom- Chapter Seven

Gajeel has had the dream about dying for the blue haired girl for as long as he can remember. Which is weird, since he’s never met anyone with blue hair in his life.

Levy has always loved myths and legends. So much so, in fact, that she was currently getting her master’s in mythological studies.

What neither of them realized was that they were living a legend all their own.

AKA the one with a knight, a princess, and a curse that keeps bringing them together just to pull them apart.

Previous Chapters

AO3

Hey y’all! This is one of those chapters that has to exist to get us from point A to point B, which are my least fave to write tbh lol mainly because those kinds of chapters are the hardest for me to write -.- Anyway, I’m gonna be taking a week off from writing because 1) I wrote 60k words in September and ya girl needs a break lol and 2) Voltron S4 happens Friday so I wanna use my free time to binge XD im an adult i swear. ANYWAY, that being said, I’ll be sharing other writers’ fics for the week instead of working on anything myself! Kingdom will most likely be back around 10/20-10/23 time.

****************************************

Almost as soon as the door to Gajeel’s complex slammed behind her, a searing pain shot through Levy’s skull, blinding her momentarily as it nearly knocked her down with its force. The brick of the entryway bit into the skin of her back as she stumbled back into it, the air whooshing out of her lungs in one loud gasp. Her hands found the stone pressed into her back, feeling the coolness from the Fall chilled air beneath her fingers as the pain settled into a thrumming ache.

A beat passed.

And then another.

Curious eyes watched as people walked by, interested enough to twist their necks as they went but not enough to become involved. It was the kind of faux concern that made the passerby feel like a good Samaritan for showing the most basic level of human compassion without actually doing anything. The feeling of it made her skin crawl.

“I’m never drinking again,” she moaned to no one in particular as she breathed in through her nose and slowly out through her mouth. Levy had never been one to get the textbook hangover, always sidestepping the nausea and headaches that almost always made Lucy turn into a recluse for at least a day. Of course, she’d also never really been one for drinking until she lost an entire chunk of her memory either. She groaned again as she fought back the shame of waking up in Gajeel’s room without any recollection of how she’d gotten there.

Unfortunately, there was always a first time for everything.

Several moments came and went as she regained her bearings, her breath finally settling out as the pain dulled but never fully subsided. Only after the city stopped spinning around her did Levy finally push out of the doorway, counting each step in an attempt to ground herself. It took several counted sets of 100 steps before she finally reached her own complex, the cool AC of the bright hallway freezing the sweat on the back of her neck that had accumulated from the walk. Her front door was a welcome sight as she stumbled towards it, swiftly sheathing the key in the lock as she pushed it open.

Before her lay a mess of cups, knocked over books, and discarded clothing. A nagging sense of alarm bubbled in her gut as she looked over the chaos that told the story of her night. The casual disarray didn’t align with the vague memories she held of her and Lucy as they’d spoke and drank, never once touching her bookcase. Even the clothes that she’d tried on had been laid out on her bed, waiting for her to return home and replace them on their hangers.

The pain that had rooted itself in the line between her temple and the base of her skull flared as she took it in, trying to match the scene before her with that of the scenes in her mind. It felt like a crime scene as opposed to a living room after a fun night of partying and the sense of foreboding didn’t escape her as her eyes swept the area. Pushing down the bitter bile that was raising in her throat, Levy shut the door behind her and dropped her keys on the small dish that sat on the shelf by her door.

I just don’t remember, that’s all, she thought to herself as she walked further into the room, eyes scanning the chaos as if she could pull answers from the scattered mess. The longer she looked, the easier it was for Levy to convince herself that the disorganization was just another piece of missing memory wiped away by alcohol. It was the only explanation that dulled the edge of the sharp unease cutting down her spine. With a resigned sigh, she walked through the living area and by her desk, gaze taking stock of the state of it, only to feel her pulse leap.

Levy stopped in her tracks, the dull ache in her temples roaring to life as she stared at the opened book of stories. Spread wide with its painted pages staring upwards, it sat otherwise undisturbed on her desk amongst her notebooks and writing utensils. Her limbs seized as her eyes traced over the wide span of the tome as she worked her way through the muddled thoughts of the night before once again.

She’d closed the book.

Levy could still hear the heavy thud of its leather cover closing over its ancient pages as if the sound was still echoing against the cream walls of her room. Even if she was missing a piece of what had happened that night before, Levy knew Lucy would never have allowed her to return to the book, the night partially born from the belief she was overworked.

Drawing closer to her desk and swallowing her heart as it beat its hummingbird rhythm in her throat. With each step forward, the pain at her temple ebbed away, chased from her by the stifling weight of exhaustion as if the very air around her was sucking the energy from her bones. It was a visceral thing, starting at her very core and working its way through her limbs until she ached with the numbing chill of it. Faltering, the chair at her desk met her as her legs gave out and plopped her onto the soft cushioning.

The portrait lay before her now, as vivid as the painting of the queen from the day before and filling her with the same sense of ominous dread. Thin black lines and swirling colors swirled across the alabaster page, moving together to create an intricate scene filled with such beauty and despair, it almost hurt to look at it. Laying on the ground of what looked like a castle room, was a black haired knight in onyx armor. The ruby of his eyes was bright, only challenged by the vivid scarlet of the blood that had spilled out beneath him from a gash that stood out on his armor just over where his heart had beat beneath the darkened steel. His head was cradled in the lap of a blue haired woman whose face was partially obscured by the azure strands that fell over it as she looked down at him. Garnet stained the sun colored dress she wore with macabre streaks.

Just beside the woman, right at her knee, was a blood stained dagger.

As she stared at it, the strange debilitating sensation racking against her insides fought with her will as she tried to keep her eyes trained on the image. It all looked so familiar. Prickling over her skin with the same demanding tingle of deja vu, Levy fought to reach out towards the memory that commanded to be remembered.

The world crackled and shifted around Levy as she pulled herself closer to the page. Her heart thumped in the base of her throat, angrily combating the tiredness that was threatening to sink her as she stared at the woman’s sorrow filled face. The thick, cloying taste of familiarity threatened to choke her as she tried to swallow it down and keep it locked behind her teeth. Her gaze slid from the woman to the knight’s blazing red eyes as she struggled to bring her hand up towards the painting. Levy’s eyelids grew heavier as she traced the outline of the couple with a shaking finger. The resemblance was striking, and she felt her lungs fighting against the cage of her ribs as she fought off the torpor that was sliding like thick concrete through her limbs. There was no doubt that the blue haired woman was the same as the one from her dream.

The same as her.

She stared at the painting’s downturned eyes, rivulets of tears cascading down her cheeks as her thin hand was frozen in a caress over the man’s face. Her own fingers trembled with the illustrated touch that she could almost feel against her own skin. A sadness crawled slowly into her chest, curling around her heart before evolving into a breath stealing, earth moving despair. Sobs for a heartache she didn’t even know rolled off her lips as tears blurred her vision, melting the blacks, blues and reds of the image together into a molten bruise.

He died. The stray thought flitted through her mind as the heavy cloud of fatigue weighed her down, guiding her head down onto the desk beside the book. He died in my arms.

Darkness was eating away at the edges of her vision as she ran the pad of her index finger over the grim expression on the knight’s face.

On Gajeel’s face.

As the shadows spilled over her sight, the distant sound of voices hummed in her ears. The paralyzing blanket of sleep settled over her as her eyes finally closed, the chatter increasing as she sunk into its inky depths. Before her senses faded completely, a single, heartbroken howl ripped through the darkness.

“Gajeel!”

***

“She’s pretty,” Lily said as he fixed Gajeel with his onyx stare. A strange light glittered in the depths of his eyes as he looked at him as if he could pull a response straight from him. Something about Lily’s interest felt wrong, a hidden agenda lurking underneath every word as he’d questioned him about the blue haired woman from the bar. Though they were best friends, Lily had never shown an interest in Gajeel’s personal affairs. He could count the number of times his brother had asked him specifically about his love life-- or rather, lack thereof-- on one hand.

One finger, in fact.

And it was when Lily had pushed his way into Gajeel’s apartment without so much as a hello. It had raised his hackles, as well as his guard, though he had let the man in all the same only to find himself on the receiving end of an inquisition. After dropping his heavy black jacket down onto the back of the couch, and settling himself into the soft leather, he’d made himself at home as Gajeel’s own personal interrogator. If he knew that this was what Lily had had in mind when he’d called him that morning, he wouldn’t have even answered the phone. He’d barely listened as his brother spoke, lost momentarily in the inky coloring that had stained the skin beneath Lily’s eyes as if he hadn’t slept at all.

He looks older, he’d thought to himself as he continued to speak, asking more and more questions about Levy.

A throbbing pressure blossomed between his ears as the visit went on, making him more irritable than usual as Lily continued to poke and prod him for answers. He told himself that was the reason he was giving Lily monosyllabic answers that were bitter on the tip of his tongue, and not because for the first time in his life, he distrusted Lily. If his brother had noticed the barely hidden suspicion that darkened his tone, he didn’t let on as he persisted with his insistent questioning.

You saved her from getting hit by a truck?

Who was driving it?

Did you stop it?

And you guys went on a date?

The last question was what broke him of his stoic stance, the words erupting from him before he could stop himself.

“You seem awfully interested, Lil,” Gajeel nearly spat as he fixed his brother with a scowl. His face stayed carefully blank at the angry remark, which only filled him with caustic apprehension. The feeling razed his insides and burned against his ribcage until there was nothing left but stinging nerves.

You have to make sure she gets home safe. Lily’s voice from the night before was clear over the muddled pain that had settled itself deep in his head. The thick sweetness of suspicion coated his tongue as he remembered the way his brother had suggested he take her home. At the time it had felt as if Lily was just concerned for a girl who was too drunk to be alone. Gajeel would have helped her anyway, without the suggestion that had been thrust upon him until he’d finally conceded. Now, he couldn’t shake the bitter realization that maybe Lily had an ulterior motive behind his good guy act.

“You aren’t telling me something.” Gajeel ignored the betrayal that made his words quiver against his lips. Silence stretched between them as they held each others gazes, a battle of crimson and obsidian waging against each other in a show of dominance. Hours forced themselves into the span of just a handful of seconds before Lily dropped his gaze.

“Are you still having that dream?” His voice seemed distant as Lily finally spoke. It carried the heavy weight of insinuation over its bluntness, not even bothering to mask the innuendo in the words. Almost as soon as the words had left his mouth, the headache rammed angrily against his skull, blocking out all other thoughts as it hammered away at his brain. A grimace twisted his face as the sharp pain stole his breath.

The room pitched on its axis and his stomach rolled with the sudden lurch. Everything shuddered and shook around him as Gajeel clutched at his consciousness, Lily’s face blurring in his vision as he frowned. Darkness descended over him as his lips parted in silent protest. The last thing he heard was Lily’s soft voice as it cracked and twisted over his words.

“I’m sorry, Gajeel.”

*******************************

[barvan51-blog]

classic yellow cake with chocolate buttercream frosting + adelaide’s first birthday

Well, I basically blinked and my baby turned one. Guys, the time FLIES. It really, really does. I can’t believe I’m a year down into this mom-of-two thing. I may have a few more wrinkles and a backlog of eleventy billion hours of sleep I need to catch up on, but man — every day spent with my two girls is sweet (and sometimes sour, when one of them steals a toy from the other one or, heaven forbid, one is eating a banana and the other one isn’t and the one who isn’t eating a banana MUST HAVE THE BANANA NOW, but I digress).

From the last week of April through the first two weeks of May, three of the four of us have birthdays. Addy’s is April 27, mine is May 8 and Avery’s is May 9. So essentially, we just have one ridiculously long birthday celebration for almost a month, with lots of cake. It’s the best.

For Addy’s birthday this year, we had a small family party with some brunch food (guys — I just discovered that I really love quiche. Quiche is tasty! Will be having more quiche in my life) and this yellow cake with chocolate buttercream frosting — a classic birthday cake for a really special little lady. And a good time was had by all.

When I made Avery’s first birthday cake, it was my intention to make that HER cake — as in, every year on her birthday, she gets her special cake. Well, maybe we’ll get to that point, but for now, each year begs for something new from the pint-sized girl with the strong opinions. Last year, it was cupcakes. This year, it was a cake that looked like a bunny. Next year it’ll probably be something similar to those massive displays they make on Cake Wars. Who knows. All I’m saying is, I’m looking forward to the day when she’s finally OK with something that doesn’t involve pink and glitter and maybe doesn’t talk about said cake for six months straight prior to her birthday so then I’d feel reaaaaalll guilty if I didn’t just make the cake she asked for, but ANYWAY. One of these days, we’re going to just stick with the same cake flavor like we did back in my day. Ahem.

But since Addy isn’t old enough to protest and actually never had cake until her first birthday, I got to decide her cake for her. I’ve always been wanting to make a classic yellow cake with chocolate buttercream frosting that really nails how I envision this iconic celebration cake in my mind — a sturdy but moist crumb, lots of vanilla flavor, and the frosting is super chocolatey and fluffy but also thick and almost mousse-like and not too sweet. And sprinkles. There must be sprinkles. And this recipe covers all the bases.

The cake is actually adapted from one of my favorite baking cookbooks, The Vanilla Bean Baking Book (written by Sarah of The Vanilla Bean Blog), and in her recipe Sarah uses the “reverse creaming” method — essentially, this means you add the butter to the dry ingredients and make a coarse crumble of sorts before adding the remaining ingredients, instead of creaming the butter and sugar together first like one typically does with cake. In doing so, the cake is able to be dense but not dry or too heavy — it’s delicate but not overly fluffy like a boxed cake mix can be. I think I’m doing this for all future cakes, because I love the results.

The frosting is an adaptation of a chocolate buttercream from Sally’s Baking Addiction for which I am now officially head over heels. It’s thick and fluffy and intensely chocolate-flavored but not overpowering: which is how I prefer frosting. I can’t stand the super-sweet stuff that takes over the whole flavor of the cake and leaves you with that cloying taste (in fact, I was that kid who always took the frosting off the cupcakes at birthday parties and just ate the cake part). This is so not that frosting. This is the frosting of which dreams are made. It received my grandma’s seal of approval, so you know it’s legit.

Combining those two recipes as my base, putting it all together, adding some sprinkles and topping it all off with a single candle, I had made my classic birthday cake dreams come true. And I think I made every one of Addy’s dreams come true, too, as she devoured that cake like it was her job. As you can tell from the photos below, things got out of hand quickly. She’s amazing.

Happiest of birthdays to you, sweet girl!

Yellow Birthday Cake with Chocolate Buttercream Frosting

Author: Girl Versus Dough

Prep time:  2 hours

Cook time:  17 mins

Total time:  2 hours 17 mins

Yields: 12 servings

3 eggs

2 egg yolks

1 tablespoon vanilla

¾ cup sour cream

¼ cup buttermilk

2 cups all-purpose flour

1½ cups sugar

¾ teaspoon baking powder

¾ teaspoon baking soda

¾ teaspoon salt

½ lb (2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature, cut into 1-inch pieces

1¼ cups (2½ sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature

3½ cups powdered sugar

¾ cup unsweetened cocoa powder

¼ teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon vanilla

¼ cup heavy cream or milk

First, make the cake: Heat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease and flour two 8x2-inch round cake pans and line bottoms with parchment paper.

In medium bowl, whisk eggs, egg yolks, vanilla, sour cream and buttermilk.

In bowl of a stand mixer with paddle attachment, mix flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt on low speed until combined. While mixer is running on low speed, slowly add butter pieces one at a time until mixture looks like coarse sand. While mixer is running on low speed, add half the wet ingredients. Increase speed to medium until well mixed, about 30 seconds, then return to low speed. Add remaining wet ingredients, mixing until just combined. Increase speed to medium and beat 20 seconds. Scrape down sides of bowl with spatula and mix batter a few more times.

Divide batter between prepared cake pans and smooth tops with spatula. Tap pans on counter twice to reduce air bubbles. Bake 17-22 minutes until cakes are golden brown and a toothpick inserted in center of each cake pan comes out clean.

Cool cakes in pans on a cooling rack for 30 minutes, then turn cakes out onto rack, remove parchment paper, and cool completely before frosting.

To make the frosting: In large bowl using electric hand mixer or in bowl of stand mixer with whisk attachment, beat butter on high speed 1 minute until smooth and creamy. Meanwhile, in medium bowl, whisk powdered sugar, cocoa powder and salt until combined. With mixer on low speed, slowly add dry ingredients. Add vanilla and cream. Once incorporated, increase speed to high and beat 3 minutes until well combined and fluffy. If frosting is too thin, add more powdered sugar. If frosting is too thick, add more cream.

Frost cake, then top with sprinkles and candles and have a party.

3.2.2802

Source: http://www.girlversusdough.com/2018/05/14/yellow-cake-with-chocolate-buttercream-frosting/

[artificialqueens]

Church of the Poison Mind (Trixya) Ch. 7 - Dahlia

A/N:

SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. I’ve been going through a lot of pretty heavy real life stuff, and have just basically been overwhelmed, but I am so OVERJOYED to be writing again! And I thank you so much for your patience in waiting for this chapter! Here’s hoping the final chapters follow in quick succession. Thank you so so so much for all of your kind words and messages, they keep me going!

ALSO I’M SO SORRY THIS ENTIRE CHAPTER IS JUST ANGST. You’re welcome. :)

I would not have made it through this chapter, or life in general, without my lovely lesbians DjoodiGarland and Matilda_Queen. Thank you for always being there for me and loving me through this. And to Rosie, my beautiful, sweet love. Thank you for everything, I don’t know where I’d be without you.

“What kind of daughter are you?”

There had been a lot of shouting those days, a lot of name calling, a myriad of misspoken insults that sank into her skin like injections of lost faith.

Trixie spent most of her time calling rental agencies, shaking her mother awake, getting turned down by realtor after realtor because she was, well, she was too young. And truly, how could she expect any respectable adult to take her seriously?

“You have to be at least 18 to apply.”

 I’m not.

“Is this a prank call? Where are your parents, kid?”

Hell, if I should know.

”You have to file a credit report, first.”

What’s a credit report?

“Okay so, why can’t your mother come to the phone again?”

She’s ill.

”We’ll get back to you.”

No, you won’t.

Homeless. Trixie kept thinking, homeless . If it continues on this way, the sheriff will come and evict us and we’ll be homeless. Countless nights she’d lie awake, obsessively checking her emails, relentlessly disappointed, and she’d think homeless.

She’d stopped going to school, stopped trying to wake her mother in time for the truancy officers, in time for CPS, and family services. And nobody looked at her the same, they always held the same disgustingly patronizing eyes. Poor trixie, her mother doesn’t care, her mother can’t care, her mother had forgotten to care.

But still, they shrugged her case off. Afterall, there’d been no evidence of physical abuse. Trixie appeared well fed, well kempt. And this allowed for more time, for more phone calls and rejections. Allowed for more empty booze bottles and prescription refills, piling sinks full of dishes and dirty carpets.

And soon she found herself asking, “What kind of a daughter am I?”

—

“I’m very sorry, we… I should not have done this. It was inappropriate of me.”

“Katya…”

Through the fog of lost sleep and Russian folk flowing tinny through the car speakers, Trixie rubbed the sleep from her eyes, stealing glances from her seat on the passenger’s side. Katya’s eyes were narrowed and stolid as she drove, focused on the road, pale hair spilling out in heaps over her thin shoulders. And neither of them spoke, the ever-thickening gravity of the night before weighing on them like a fever dream. Trixie felt tender but weary, fearful. She wanted more, so much more than the situation could allow.

Somewhere, on some plane, Trixie knew that this was fleeting; that any feeling Katya might’ve held for her, couldn’t be sustainable. And she could feel the regret, hanging bitter in the air between them, that even though they hadn’t done anything measurable, it was the tenderness that stung the most. The cloying need for sweetness, need for more, contradicted by the wavering inability to act; but still, she yearned for Katya’s touch, for that laugh, and those wide, curious eyes.

The sun came into full view then, but the hour was still just as pale blue as the shine in Katya’s eyes. And as they pulled up to Trixie’s house, much to her surprise, Katya didn’t look over, but stayed steely, eyes cast over the dashboard. And Trixie sighed complacently, as the warmth had seeped out of Katya’s smile somewhere between Main street, and Beacon drive.

Trixie sat for a moment, quiet in her breathing, searching the side of Katya’s face, silently willing Katya to turn her head. Her sight followed the deep plunge of Katya’s cheekbones, down her neck, her freckled chest; and Trixie wanted nothing more than to reach out and let a hand fall to the back of Katya’s neck, but she resisted.

And just then, with a subtle haste, Katya sent her arm across the center console, over Trixie’s chest, and opened the passenger’s side door.

Confident there was nothing more to be said, she flipped a brief nod of thanks and turned in her seat to step down, but before she could, the light brush of Katya’s fingers found her cheek. And Trixie turned her head to meet Katya’s eyes, just as bright and heavenly as they were the night before, but riddled now with penitence. Trixie closed her eyes, leaning her cheek into Katya’s palm, a deep exhale leaving her like a calm under the waves. Softly, she opened her eyes, took in one last glance, and stepped out of the car, closing the door gently behind her.

Soon Trixie was watching Katya pull away, her car stalling at first, and then kicking up dust as it descended the graveled drive. A chill ran through her, smooth in the November air; and Trixie found herself, bleary eyed and sullen, missing the cardigan she’d forgotten in Katya’s back seat. All the while hopeful, incredibly hopeful, that its presence would carry Katya back to her.

With a forbearing sigh, Trixie carried herself up the porch steps and pushed through the front door. She entered, closed it quietly behind her, and tiptoed through the kitchen, kicking off her shoes by the basement door.

“Well, aren’t we getting in late…”

Trixie turned with a start, her heart skipping a beat. Kim was sat at the kitchen window seat, spooning heaps of sugar into a steaming mug of tea. And as the steam crept into the air, an image of last night’s coffee churned in the pit of Trixie’s stomach. Then she was desperate for it, remnants of that memory still latent on the burnt tip of her tongue.

“Or should I say,” Kim spoke again with a curt grin, “early? Given it’s 5am.”

“Okay, mom. I could ask you the same thing. What’re you doing here so early?”

“Waiting for you.”

“What, why?” Trixie chuckled, scanning Kim’s face.

Trixie crossed the kitchen floor and headed for the coffee maker, her hip brushing Kim’s protruding knee as she passed by. Her head ached with exhaustion, and while she was thankful for the comforting gurgle of coffee brewing, she felt irritable, raw; unsure if the coffee would help or hurt. Trixie laid her upper body over the center counter top, her elbows resting on the surface; and she closed her eyes, self-soothing, rubbing slow circles into her temples.

“So, you did forget?”

“Forget wh-” Trixie stopped, slowed, “oh, shit. Kim, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot we had- I just got so caught up in… wait, so you sat here all night… waiting for me? Why didn’t you just call me?”

“Well, no dummy, I’m not a freak. I woke up a little while ago. And I did call you, last night. But your phone was off.”

Trixie patted around her pockets, and upon finding her phone, ran her fingertips over the surface; the tips of her nails catching in the cracks of last year’s shatter. And while she powered it on, a soft silence hung in the air between her and Kim.

↳ Kim: hey, i just got in, pearl’s cooking again, im whispering tiny prayers for the safety of your kitchen. you leave school yet?

↳ 1 Missed Call: Kim

↳ Kim: Violet said she hasn’t seen you all afternoon, are you okay?

↳ Kim: say yes to the dress is starting in like 5 mins, do you want me to wait… or???? should I just assume I get to indulge in ALL of these facemasks by myself??

↳ Kim: yoooooo my skin abouta be TIGHT

↳ 6 Missed Calls: Caller ID Restricted

↳ Kim: ok it’s literally 1am, where tf are you????? im getting kind of worried here. ive had to stop violet from calling the police like 6 times

↳ 2 Missed Calls: Kim

↳ 11 Missed Calls: Caller ID Restricted

She shook a wave of anxiety and returned her gaze to Kim.

“I… I’m so sorry, I just, my-”

“You were with her again, weren’t you?”

“What?”

“Listen, I’m worried about you, Trix,” her tone softened, and Trixie met her gaze through clouds of coffee steam, “you-”

“Listen Kim, I’ve had kind of a shitty morning and it’s like dick o’clock and I really don’t have th-”

“You’ve just, you’ve been spending a lot of time with her, Trixie.”

“Excuse me? Are you policing who I spend my time with now?” Trixie said, still joking, but a little sharper than she’d intended.

Speech suspended for a moment as Kim drew in a long breath, and exhaled on a quiet sigh.

“Okay. First of all, chill. I just mean that… Listen, Trix, she seems sweet, she really does, but there’s some nasty stuff going around about her and I just don’t want to see you mixed up in that.”

Trixie could feel a bubbling heat rising in her chest, up her neck, spreading into a rouge across her cheeks. She poured the coffee into a mug, some splashing onto the countertop, and found herself rifling through the spice rack for cinnamon; she needed something to shake Katya’s impassivity, to bring her back to last night’s loveliness; but the scent alone burned Katya’s image in the back of her mind, a picture so clear of her face, so cold and distant.

She sipped slowly, cinnamon catching at the back of her throat, and somewhere in all of the coughing, Kim’s patronization had crept beneath her skin and set the surface ablaze.

“Honestly Kim, I love you, but it’s too early for this shit. And thinking about it now, literally none of this is even remotely your business. You don’t know anything about her,” Trixie said, biting. Her headache raged on, a sour pang radiating from the back of her neck. And she could tell she was overreacting, creating something out of nothing; but she couldn’t help but fall farther into it.

“Trixie, I’m your friend. I’m just saying, you always do thi-”

“Well, don’t just say . I’m stressed enough about this as it is, and I don’t need you, of all people, making this harder on me! You’re always on me about this kind of shit, and I don’t need it right now!”

“Wow, okay. You make plans with me. Break them. Fuck your teacher. And somehow, I’m in the wrong? Since when is carin-”

“I did not fuc- did you ever stop and think, for maybe even a millisecond, that the reason I’m spending all of this time with her is because you keep ditching me?”

“Trixie, do not put this on me. You always do this.”

“Do what?” Trixie snapped.

“You always turn things around on me! I’ve literally done nothing wrong here!” Kim stood then from the window seat.

“Oh, so it’s perfectly okay for you to promise me a ride, and then leave me stranded like three times a week, but the one time I make a human mist- “

“I’ve done so much for you, Trixie! This is not one human mistake . I knew you’d find some way to fuck this up. You know, I bust my ass day and night, and everyone fucking wants something from me. I give, and I give, and all you do is take,” Kim interrupted, throwing her hands into the air, and letting them fall hard to her sides.

Trixie watched the argument unravel from a space outside of her own body. She could see the anger leaving Kim in harsh waves; and though the salt water stung, stirred bitter words in her own mouth that threatened escape, she was able to rationalize, self sooth. She couldn’t fully give herself to the argument, knowing that this was long awaited for Kim, that maybe all the stress and chaos had finally gotten to her.

A person could only bend so far before it broke them, could only expend so much before they were due. And Kim, generous and giving as they come, had spent countless hours of her life twisting and contorting her time to fit the moulds of other people; but the words still hurt, still rang of distant memories of her mother’s disappointment, of rage and of acid.

“Fuck what up?” Trixie took a step back, her mind racing.

“Nothing, just forget it.”

“No, you have something to say, say it. You’re not my mother Kim, I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“Oh, that’s rich! You know, I might as well be your mother. Who the fuck do you think found you this place when your actual mother threw you out? Who got you the job you quit because it was,” Kim pulled her fingers into air quotations, “too much? Paid your rent when you couldn’t. Who busted her ass getting you into this school? You can’t commit to anything Trixie, and now, NOW, you’ve gone and figured out the ONE way you can fuck up school, too! I hope Katya’s worth it I really do. Because when administration finds out, you’re both fucked .”

A knot twisted tightly in Trixie’s stomach.

“Stop bringing her into this! You don’t know anything about her! Or me for that matter, clearly. But obviously , you have a lot to say,” Trixie said, almost shouting.

“You think she cares about you? You’re wrong, Trix. You need to grow up, really. She’s using you, just like she did Phi Phi. And when this all blows up in your face, like everything always does, you’re gonna come crying to me. And you know what? I won’t be here.”

Just then, a small noise from the staircase caught their attention. They turned their heads to find two thin figures perched at the top, eyes wide and watching. And Pearl opened her mouth to speak, but Trixie was out the door, leaving her coffee steaming on the counter.

—

Kim’s words, heated and stinging, followed her like a phantom down the darkened halls of her university. And while it hurt, ached a sore plight down the center of her chest, she knew that everything Kim said had been right. She’d been a bad friend, taken too much and given too little. And she could hear her mother’s words too, fresh as the day they were spoken, like silent criminals come to steal her composure.

Autopilot carried her to Katya’s class, wearing the same clothes as yesterday, in the same cracked makeup down her cheeks. Their eyes met and unmet constantly, knowing, each glance holding space a little longer than it should’ve. And Trixie felt as though she could cry at any moment, as the dull ache in her head echoed through the back of her skull, and the glaring need for escape ravaged all the spaces in between. She felt trapped, cornered, unable to escape Katya’s eyes; though she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to. She wanted someone to see her, that she was sure of. Someone to see passed the façade and tell her that it was all going to be okay; and she wanted that someone to be Katya; but some things just couldn’t be, and she was learning then, slowly but surely, that she had to make peace with that. Maybe they could come out of this on top, settle for glances and smiles, chats after class, and maybe, just maybe, Trixie could forget the rush. And if not forget, then settle for a dull ache of what could’ve been.

5 Missed Calls .

Class flew by in a blurred rush of muted anxiety, Trixie auto piloting her way through the motions, all the while hoping she could slip out near the end unnoticed; but much to her dismay, as Trixie had anticipated, the end of class found Katya beelining for Trixie’s desk, and any interaction between them became suddenly unavoidable.

“Listen, Tracy, I’m… I’m very sorry about last night, about this morning, I would never want to make you feel uncomfortable,” Katya started.

“Katya don’t, really. It’s fine, you haven’t don-”

“I think it would be… in better interest, if I didn’t drive you home anymore.”

“I don’t understand,” Trixie said, picking absently at the corner of her thumb nail.

“We can’t do thi-”

“We haven’t done anything.”

“You know what I mean.”

Trixie stood for a moment and let everything sink in, their eyes meeting.

Katya reached for Trixie’s left hand and brought it gingerly to her lips. So tender, so domestic. She placed a soft kiss on Trixie’s knuckle, then let their hands drift together to the left side of her chest. And through the cotton of Katya’s blouse, Trixie could feel the quick drumming of her heart, could see in her eyes a great fear, but also a great acceptance.

“I know,” Trixie said quietly, pulling her hand back.

She turned on a slow heal and started for the door; leaving Katya, small and teary eyed, stark in the middle of the room. And as Trixie stole a final glance, the light of the projector cast her silhouette like a specter across the back wall that sunk into the floor while the door swung shut behind her.

She’d only gotten a few steps down the hall before tears began spilling down her cheeks, probably carrying mascara with them. And Trixie blotted the space beneath her eyes, covertly avoiding eye contact with Jinkx as she passed her down the main hall just before the stairs.

7 Missed Calls.

 —

 She found herself outside then, heading toward the employee parking lot, under the usual tuck of trees that arched against the rain almost protectively overhead. Though many of the leaves had fallen and sunken into the grounds, there had been just enough to provide her shelter, and she stood for a few beats before realizing Katya wasn’t going to come; then again, neither would Kim. Trixie shivered as the cold hit her, her breath evident in the brisk, and she coiled into herself, wrapping her cardigan tighter around her hips.

She patted around her pockets and produced a crumpled twenty dollar bill, that she smoothed against her books and tucked into the side of her bra, the very last of that week’s allowance. While she scrolled through her phone in search of a taxi company, though they were sparse in these parts, she watched as cars puttered by her, subtly hoping to see Katya’s round the drive.

Before she could hit call, her phone lit up again, buzzing in her palm; a contact photo, her at a young age, eyes bright and glittering, a cheesy smile. And her mother, younger, less weathered, hair still long and curly, thin fingers pinching Trixie’s cheeks.

Until then, the calls seemed more like a minor nuisance, just a permanent fixture on the dashboard of her notifications, but now it cut deep; reminded her of all that she’d lost, all that she’d never regain. And she did something she hadn’t done in months, hadn’t done since Kim had found her and brought her here, she answered . And it went just as swimmingly as she might’ve guessed.

“I’ve been calling you for weeks,” a gravely voice slurred through the phone line.

“Are you, are you drunk?”

“What kind of daughter would ask that?”

Soon there was shouting. And Trixie lost all awareness of her environment, her surrounding; but she knew people were watching, she just simply forgot to care. And tears were spilling out of her, falling onto her shirt, tangling with the rain water washing down her skin.

The air was cold, her fingers red and pruning, phone pressed firmly into her cheek. Everything was spinning and far from sound, and as her mother continued her lamentation, Trixie grew more tense, more unabsolved. She felt trapped suddenly, by all of the forces outside of her own body, controlling her, prodding and pulling like the strings of a marionette. And she came to a startling realization; her life, wasn’t hers. This wasn’t what she wanted, this wasn’t who she wanted to be.

Before she could even hang up the phone, someone was tugging at her arm, pulling her gently from the rain, and from the watching eyes. Guiding her down into a car, her boots finding the comforting crush of empty coffee cups and to-go wrappers. And her phone found its way back into her pocket, as did her fingers, numb from the cold that she pressed into her thighs.

They drove in mostly silence, down familiar roads that were slick now with sleet. And the squeaking of the windshield wipers held an almost deafening stance against the silence.

“Tracy… Ar-”

“Please, Katya. Please , don’t.” Trixie said, drying her cheeks with the sleeves of her sweater.

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier, I just… You can still talk to me, you know.”

“No, I can’t. I really can’t.”

Just then, Katya pulled her car swiftly off of the road, hitting the curb and throwing the gears into park. She took off her seatbelt so she could turn to meet Trixie’s gaze.

“What are we doing here?”

“I want to talk to you. I want you to talk to me, there’s n-”

“You know what,” Trixie said, unfastening her seatbelt, “I really can’t. And you know damn well why I can’t.”

“I am not understanding this.”

“Because, Katya! I fucking want you, I want us, I want…” Trixie threw her hands into the air in exasperation, “this! And I’m so sick of everyone in my life telling me what to do, and who to be. Even you! Everyone is always… god, I don’t know! I’m so fucking overwhelmed all of the time by this expectation of who I’m supposed to be, how I’m supposed to act. I have never, ever, not once in my life, not had to fight for every single thing that I have and I’m sick of it. I’m my own person, we are both fucking adults and we can make our own decisi-”

Before she could finish, Katya’s hands were over the center console, pulling her face close, their lips finally meeting.

—

And suddenly her fingers are on me, in my hair, running down my neck. Our mouths meeting like it’s the first time, gliding swiftly over one another, melding us as one exchange of impassioned energy. And her breath is warm, and sweet, intoxicating . Everything I need. Devastatingly, so. From the light of the cars in passing, flickering across her skin, I can see every unspoken word, escaping into the expanse. She wants me, and I want her, and this may be fleeting but I’ve forgotten to care as her hands stroke passed my hair and down my back, sliding with a quick and heavy rhythm like she’s striking a match. Every ounce of angst in me cries out for her, yearns to be closer, to be deeper, to love long and speak sweeter. And I’m falling into her hard, like I’ve never fallen before-

 —

Their lips parted as Katya pulled away with haste, her eyes squeezing shut.

“Trixie, Trixie, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have, we can’t do this!” Katya tensed, her accent thicker than ever.

And all of the spinning inside of Trixie stopped, her expression blank, eyes blinking quick and without rhythm. Her skin flushed, hot embers fading into gray coals.

“ Trixie ?” She said in a hushed exasperation, realizing that it was the first time she’d ever heard the name leave Katya’s lips.

“We can’t, I’m so sorry. I just, I care about you so much but we… we can’t Trix-”

“Why not? WHY NOT? You just said it, you care about me! Katya, please, not you too, you can’t do this to me, too. I can’t handle someone else telling me what I ca-”

“Trixie, please try and understand… I’m so so-”

“You know what. Save it. ”

And with that, Trixie was climbing out of the car, the garbage underfoot kicking out onto the sidewalk.