#girl. your mind. your wonderful unwittingly gay mind.

[dollsome-does-tumblr]

something i love a lot about grace hanson is that she is such a beyond-perfect lesbian character that it couldn't even be written on purpose. she transcends that. human brains couldn't plan grace hanson and they can't control her either. she is alive and irrepressible no matter how hard she tries. no matter how hard the writers try! and they both try really hard.

[hellomynameisbisexual]

Here's a shortlist of those who realized that I — a cis woman who'd identified as heterosexual for decades of life — was in fact actually bi, long before I realized it myself recently: my sister, all my friends, my boyfriend, and the TikTok algorithm.

On TikTok, the relationship between user and algorithm is uniquely (even sometimes uncannily) intimate. An app which seemingly contains as many multitudes of life experiences and niche communities as there are people in the world, we all start in the lowest common denominator of TikTok. Straight TikTok (as it's popularly dubbed) initially bombards your For You Page with the silly pet videos and viral teen dances that folks who don't use TikTok like to condescendingly reduce it to.

Quickly, though, TikTok begins reading your soul like some sort of divine digital oracle, prying open layers of your being never before known to your own conscious mind. The more you use it, the more tailored its content becomes to your deepest specificities, to the point where you get stuff that's so relatable that it can feel like a personal attack (in the best way) or (more dangerously) even a harmful trigger from lifelong traumas.

For example: I don't know what dark magic (read: privacy violations) immediately clued TikTok into the fact that I was half-Brazilian, but within days of first using it, Straight TikTok gave way to at first Portuguese-speaking then broader Latin TikTok. Feeling oddly seen (being white-passing and mostly American-raised, my Brazilian identity isn't often validated), I was liberal with the likes, knowing that engagement was the surefire way to go deeper down this identity-affirming corner of the social app.

TikTok made lots of assumptions from there, throwing me right down the boundless, beautiful, and oddest multiplicities of Alt TikTok, a counter to Straight TikTok's milquetoast mainstreamness.

Home to a wide spectrum of marginalized groups, I was giving out likes on my FYP like Oprah, smashing that heart button on every type of video: from TikTokers with disabilities, Black and Indigenous creators, political activists, body-stigma-busting fat women, and every glittering shade of the LGBTQ cornucopia. The faves were genuine, but also a way to support and help offset what I knew about the discriminatory biases in TikTok's algorithm.

My diverse range of likes started to get more specific by the minute, though. I wasn't just on general Black TikTok anymore, but Alt Cottagecore Middle-Class Black Girl TikTok (an actual label one creator gave her page's vibes). Then it was Queer Latina Roller Skating Girl TikTok, Women With Non-Hyperactive ADHD TikTok, and then a double whammy of Women Loving Women (WLW) TikTok alternating between beautiful lesbian couples and baby bisexuals.

Looking back at my history of likes, the transition from queer “ally” to “salivating simp” is almost imperceptible.

There was no one precise "aha" moment. I started getting "put a finger down" challenges that wouldn't reveal what you were putting a finger down for until the end. Then, 9-fingers deep (winkwink), I'd be congratulated for being 100% bisexual. Somewhere along the path of getting served multiple WLW Disney cosplays in a single day and even dom lesbian KinkTok roleplay — or whatever the fuck Bisexual Pirate TikTok is — deductive reasoning kind of spoke for itself.

But I will never forget the one video that was such a heat-seeking missile of a targeted attack that I was moved to finally text it to my group chat of WLW friends with a, "Wait, am I bi?" To which the overwhelming consensus was, "Magic 8 Ball says, 'Highly Likely.'"

Serendipitously posted during Pride Month, the video shows a girl shaking her head at the caption above her head, calling out confused and/or closeted queers who say shit like, "I think everyone is a LITTLE bisexual," to the tune of "Closer" by The Chainsmokers. When the lyrics land on the word "you," she points straight at the screen — at me — her finger and inquisitive look piercing my hopelessly bisexual soul like Cupid's goddamn arrow.

Oh no, the voice inside my head said, I have just been mercilessly perceived.

As someone who had, in fact, done feminist studies at a tiny liberal arts college with a gender gap of about 70 percent women, I'd of course dabbled. I've always been quick to bring up the Kinsey scale, to champion a true spectrum of sexuality, and to even declare (on multiple occasions) that I was, "straight, but would totally fuck that girl!"

Oh no, the voice inside my head returned, I've literally just been using extra words to say I was bi.

After consulting the expertise of my WLW friend group (whose mere existence, in retrospect, also should've clued me in on the flashing neon pink, purple, and blue flag of my raging bisexuality), I ran to my boyfriend to inform him of the "news."

"Yeah, baby, I know. We all know," he said kindly.

"How?!" I demanded.

Well for one, he pointed out, every time we came across a video of a hot girl while scrolling TikTok together, I'd without fail watch the whole way through, often more than once, regardless of content. (Apparently, straight girls do not tend to do this?) For another, I always breathlessly pointed out when we'd pass by a woman I found beautiful, often finding a way to send a compliment her way. ("I'm just a flirt!" I used to rationalize with a hand wave, "Obvs, I'm not actually sexually attracted to them!") Then, I guess, there were the TED Talk-like rants I'd subject him to about the thinly veiled queer relationship in Adventure Time between Princess Bubblegum and Marcelyne the Vampire Queen — which the cowards at Cartoon Network forced creators to keep as subtext!

And, well, when you lay it all out like that...

But my TikTok-fueled bisexual awakening might actually speak less to the omnipotence of the app's algorithm, and more to how heteronormativity is truly one helluva drug.

Sure, TikTok bombarded me with the thirst traps of my exact type of domineering masc lady queers, who reduced me to a puddle of drool I could no longer deny. But I also recalled a pivotal moment in college when I briefly questioned my heterosexuality, only to have a lesbian friend roll her eyes and chastise me for being one of those straight girls who leads Actual Queer Women on. I figured she must know better. So I never pursued any of my lady crushes in college, which meant I never experimented much sexually, which made me conclude that I couldn't call myself bisexual if I'd never had actual sex with a woman. I also didn't really enjoy lesbian porn much, though the fact that I'd often find myself fixating on the woman during heterosexual porn should've clued me into that probably coming more from how mainstream lesbian porn is designed for straight men.

The ubiquity of heterormativity, even when unwittingly perpetrated by members of the queer community, is such an effective self-sustaining cycle. Aside from being met with queer-gating (something I've since learned bi folks often experience), I had a hard time identifying my attraction to women as genuine attraction, simply because it felt different to how I was attracted to men.

Heteronormativity is truly one helluva drug.

So much of women's sexuality — of my sexuality — can feel defined by that carnivorous kind of validation you get from men. I met no societal resistance in fully embodying and exploring my desire for men, either (which, to be clear, was and is insatiable slut levels of wanting that peen.) But in retrospect, I wonder how many men I slept with not because I was truly attracted to them, but because I got off on how much they wanted me.

My attraction to women comes with a different texture of eroticism. With women (and bare with a baby bi, here), the attraction feels more shared, more mutual, more tender rather than possessive. It's no less raw or hot or all-consuming, don't get me wrong. But for me at least, it comes more from a place of equality rather than just power play. I love the way women seem to see right through me, to know me, without us really needing to say a word.

I am still, as it turns out, a sexual submissive through-and-through, regardless of what gender my would-be partner is. But, ignorantly and unknowingly, I'd been limiting my concept of who could embody dominant sexual personas to cis men. But when TikTok sent me down that glorious rabbit hole of masc women (who know exactly what they're doing, btw), I realized my attraction was not to men, but a certain type of masculinity. It didn't matter which body or genitalia that presentation came with.

There is something about TikTok that feels particularly suited to these journeys of sexual self-discovery and, in the case of women loving women, I don't think it's just the prescient algorithm. The short-form video format lends itself to lightning bolt-like jolts of soul-bearing nakedness, with the POV camera angles bucking conventions of the male gaze, which entrenches the language of film and TV in heterosexual male desire.

In fairness to me, I'm far from the only one who missed their inner gay for a long time — only to have her pop out like a queer jack-in-the-box throughout a near year-long quarantine that led many of us to join TikTok. There was the baby bi mom, and scores of others who no longer had to publicly perform their heterosexuality during lockdown — only to realize that, hey, maybe I'm not heterosexual at all?

Flooded with video after video affirming my suspicions, reflecting my exact experiences as they happened to others, the change in my sexual identity was so normalized on TikTok that I didn't even feel like I needed to formally "come out." I thought this safe home I'd found to foster my baby bisexuality online would extend into the real world.

But I was in for a rude awakening.

Testing out my bisexuality on other platforms, casually referring to it on Twitter, posting pictures of myself decked out in a rainbow skate outfit (which I bought before realizing I was queer), I received nothing but unquestioning support and validation. Eventually, I realized I should probably let some members of my family know before they learned through one of these posts, though.

Daunted by the idea of trying to tell my Latina Catholic mother and Swiss Army veteran father (who's had a crass running joke about me being a "lesbian" ever since I first declared myself a feminist at age 12), I chose the sibling closest to me. Seeing as how gender studies was one of her majors in college too, I thought it was a shoo-in. I sent an off-handed, joke-y but serious, "btw I'm bi now!" text, believing that's all that would be needed to receive the same nonchalant acceptance I found online.

It was not.

I didn't receive a response for two days. Hurt and panicked by what was potentially my first mild experience of homophobia, I called them out. They responded by insisting we need to have a phone call for such "serious" conversations. As I calmly tried to express my hurt on said call, I was told my text had been enough to make this sibling worry about my mental wellbeing. They said I should be more understanding of why it'd be hard for them to (and I'm paraphrasing) "think you were one way for twenty-eight years" before having to contend with me deciding I was now "something else."

But I wasn't "something else," I tried to explain, voice shaking. I hadn't knowingly been deceiving or hiding this part of me. I'd simply discovered a more appropriate label. But it was like we were speaking different languages. Other family members were more accepting, thankfully. There are many ways I'm exceptionally lucky, my IRL environment as supportive as Baby Bi TikTok. Namely, I'm in a loving relationship with a man who never once mistook any of it as a threat, instead giving me all the space in the world to understand this new facet of my sexuality.

I don't have it all figured out yet. But at least when someone asks if I listen to Girl in Red on social media, I know to answer with a resounding, "Yes," even though I've never listened to a single one of her songs. And for now, that's enough.

[jiminwreckedme]

Cottage of the Seven Dads.

DIONYSUS (1)

Other drabbles - Masterpost  Members - OT7 bangtan (reader insert also present.)  Word count - 3.8K Genre - pure bangtan as dads fluff. (Rated G)

“Yes, we are her fathers and no, we are not gay.”

A/n - The drabbles follow an order, it’s suggested you read the previous parts as listed in the masterpost to to understand the follow of events!

 “Hello?” 

You turn around at the tugging sensation of you shirt and look down to see a small girl, head barely reaching up to your hips, looking up at you, her eyes big, cheeks flushed red. She’s adorable with her straight, jet black waist length hair, the studded hair snap that was holding back her fringes matching the tiny demin overalls she was dressed in. She was nervous you could tell, clutching the straps of her backpack tightly and softly tapping her white sneakers on the tiled floor. 

You crouch down, meeting her at eye level as you smiled, trying to be as warm as possible. 

“Hi there! Are you the one who-” You act it out in the air. “-pulled my shirt?” 

She nods fast. “What’s your name?” 

“My name?”

“Dad says I shouldn’t talk to strangers,” She scratches the back of her head. “But I need help....So, let’s be friends? What’s your name?”

You laugh softly, “Y/n. And you are?”

“Ariel, though my parents call me grandma.” She rolls her eyes before quickly changing her demeanor and holding her hand out. “I’d like it if you call me Aria.” 

“Aria.” You take her hand, amused. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” She nods and you purse your lips stop yourself laughing. This child couldn’t be more than 5 years old but from whatever little you had seen, she undoubtedly had the soul of a 75 year old. No wonder they called her grandma. 

“So Aria, how may I help you?”

“I’m lost. Y/n. I can’t find my parents anywhere.”

In the middle of such a huge hospital? Uh oh, not good. 

“Do remember where you last saw them?”

“We were in the canteen.” She looks away, forehead scrunched in thought. “Daddy was buying me lunch when he got a call. And then he panicked and started to leave but I’m tiny so I couldn’t keep up and I lost him.” She shrugs like she’s indifferent but you see the disappointment in her eyes. 

“Aw, he left you behind? How sad.”

“You mean how irresponsible.” She softly smacks her head, exasperated, making you chuckle.  “You’ve no idea how many times I’ve gone through this..”

What an absolute grandma. 

“Okay, let’s find your parents and scold them for leaving you alone, okay?” She nods at your words determined, pursing her lips. “Do you remember where you were before you went to the canteen?”

“Not very well.” She squints, playing with her fingers, tongue sticking into her cheek in thought. “It was op, no, no, was it ob…?”

“Ophthalmology?”

She shakes her head, unwittingly pouting. “I didn’t see really well, we were just rushing around the whole day today.”

“Alright then,... do you know why you came to the hospital today?” 

“My parents said we were getting new family members today, a sibling for me.”

“Oh, Ob-gyn.” You deduce. Of course her father rushed over a phone call, understandable. “Aria, I think I know where your parents are.”

“Really?” Her eyes shine. 

“They’re a bit far from here.” You glance up at the boards hanging from the ceiling, understanding the directions. “But if you want I can take you to them.”

You hold out your hand but she hesitates. “You won’t kidnap me, right?”

You laugh. “Of course not, we’re friends. Friends help each other and I want to help you.” 

“Okay then.” She nods as you stand up, ignoring the slight pain in your knees, awkwardly still holding your hand out which she didn’t attempt to reach for. 

“Uh....Would you like me to carry you?”

“No” She finally holds your hand, her tiny fingers lacing between yours. “I can walk, I’m a big girl.” 

“Okay big girl, let’s go then.” 

Walking ahead you hold onto her small hand, mind wandering over the tiny details like what if your hand started sweating, what if your rings hurt her, what if the pressure you were exerting was too less? Some children liked to have their hands held tight, for moral support but she didn’t strike to you as the kind who appreciated that. 

You give a curious side eyed glance at her and sure enough, she seemed fine, unbothered by the way you were holding her. She simply searched through the crowd, constantly muttering words under her breath you couldn’t quite hear. You wondered what her 75 year old brain was thinking. Normally you wouldn’t be interested in knowing what she was saying. You were the kind who enjoyed the rare silence when kids kept quiet. Being someone who worked in a daycare meant you hear too many kids talking, screaming and wailing on a daily basis. In fact it was enough to make you not want to have children of your own. 

That and the fact that having a child required so many things - financial stability, having the time to actually raise a child and not to forget, a source of sperm. Being single for the last 4 years completely eliminated any and all opportunities for that. But seeing kids like her? It instantly appealed to the idea of rushing to a sperm bank and getting yourself one of these little buggers. You can’t help but think of how cute she’d look with a small beanie that went with this outfit and how many different ways you could do her long hair, and all the places you’d walk with her hand in hand. You’d definitely not leave her in the canteen, that’s for sure.

“Aria!” 

The both of you turn at the sound to see a man run up to you face flushed, as Aria finally smiles. He’s dressed in a long striped shirt, half tucked in and half out of his jeans, monster size shoes on his feet as he rushed in them towards you, holding his phone against his ear. As he got closer you see what a fine looking man he is, - sharp features, cute wrinkles forming at the corner of his eyes, his very obvious adams apple, soft hair falling into his eyes, long slender fingers pushing them back and-

“It’s Daddy.” 

Those two words are enough to metaphorically slap you out of your almost drooling face as the man barely stops before instantly crouching beside his daughter, pulling her in his arms into a hug, balancing the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah Jungkook I found her.” He pants, rubbing her arm in relief. “Yeah she’s fine…..What? Where? I don’t know-”

He looks around for a bit before finally turning to you, giving a courteous smile. “Excuse me, do you know where exactly we are right now?”

“Uh yeah the dialysis centre.” 

“Dionysus?” He scrunches his nose in the most adorable way. Stop it, Y/n. 

Aria takes her father’s face in her tiny hands, turning him towards her. “Di-al-y-sis.” She repeats for you, one syllable at a time. 

“Ah, dialysis, the dialysis centre JK….come fast.”

Cutting the call, he took a good look at his daughter, struggling to slip his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. “Oh god I was so scared, where did you go off wandering?” 

“You left me! I was-”

“Voice.” The sudden sternness in his otherwise seemingly cheerful personality takes you aback. “We don’t use a loud voice when we talk in public right?”

“I was looking for you everywhere!” Aria harshly whispers, correcting herself. “Why did you walk so fast, you know my legs hurt!” 

“Oh my angel.” He pouts sadly at his girl, making her forget her annoyance. “Daddy is really sorry, I forgot you got hurt yesterday. Do you want me to carry you?” 

“No, not you” She shakes her head. “I’m a big girl, remember?”

“Ok, alright, Bunny is on his way here, ask him to ok?” He drops a kiss on her forehead. “Now turn around.” before carefully spinning her clockwise, unzipping her bag and pulling out a small white beanie. Cute, that was exactly the kind of beanie you had in mind earlier. He slips it onto her head, muttering softly. “You’re going to get cold at this rate, I keep telling you to wear this-” 

“Bunny!”

“-Aria, wait I didn’t zip your bag!”  

But to no avail. 

His daughter had caught the sight of a certain someone across the corridor, bolting in a split second before her father even had the chance to put the beanie on her properly. 

“Don’t run!” The other man picked up his pace towards her the moment his ears caught her voice. “You fell down yesterday right?”

“Yeah, my leg hurts.” She threw her hands up, looking up at him as the man laughed, swiftly lifting her into his arms. 

“Aw, it’s fine, bunny is here to the rescue.” He fondly tucks her hair behind her ears, adjusting her beanie, walking ahead. 

“Thank you.”

You turn at the voice of the man next to who by now had stood up, dusting his pants, smiling at his daughter in the hands of the other man. You were so lost in just watching all 3 of them, you forgot why your presence here might even matter.

“We were so worried.”

“Oh that’s fine.” You brush it off. “She was a pleasure to meet.”

“Isn’t she?” He laughs, turning to you, extending his hand. “Jung Hoseok.” 

“Y/n.” You shake his hand, only just realizing something. He shared the same jet black hair as his daughter but that was about it. Other than that they looked significantly different, nothing like father and daughter. You looked over at the other man trying to piece everything together. Neither did he look anything like Aria. Again, except the black hair. He was tall, leaning more towards the buff side or maybe that was just his biker jacket? You didn’t know but he displayed a sort of rugged charm and not to mention, looked extremely young. Too young to be a father, too old to be a brother. Who was he?

“Jeon Jungkook.” He nods politely at you with a shy smile. “Thank you for helping Aria out Y/n.”

“How do you both know each other Aria?” Hoseok asks his daughter, readjusting her beanie.

“I just asked her name and asked her to help me.” She answers, earning wide eyes from both men.

“You don’t know each other from before?” Hoseok turns to you and you shake your head, confirming it. 

“What did we tell you about talking to strangers?” Jungkook tries to whisper but you hear it anyways. 

“But I became friends with her first!” She justifies.

Hoseok sighs, “Jin hyung will lose his shit if he finds out about this. Anyway,” He shakes if off. “Aria, did you thank Ms.Y.n?” 

“Thank you, Y/n.” She says sweetly, tilting her head at you, making you break out the widest smile. 

“You’re welcome, Aria.” You hold your hand up earning a high five from her. “Stay close to daddy next time ok? Or let him carry you like this when you’re in crowded places.”

“She won’t let me.” Hoseok laughs, finally getting around to zipping her bag. “She won’t let anyone but this guy carry her.”

“Bunny is the strongest.” She wraps her arms around Jungkook’s neck, pressing her head against his. “Everyone else turns red five minutes after carrying me. Especially him.” She gives Hoseok a side eye making his squint in annoyance as Jungkook laughs before his face morphs with a sudden realisation. 

“Speaking of everyone else, hyung,” Jungkook turns to the older man “I haven’t told them we found her, call them will you?”

“I dropped a text on the group a minute ago.” Hoseok waves the phone in his hand before turning to you, bowing. “We should head back now, Thank you for everything Y/n. I’m sure the rest of us would like to thank you too but we are required to wait where they asked us to, I hope you understand.” 

Rest of us?

“Yes, yes of course. I should go too.  ” You take a step back, eyes searching for the elevator. “and I understand, don’t worry about it, just hold her hand tight the next time.” 

“I shall make sure of that.”  Hoseok laughs, nodding. “Which way are you headed?” 

You point at the elevator a few feet away. “Second floor, the maternity ward.” 

“Oh that’s right past where we are, right Jungkook?” Hoseok turns to Jungkook who nods.  Oh god, this wasn’t a goodbye then, how awkward. “We are headed the same way then. I guess you can meet everyone after all.”

Everyone who?

“I guess so,” Normally you would have made an excuse to avoid further interaction but your curiosity gets the better of you. “I’d love to meet...everyone.” 

As Jungkook sets off first, Aria giggling in his arms as he plays around with her,  Hoseok walks with you right behind the younger man, affectionately watching them. 

“The maternity ward?” Hoseok looks at you curiously. 

“My friend gave birth yesterday.” You clarify, matching your step with his as all of you stepped into the elevator. “ I came to check up on both of them.”

“That’s sweet.” Jungkook quips before looking away, turning silent again. He was definitely the shy kind.

“Ah, I see. Boy or a girl?” 

“A baby girl.” You answer Hoseok, tapping away your foot. Small talk is so uncomfortable.

“How many parents does this baby girl have?” Aria who was silent all this while speaks again. “ Two? One boy and one girl?” 

You look at Aria bewildered. You understood ‘one boy and one girl?’ but how many parents? What kind of question was that?

“Uh yeah?” 

Why would she ask something like that?

And you found out why the very next moment, when the lift dings open revealing a man, skin as white as the wall behind him, clothes the complete opposite color, a pitch black, just like his hair. 

“Ya halmeoni,” He crosses his arms, looking at Aria half laughing. “You don’t just talk like one, you walk like one as well. How did you get lost?”

“Papa” She whines. Papa? “I wasn’t slow, Daddy walked too fast.”

“Yeah yeah catch me.” Hoseok scoffs, stepping out first followed by Jungkook. 

“Where was she?” 

“Is she okay?” 

“Where did you find her?” 

“Ya, we were so scared, Jimin ran a whole marathon around the hospital looking for her.” 

So many voices. Way too many voices. 

“She’s fine. At the dialysis center.”

“You mean the Dionysus center?” You hear Aria sneer and you can’t see what Hoseok does thanks to Jungkook’s huge back blocking your view but whatever it is, it makes her laugh.  

“And this is?” 

The pale man, looks at you and Jungkook finally realizes he is in your way and moves aside, half bowing apologetically and at last you see who ‘everyone’ was and oh my were they many. 

There’s one man before you, two men sprawled out on the couch, one calmly leaning against the wall next to them and another pacing about nervously, occasionally glancing at the door beside him. You do a quick head count. There’s seven of them. Seven men.

“Y/n,” Hoseok introduces sitting down on an empty chair, crossing his legs. “She was the one who helped Aria and guess how Jin hyung.” The man on the sofa opens his shut eyes at the mention of his name. “She went up to her, asked her  name, decided she wasn’t a stranger anymore and then asked her to help.”

Jin let out the largest sigh you’ve ever heard. “I did not think this was what my weeks of training would result in.”

“Dad, she’s my friend.” Aria struggles out of Jungkook’s arms, sliding down and walking up to center, crossing her arms. “Be nice everyone and say thank you”

“Thank you Y/n.” They all obey immediately, seven voices ring across the corridor. 

“It’s ok.” Meekly you give a small nod, clearly intimidated by their presence. Anyone would be. They had some sort of aura to them. The kind that made it hard to look at but also hard to look away. They were so different, it made you want to see more and more. Their dressing sense, the way they did their hair, the way they carried themselves, the expressions on their faces as they sat outside a delivery room, the expression on their faces as they looked at you - nothing about them was the same. 

Except the black hair. They all had black hair. Oh and they all looked at Aria like she was the light of their lives. What kind of relationship did she share with them? You heard her address 3 different people as her father already. What about the rest of them? The craziest thought went through your head but no way. They couldn’t all be…. 

“Let me clear the confusion, this is not new to us.” The man who was pacing around stops his tracks before you, chuckling. “Yes all of us are her fathers and no, we are not gay.” He looks around the room. “All of us just raise her together.” 

“Oh.” You blink, absolutely stumped. No wonder she asked how many parents? This young girl had seven. “That’s….uh wow, that’s really unexpected.” 

“We get that a lot.” He nods, holding out his hand, dimples denting his cheeks as he smiled. “Kim Namjoon.” 

“Y/n.” 

“Pleasure.” This is where Aria got her eloquence from. “Thank you for helping out our daughter. We’ve all been taking turns running around finding her for the last 15 minutes.”

“Thank god she’s here and fine.” Who spoke? The man leaning against the wall? “I don’t have the energy to run after her again.”

“You didn’t even run after her once.” Jin argues. 

“I’m still tired.” He sighs, sinking further into the wall. “How many days have we been here for? Does making babies always take this long?”

“The timing for making babies is subjective if you ask me.”

Hoseok smacks the knee of the man near him. “Shut up Park Jimin.”

“Four hours.” Jin shakes his head in response. “We’ve been here for four hours and don’t make it sound like that Taehyung-ah. It's a human coming out from another human, not instant rice you put in a microwave. Of course it’s going to take long.” 

“I know but this wait,” Taehyung groans, looking almost dead on the inside. “It's exhausting.”

“Imagine how it must be for her.” Hoseok interjects looking towards the room. “You can’t handle 4 hours, she’s been dealing with this for nine months.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry.” Sighing Taehyung shut his eyes. “I haven’t eaten anything since last night, I’ve been seeing stars all day.”

“Sit down hyung.” Jungkook walks over grabbing Taehyung by the arm, dragging him like he was nothing. Strongest amongst them all indeed. “Jimin hyung, scoot to the right please.” And then he plops the Taehyung right in between Jin and Jimin, was it?  

“Why don’t you just eat something hyung?” Jungkook looks over at him pitifully.

“Taetae is doing his detox week for his blog,” Aria eagerly answers. “He only drinks juice for seven days.”

“Right you are sweetie.” Taehyung shoots Aria a tired smile. “Your bunny asks me the same thing every month and I tell him the same thing every month as well.” 

“A two year old remembers things better than you JK.” Hoseok laughs. 

“For the last time.” Jimin shakes his head. “She’s five, she was two when we had her, she’s five now.” 

“Wow, she’s growing up so fast.” Hoseok realizes softly. “Has it really been three years?” 

“Feels like it's been 80 years.” You flinch ever so slightly finding the pale man walking past you to Aria, pulling her cheeks. “This tiny thing behaves like she’s 95 after all.”

“Don’t pull her cheeks Yoongi.” Jin warns him, peaking with one eye open, trying not to laugh. “Halmeoni’s teeth might drop.” 

Aria shakes her head glancing over at the door everyone was waiting before, talking to it. “I feel bad for you, whoever is in there, you are about to be part of one crazy, bullying family.” 

As six of her fathers erupt in fierce arguments, Yoongi updates you. “We are adopting again.” He softly pats the head of his daughter who was playfully squabbling with the other men. “We felt like she needs company growing up so in there,” He points with the jerk of his head. “That’s the new installment coming into this, as Aria said, crazy family.” 

You let out a small wow amazed. You didn’t know about crazy but from whatever little you had seen there was undoubtedly a lot of love. Not just for their daughter but between the seven men as well. The fact that they were willing to all raise not one child but two together? That baby in there was a lucky one. 

“But remember what I said?” Taehyung leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Your teeth will start falling cause you’re becoming a big girl, you’re six years old already-”

“Five.”

“-but that’s nothing to be scared of right? When teeth fall remember who I said comes to visit?”

“The tooth fairy.” Jimin answers instead. 

“The tooth fairy?” Aria crosses her arms. “Will she be the same skinny Santa who came last year?” She back at Yoongi who avoids her eyes very consciously. 

“He had one job.” Taehyung mutters. “I have no idea why he didn’t wear the fake belly, I should have just done it myself like always.”

“He was on a diet plan because of Mrs. Santa.” Yoongi sneers, clearly defending himself.

“More like he was malnourished.” She shoots back. 

Yoongi incredulously looked at Jimin . “Why the f-frick does she even know that word, she’s barely 2!”

“She’s 5! And don’t look at me ask him,” He points at Namjooon. “He’s the one who teaches her all these gigantic words. The other day she said I was too meticulous. I myself don’t know what that means.”

“Its your fault,” Namjoon defends himself, looking at Yoongi. “She gets this habit of talking back from you a d like you weren’t enough, now we have two savages in the house.”

“That’s true,” Hoseok shakes his head. “She’s been serving some serious burns these days.”

“She’s practically an arsonist.” Namjoon added. 

“Stop using such big words in front of her!” Yoongi explodes causing everyone to burst out laughing. 

Aria shakes her head, talking not so softly to herself. “The kind of thins I have to deal with in this house.” You snicker to yourself, hearing her. “I don’t know why they named me Ariel, this is clearly a Snow White and the seven dwarfs situation.” 

“Say what?” Jimin who also seems to have heard it, narrows his eyes at Aria from all the way across her. 

“I was just saying how much I love Snow White.” She shrugs simply.  

“But you hate Snow White.”

“Yeah I do,” She confesses, unable to keep the act. “She did practically nothing but clean some random people’s house and sleep in a glass coffin.”

“Better than Arora right?” Namjoon scoffs. “The woman spent the whole movie sleeping.”

Aria waves her hand dramatically. “Don’t even get me started about her.”

Hoseok sighs. “You’ve ruined fairy tales for her Namjoon-ah.” 

“And me.” Taehyung raises his hand. “I can’t go through one movie with her without having to hear about how we need stronger heroines who stand up for themselves-.” 

“Tae, I swear she comes up with all this stuff herself-” 

“-all she wants to watch is Frozen and Tangled and Brave and all that 21st century abomination, she has no respect for the classics.” 

“Abomination is not a word sweetie.” Yoongi explains to Aria, extremely serious. “Don’t go around using it, you’re just 2 years old.”

“FIVE.” Jimin rolls his eyes. 

“You can watch Beauty and the Beast with her Tae,” Jin plays the middle man. “Strong female lead and it’s a classic, there, problem solved.” He does a sweep with his hand before dropping it back onto his thighs. “Though I must say, I’m very disappointed that Belle owns nothing pink.” 

“She has one pink outfit.” Aria quips, lifting a finger. “That she wears in the snow and plays with the beast.” 

“And the birds.” Taehyung supports her turning to a surprised Jin. “We’ve seen this movie exactly 514 times till date, what do you expect?”

“514?” Yoongi sounds shocked. “ You let her watch the television for so long? What’s going to happen to her eyes?? 514 means watching that movie everyday for all the 2 years she’s been alive so far-”

“Oh my god.” Jimin shakes his head. “I can’t do this anymore.” 

“Alright, enough you guys.” Hoseok looks around at them. “Let’s respect the place, shall we? We can do all this at home where no one will stop-”

Taehyung’s stomach interrupts with the loudest rumble, making everyone turn to him slowly.  

“Okay that’s it, you really need food.” Yoongi steps up. “Anyone want anything else? I should make a trip to the canteen.”

“Don’t take me along please.” Aria steps back, shooting Hoseok a traumatized look. “I don’t want to get lost again.”

“You don’t have a choice.” Yoongi picks her up with one hand around her small waist earning an eruption of voices asking him to be careful, trying to stop him, Jungkook almost walking up to him, annoyed. And then there’s the creak of the door and everyone shuts up in an instant, pin drop silence filling the corridor. 

A lady in her scrubs steps out, pulling her face mask down to her chin with a smile. 

“Congratulations,” You can hear the men around you very audibly gulp. “You’ve just had healthy twins.” 

[leavesandcurses]

for the @bnhasecretsanta2019 project, and my partner, erizen! here’s an ao3 link, too. i chose to do momochaco out of the choices I was given...

“Look, it’s snowing! Yaomomo, come look at this!”

Momo jolts slightly, turning her attention to the voice calling her name. She falters, her cheeks heating up as she catches sight of Uraraka bouncing up and down, face pressed to the window. Momo peers outside, and yes, it is snowing quite strongly. The small flurries coming down obscure the horizon with an endless view of powdery white. It’s not particularly odd, given the time of year.

“Is it?” She murmurs anyway. Momo weaves between the classroom desks until she’s standing at Uraraka’s side, watching the tiny pieces of snow dance down from the pale-grey clouds with her. It is beautiful, which is a bizarre thought: Momo has never been overly fond of the cold, something she’s always attributed to her Quirk’s function — her body needs more lipids to ward off the side-effects of the cold, so Creation reaches its limits much quicker than in the summer months. However, her… what Jirou has referred to in passing as her ‘big gay crush’ on Uraraka may be the variable that’s changed her opinion on such weather. From an abstract standpoint, it’s incredible how something as simple as deep appreciation-turned-genuine admiration can change so many of her worldviews.

Momo allows herself a smile when Uraraka brightly exclaims the brilliance of the snow again, pumping her fist up and down excitedly. Chestnut brown bangs swinging back and forth with the exaggerated movements, eyes bright, smile stretching wide… like this, Uraraka is more beautiful than any of the works of art in her family home.

It’s adorable. There’s just something wholly-lovable about Uraraka Ochaco’s bubbly, bright, boisterous attitude; something Momo wishes she could have for herself, the confidence and strength of character seeming out of reach. But Ochaco… it’s admirable how strong she is. Despite everything Momo is confident in about herself, she wants to be more like Uraraka — fierce, strong, dependable.

“Class is over. Get out.” Aizawa drones from his sleeping bag. When he slouches to the floor, already asleep, Momo steals a glance at Uraraka. Her cheeks, perpetually pink, have gained dimples from the force of her smile. Wrapped up in her thickly padded winter coat, it’s hard to see the little pink pads at the tips of her fingers — a feature Momo knows she can ruminate over for hours at a time. She wonders what they must feel like to hold.

Momo comes back to with a start, subtly shaking her hand to disperse such… contextually inappropriate thoughts from her head. She heads back to her desk to collect her bag and coat, slipping both on. The warmth is a relief — there are no shortages of thanks in her mind to Aizawa for suggesting the girls of 1-A wear trousers during the winter months. Not only has it kept her, and the others who chose to wear them, warmer but has also warded off Mineta’s lecherous attempts. With a quiet yawn, Momo

“I love the snow!” Uraraka exclaims happily, clapping her hands together, “It’s so fun to mess with people on snow days, I wish the day wasn’t over! Oh- if we had training right now, Todoroki would beat us all hands down ‘cause of his Quirk- you could even beat Bakugou! There’d better be snow next week, too!”

There’s a second of silence. Momo raises her eyebrows and purses her lips, looking over to where the volatile blond is trying — and failing — to contain his explosive vulgarity. The detonation doesn’t exactly come as a surprise to anyone.

“THE HELL’D YOU JUST SAY, ROUND FACE?! I’LL FUCKING DESTROY YOU AND THE ICY-HOT BASTARD! YOU TOO, DEKU!”

Midoriya’s distinct cry of, “Kacchan?!” breaks through the clamour — it startles another series of laughs from Uraraka. Momo raises her hand to her mouth, chuckling also. One would think Bakugou would run out of aggression at some point, but… apparently not. Poor Midoriya.

“I’d like to see you try.” Todoroki mumbles, stoic as ever. With that, he briskly leaves the classroom.

“Wait up, Todoroki-kun! You said you’d let me borrow your notes!” Midoriya calls, running after Todoroki with Iida hot on his tail.

“SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU SHITTY NERD, I’LL KILL YOU-” Kirishima, smile apologetic, ushers (shoves) Bakugou from the classroom. Momo winces at the echoes of explosions in the halls. Uraraka, now snorting into her hands, is a sight pretty enough to knock the air straight from her chest, even as she calms herself, waving Momo a tiny goodbye before jogging out of the class, presumably after Iida and Midoriya.

“Didn’t I tell you all to get out?” Aizawa grits out. Momo’s spine straightens automatically at the tone, legs unconsciously carrying her to the room’s boundaries. As she walks down the hallway towards the exit that will take her back to Height’s Alliance, she hears a series of rapid footsteps. Surprised, Momo turns around to see Jirou running to catch up with her, and puts aside the mild disappointment fluttering in her heart that it isn’t Ochaco.

“Hey, Yaomomo.” Jirou waves calmly, expression tranquil. “Wait up.”

Momo stops where she is, taking the brief pause to fix her crooked coat. Jirou smiles serenely, fingers drumming against her thigh to a tune nobody else can hear.

“Jirou-chan. Is everything okay?” Momo asks. In the pale light filtering through too-large windows, Jirou’s smile morphs into a knowing smirk. Her eyes narrow.

“You’re gonna ask her today, aren’t you?” Jirou prods Momo’s side jokingly, eliciting a quiet yelp from her. She shoots a glare at Jirou, who holds her hands up in surrender. Her annoyance has nothing to do with how that comment made her heart stutter, face heating up again.

“Sorry?”

“Yaomomo.” Jirou deadpans. “Come on. The tea shop? You said you were gonna take Uraraka after class today. I won’t let you back out now. You were so determined about it yesterday…”

“But…”

When a pair of hands land on Momo’s shoulders, she looks up to meet Jirou’s steady gaze. “Don’t worry about it so much. It’s Uraraka. She’s easily one of the friendliest people in our class. Besides… she thinks you’re cool. I’m telling you, it’s not out of the question that she likes you back, besides,” A sigh, irritated though good-humoured, “you didn’t hear her spend like, fifteen minutes rambling about how amazing you were during our last training exercise. Not to mention that time she decked Mineta for- you know, making that comment about you.”

Unwittingly, Momo buries her face in her hands with a miserable exhale. She remembers that well; she hadn’t heard the comment, but she did see Uraraka storm towards him like an angry pink angel before punching him out of the training session. But… to hear that she could be impressed by her… it sounds too good to be true, really; Uraraka being impressed by her, even though she’s awkward and klutzy and-

“There’s nothing for you to worry about.” Jirou says, voice firm and reassuring. Momo blinks, eyes damp, and inhales deeply.

“Do… do you really believe that?”

Jirou’s smile softens, becoming something more open and honest. “Yeah. I really do. You got this, Miss Top-Recommended student. Let’s get back to the dorms. I’ve got your back.”

With that, Momo slows her pace to keep beside Jirou, shivering when they exit Yuuei’s main building. The snowflakes cascading from above set a stunning scene, paint bleeding down a canvas in pristine rivulets, and despite her once-dislike, Momo can’t hold back a small laugh when one of the microscopic works of art lands on her nose, a pinprick of cold.

“I never knew you liked the snow.” Jirou says, and a childish part of Momo rears up in unrelenting glee. There’s something about the snow that lifts every inhibition, lifts the weight off every person in their class. Momo watches, fond, as a snowball hits Todoroki in the back. She laughs outright when he launches one back at his attacker, sending Midoriya to the floor. Then it’s chaos unfiltered, Bakugou flying across the campus to bombard Kaminari, Tokoyami and Aoyama forming a united front, Satou and Sero charging Shouji.

Uraraka, arms full of snowballs, expression caught open in the happiest grin Momo has ever seen, descending on a terrified-looking Kirishima.

It’s Jirou’s quick intervention that stops her from slipping on an obscured patch of ice. Hand braced against her chest, Momo breathes a relieved thanks before upping her pace, eager to get away from the ice for a while.

The dorms are a breath of — blessedly hot — fresh air, shivers dying down in record time as Momo hogs up to her room. She waves cordially at Todoroki, who dips his head in lieu of words, and enters her room. It’s a quiet affair, changing from her uniform to her casual clothes — a turtleneck sweater to accommodate the colder weather, for sure — and tucking her bag away in her wardrobe. After that, Momo makes quick work of the questions set by Ectoplasm.

With a mild huff, Momo stands with a stretch, sighing when some of the ache in her shoulders vanishes. Now is as good a time as any to head down to the common room — to ask Uraraka if she would like to go with her to the little cafe.

She’s already asked Aizawa, earlier in the week — he’d signed the permission slip that would allow Momo off-grounds for a while, and allowed her a plus one.

So all that’s left to do now is hope Uraraka decides to come with her. Though, if what Jirou said stands true…

With that strengthening her resolve, Momo leaves her room. It’s a quiet, long walk, peaceful somehow — though she suspects that may have something to do with how the majority of her classmates are messing around outside in the snow. It’s falling heavier now, the thick white on the horizon swallowing up more land. There is some mystical, ethereal quality to it.

Momo pauses, her heart in her throat when she catches view of a familiar, lone silhouette standing in front of the tall glass panes of the common area. The bright light reflecting off the snow gives the room an ethereal feel, tranquility untouched by the chaos outside.

“Um… Uraraka-chan.” Momo calls. Her voice, though soft and hesitant, sounds all-too loud in the empty room. Uraraka blinks, whirling around- wide eyes alight with interest. Momo takes a breath to calm her rabbiting heart, before pushing forward.

“Yaomomo, what’s up?” Instead of allowing herself to become flustered by the beaming smile being directed at her, Momo reaches down to clasp one of Uraraka’s hands in both of hers. In the poor lighting, she misses the way Uraraka’s cheeks pink.

“Would…” Recalling Jirou’s words of reassurance, Momo steels herself and bites the bullet. “Would you like to come with me to have some tea later?”

“Tea?” Uraraka blinks. “Where?”

“Th- there’s a small cafe, not too far from campus. It’s a wonderful little place- I think you would like it. It’s very… homely. I have permission from Aizawa-sensei, and he said I could take a plus one… I was wondering if you would like to join me.” A whooping yell comes from outside, piercing the silence. Momo takes her breaths steadily and evenly, too-fast heartbeat proving too much to handle. With Uraraka’s hand in hers… it’s a miracle she doesn’t have Todoroki’s Quirk, otherwise she would have been on fire by now.

“Oh.” With a sudden, broad grin, Uraraka claps her hands together. “Sure! What time should I come to your dorm to meet you?”

Momo blinks, struggling to process the information. Then, with a jolt and a happy laugh, she takes a step closer and points outside to the snow.

“Oh-! W-well, I’m ready to leave when you are… I figured you would like to leave now, while it’s snowing. You said you love it- right?”

“Yes, I did! Thank you, Yaomomo!” Uraraka surges forward, throwing her arms around Momo. She stumbles slightly with the force of it, before returning the embrace shyly. With the sunshine smile on Ochaco’s face and the floral scent of the shampoo she uses filling Momo’s senses, this may as well be her personal heaven. When they part they’re both flustered; grinning stupidly, but pink-cheeked.

“Right! I’ll go get into something warmer- um, I’ll see you in a bit, okay?”

“Alright.”

Momo walks slowly back up the stairs to get to her floor, eyes once more falling to the snow. The thin layer on the floor is growing thicker with every passing moment; the cold weather seems determined to stay as long as possible. With an imperceptible shrug to herself, Momo opens her door. She’s quick to grab her thickest coat and hat, tucking her purse away into a small handbag. Then every second takes an eternity, which is surprising given that Momo has always been proud of her ability to keep her head about her.

When she hears a knock at her door, she nearly jumps in her urge to open it. Slightly flustered, she comes face to face with a warmly-wrapped Uraraka Ochaco.

“Let’s go!” She declares. Momo nods, and suddenly believes in every time that Jirou called her weak for Ochaco’s smile.

The change from warmth to ice-cold air is startling enough to register as a physical impact when the leave the dormitory building. Momo shivers.

“Wow, it’s really getting cold!” Uraraka exclaims, a sentiment she can echo, as they walk. They avoid the violent zone of snow-warfare as much as possible — yet somehow, on the way to the Yuuei Gate, they still bump into a small pocket of their classmates.

“Uraraka-chan, where’re you going?” Midoriya, out of breath, calls. He, Shinsou, Todoroki and Iida are all red-faced with exertion. It seems to give Uraraka a burst of energy, as she hastily pats some snowballs together and, using her Quirk, passes them over to her friends. The sinister grin on Shinsou’s face makes her double-take.

“Yaomomo’s taking me out! We’re getting some tea together!” An explosion and a familiar yell rocks the calm, prompting Uraraka to cheer, “You keep fighting Bakugou, Deku-kun!”

Momo laughs at the overly energetic way Midoriya thrusts his fist into the air, barely avoiding clipping Shinsou’s disgruntled face. “With Todoroki-kun and Shinsou-kun and Iida-kun on my team, we’re gonna beat him!”

“Have a good time, Uraraka. Take care of her, Yaoyorozu.” Shinsou says. He snags the snowballs out of the air, tucking them into the folds of the capture weapon around his neck. His expression is eerily reminiscent to the one Aizawa-sensei gets before dropping another ‘rational deception’ on the class.

Iida turns to them, tearing Momo from her thoughts, a wide grin on his face. “Enjoy yourself, Uraraka-chan, Yaoyorozu-san!”

“We will! See you later, Iida-kun!” Uraraka waves, and then the small group are running back into the fray again. Momo watches Uraraka whirl around, a bounce in her step as they resume walking towards Yuuei’s entrance.

The walk is a scenic one. The trees lining the worn path are draped in a shimmering white, reflecting the street lamps’ amber hue. It’s a novel sight, something from a romance manga she read as a child, so stunning with the muted rush of wind across the skies and the dim skies. Beside her, Ochaco is in a similar state of awe, mouth slightly parted in wonder as she takes in the scene.

“I’m sorry I took so long to get changed earlier, Yaomomo.” Uraraka says, holding up her hands to show the fingerless gloves pink; they’re unbelievably her. “I couldn’t find my gloves in my room, I kinda panicked…”

“That’s alright, Uraraka-chan.” Then, without thinking, “You look wonderful.”

A beat passes. Momo wills her legs to not betray her as the realisation of what she just said kicks in — she’d just called Uraraka Ochaco wonderful. To her face. She just called her crush wonderful right to her wonderful face-

She nearly misses Uraraka’s blush as she stammers, eventually managing to get out, “I mean…”, which is about as useful as her unintended, incredibly genuine compliment-

“You look really pre- nice too!” Uraraka blurts. Her red face is impossibly endearing. “I mean, with your hat — uh, is that new, by the way? — it really suits you, you look great too!”

Momo nods. The hat is new; a pleasant blend of wool and cashmere. It retains warmth very well, but it doesn’t quite explain why her face is so overheated. She’s familiar with embarrassment, how inept it can render her, but again… it doesn’t explain why a breeze could take her away right now.

With a shuddering breath, Momo makes the executive decision to change the subject, swiftly and smoothly.

“I never used to like the snow too much,” she murmurs. Briefly, Ochaco looks almost put out by the revelation, “but someone changed my view on it quite recently.”

The indirect statement takes a second to sink in. When it does, there’s a bounce in Uraraka’s already energetic steps, a wide grin making itself at home on her face. Momo glances down. Sure, Ochaco may be a fair bit shorter than her, but… she’s brighter, livelier. That energy and infectious joy…

“It is beautiful. Snow. I… I’m almost ashamed I never saw it before.” A gentle nudge of a breeze rolls through the road, bringing fresh waves of snowflakes with it. It’s amazing, truly, that none of the crystalline patterns formed are identical. Even now, with years of practise using Creation under her belt… Momo knows she can’t make something quite so intricate.

“My parents and I used to play around together all the time when it snowed.” Uraraka says. Momo looks at her, takes in the fondness warming her cocoa-brown eyes. “I have a lot of fun memories of it. So I hope I can share some of it with you!”

“You already are.”

They’re silent for a while. Momo focuses on her steps, making sure there isn’t too much give in the snow with every footstep, listening closely to the rushing winds. The biting chill against her cheeks is bitter, almost painful in a way, but it’s tolerable for the way Ochaco reaches out, awe in her eyes as she reaches out to touch the larger falling clumps of snow.

It isn’t long before they’re at the small shop. Momo reaches out and pushes open the antiquated door, a swell of warm, cozy-smelling air rushing to greet them. It’s an eye-watering contrast.

“Oh, wow!” Uraraka exclaims, “You were right Yaomomo, this place is so nice!”

“I hoped you would think so.” Momo fondly replies. She’s quick to hold Uraraka’s arm, gently tugging her towards the back of the little shop. There’s a small table, discreet and out-of-sight; it’s the one Momo always sits at as a regular customer. The cinnamon-scented air is a brush of nostalgia; an old, happy memory unearthed to bask in. Absently, she passes Ochaco a pristine, neat menu to pick from as she settles in.

“Oh- everything is, um…” Uraraka trails off. It spurs Momo to look up from her menu and check on her friend; she wears a surprisingly disheartened expression. Momo frowns.

“Uraraka-chan? Are the teas not to your liking?”

“Oh! No, it’s not that I don’t like them- it’s, uh, something else, it’s-” Uraraka rubs at her neck. A nervous gesture? Momo’s brows furrow further, concerned until Uraraka murmurs under her breath, “It’sjusteverythingissuperexpensiveandIdidn’tbringalotofmoney.”

She blinks. “Pardon?”

“Um… I didn’t bring a lot of money.” Uraraka admits, like she’s confessing to some heinous crime. “Everything is… really expensive.”

“Oh.” Momo stills, a swell of upset nestling in her heart until a thought strikes her. “Well- you don’t need to worry, Uraraka-chan! I’ll pay for your tea, and whatever else you’d like to eat.”

It’s a simple offer — it’s not like she doesn’t have enough money to cover herself and Uraraka’s bills, she does, and with ease at that. But…

“What?! Yaomomo, I can’t make you do that!” Uraraka exclaims, eyes wide. She waves her hands back and forth, head shaking from side-to-side. Momo lets her hand fall to the table, and locks eyes with Ochaco.

“Uraraka-chan. It’s my treat to you. You don’t need to worry about paying me back, either.”

Uraraka’s stubborn frown refuses to fully dissipate, so Momo slides next to her to read the menu, together. With a fond smile, she points at one of the items.

“The lavender tea they do here is wonderful. My mother used to take me here a lot when I was a child. Apparently, I would get this one every time.” She explains softly. Slowly, the tension leaks from Uraraka’s frame until, almost defeated, she leans against Momo’s shoulder.

“Um… I’ll defer to your expertise, Yaomomo.” She pokes at the menu. “What do you recommend?”

“Hmm… I prefer the golden tips imperial tea they serve here, but… I feel like you might have a taste for something more floral. Maybe some jasmine blooming tea?”

“Blooming tea?” Uraraka asks, eyes finally free of their oppressive cloud, replaced by shining curiosity.

Momo nods. “The jasmine flower is dehydrated. The longer it brews for, the more hydrated the flower becomes! It opens up, like a blooming flower. I think you might appreciate it.”

“O-oh, that sounds awesome! Yeah. I’ll have that one, please!” Uraraka declares, a bit too loud in the quiet cafe. Momo nods, and beckons a member of the wait staff.

The minutes after ordering are spent in a peaceful chatter. Momo listens closely, attentive, as Uraraka explains her recent Quirk training; Asui’s developing techniques, Iida’s new Recipro-Burst limit, Midoriya’s increasing limits, Todoroki’s dual-Quirk practise. The enthusiasm in her voice as she talks is palpable enough to jarr Momo into sharing the details of her own training with Creation, and of Jirou’s strengthening firepower. It’s a pleasant way to pass the time; it has her heart fluttering with every exclaimed compliment and energetic praising.

“Oh! I think these ones are ours!” Uraraka gushes, staring eagerly at the tray of drinks. Momo’s spine straightens, a polite thank you reflexively slipping out. The waiter nods, bowing slightly, before leaving them to their beverages.

Momo watches, a laugh light on the tip of her tongue, as Uraraka gawks at the slowly opening flower. It always is a spectacle, no matter how many times she watches it; a small wonder contained within a teapot. While waiting for Ochaco to have the opportunity to enjoy her drink, Momo sips at her own. As always, the extravagant taste of the golden tips imperial tea is enough to take the tension and worries of Hero training from her shoulders.

“This is really nice,” Uraraka mumbles into her mug, pinky fingers raised, “I don’t usually get to have stuff this fancy.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to take you places more often, then.”

A small blush paints Ochaco’s cheeks; Momo draws little attention to it other than her own occasional, sneaking glances. It’s not exactly something she can help… eyes alight with fondness, face red from a mixture of the chill outside and Momo’s words… it’s impossible not to stare. It’s a mix of past and present joy, this little store; the affectionate overtones of this tea-date bleeding into sunny childhood memories.

Momo savours every second of the experience; the taste of her favourite tea enriched by the bubbly chatter coming from the girl sat across from her. Uraraka, after having finished her tea, taps her fingers against the glass teapot the jasmine flower is suspended in, sending it floating into the space between them.

She finishes up her own tea soon after, quickly paying off their bill. A quick glance outside reveals that the snow is continuing to fall.

“It’s getting late… we should get going soon.” Momo murmurs. Across from her, Uraraka nods. Once they’re ready to leave, fully wrapped up and prepared to face the continuing snow outside, Momo pauses. It’s enough to garner Ochaco’s full attention, as she turns around with a question in her eyes. You got this, Jirou’s words echo in her head. Momo wills her heart to slow its racing.

“Um… would…” Momo begins, then is stopped by the breath wedged in her throat. Her heart pounds in her chest, palms sweating.

“Yaomomo?”

Taking in a deep breath, Momo steels herself for the second time today. “Would you like to come out with me again…? Maybe next Sunday…?”

For a second, she’s uncertain. Uraraka’s expression is more contemplative than certain, and it strikes the anxiety hidden in Momo’s heart. That moment passes when a wide, happy smile brightens her face, and she bounces on the spot.

“It’s a date!”

Momo’s voice dies out into a squeak worthy of Midoriya-level embarrassment at the same time Uraraka turns bright red, arms flailing wildly. She nearly knocks over her cup in the process. She only begins calming down after her hands come to shield her cheeks from sight. Momo can imagine they’re still that endearing shade of red.

“I didn’t- I mean- I’d really love- like to- oh my god. Um. Uh. Yeah! I’d. I’d really like that. Um. So. Is this- uh. A, um…”

“A date?” Momo finishes, voice unbearably high and nervous. Barely resisting the urge to run away from the conversation, legs quaking, it takes her all to simply remain upright.

“Uh-huh.” Ochaco murmurs, “Y-yeah. Is… is it?”

With a voice steadier than she feels, Momo whispers, “If you want it to be.”

Uraraka takes a step forward, legs just as shaky as hers, and clasps one of Momo’s hands. Even though her thumbs aren’t making contact, Momo’s body is weightless, tethered to the Earth not by gravity but instead by the grip of the girl holding her. The pink pads at the ends of Ochaco’s fingers are a lot softer than she imagined.

“Yeah.” Uraraka whispers. She meets Momo’s eyes, shy but confident as ever, and she thinks she might be in love, “I’d… I’d really like that.”

[artificialqueens]

summertime sadness (Branjie) - PinkGrapefruit

wordcount - 8845 (holymoly)

A/N - it’s a long un, please read the tags. set to ‘carmen’ by Lana Del Ray. Thanks to Qtip, my love, for prereading this when it was just a shell, Meggie for giving it a final look over and Frey for being the most patient and kindest beta i’ve ever had. That girl deserves everything in life for what she’s done. Anyway, enjoy!

*

Darling, darling, doesn’t have a problem

Lying to herself ‘cause her liquor’s top shelf

It’s alarming honestly how charming she can be

Fooling everyone, telling how she’s having fun

He watches her from afar, has known her long enough now to differentiate her lust from love, fake smile from real grin. She’s spent months telling everyone she doesn’t have a problem and maybe she doesn’t but who’s he to judge, they all have their vices. His just happen to be cats and menthol cigarettes (he switched from Marlborough’s when she left, they reminded him of her a little too much). Hers lay a little on the wilder side of life, long nights full of parties and drinking and who’s to say if she snorts a little something here and there, if it eases the pain, she could get away with anything. She parties every night on tour and he’d be lying if he said sometimes he didn’t stay awake to hear if she got to the hotel safely- it’s rarely before 5 am and when their call time is 9, neither of them function the next day. Sometimes he hears noises through the walls, smells the tequila through the crack under the connecting door they always seem to have. He wonders if it’s production’s idea of a joke. He assumes it is.

Through the months between airing and now, he cannot tell when they fell apart. He cannot decide if it was the distance or the pressure or the rumours or the show but it was something out of their control, that he is sure of. He refuses to believe that they could have stopped it, the weight of that sentiment too heavy on his fragile state of mind.

They’re in Madrid (their second of twelve cities) when it all gets too much - when all he hears is the damage he’s done - unwittingly and unwillingly. He’s taken to working out at 4 am, it allows him to stay awake to make sure she gets home but also to try and distract himself from the possibility that when she does, she will not be alone. He’s tall this time, all broad shoulders and messy hair. He looks like the kind of guy who would model underwear and then talk philosophy with you, blonde and muscley. He reminds Brooke of himself and it hurts. He’s seen the guys she picked up before, he always sees them through the glass walls of hotel gyms, as they walk in heavy footed and leave him heavy hearted. The joke about Vanessa’s type is less funny when he realises it’s him.

He watches them go into the elevator, hears the ding as it closes and loses it on the treadmill. He sets it to its highest speed and runs like his life depends on it. He doesn’t notice that the guy walks out 20 minutes later. Doesn’t notice as the clock ticks round to 6:30 and then suddenly Nina is there. She turns off the machine wordlessly as businessmen around them file in to start their days. His legs are numb and he is shaking in a cold sweat as she hoists him up and half drags him back to his room. He lays on the bed, surrounded by deafening silence as she gets a flannel and a drink from god-knows-where. She’s worried about him, more so than Vanjie at this point, because they all expected her to be like this - they all hoped he wouldn’t. She’s seen him this way before, when he lost Miss Continental - she carried him back from the gym after he’d missed their arrangements at a nearby bar. She’d put him to bed with a large bottle of Gatorade and a forehead kiss, watched him as he fell asleep and been there when he woke up, confused and disorientated. She took him to a therapist when they deemed it worth a shot and sat through long discussions about family and failure and his deep-seated anxieties about life. She’s seen him at his worst but this, this is a new can of worms.

After a few minutes, she pulls him into the shower, doesn’t care how much of him she sees, knows it’s the best way to sort him out a little better. Once he’s washed off the cold sweat and regret, he clambers back into bed. She holds him as he falls asleep, hopes he can’t hear Silky doing something very similar through the wall.

He wakes up at 2 pm and she’s gone. They don’t have a call time that day so he wanders out onto the balcony and looks down over Madrid. The architecture should be beautiful but it’s grand and larger than life and somehow finds a way to remind him of Vanessa. Taking a deep drag of his cigarette and letting the menthol fill his lungs, he longs for the days of Marlborough’s and the good kind of secrets. He wishes for picnic blankets under apple trees, sunbathing in orchards until his pale skin browned under the Florida sun. He wants to drink tequila with her in California bars, lets memories flood his senses until he is feeling everything that he has missed for months. He wants to talk to her. He cannot find the words.

She says you don’t want to be like me

Don’t wanna see all the things I’ve seen

I’m dying, I’m dying

She admits she might have a problem on a Thursday. “Admitting” may be a little strong of a word but she at least notes that something is wrong. They are in Belgium, she thinks, all of the cities have blended into one, she bought some powder of a guy who did not speak English and the weight of it is heavy in her jacket pocket. She can hear his voice as she lines it up on her bathroom tiles, can hear the cadence of his singing and thinks she’s going mad. Their rooms are adjoining but the door is locked, she can see shadows under it sometimes. She does not dare to knock.

She snorts it fast and easy, pays no mind to the pounding of her head and the way her fingers are twitching for a drink. It’s 2 am when she leaves the hotel, Brooke hasn’t moved in a while and she’s sure the rest of the girls won’t notice so she goes to a little gay bar on the outskirts of town. She drinks her bodyweight in vodka, a bit of tequila on the side and spends  most of her time in the bathroom throwing up, snorting shaky lines and blowing any guy she can. She never kisses them, doesn’t want to erase the feeling of Brooke’s lips on her own. The bar shuts at 4 am and she’s still too buzzed to go back to the hotel so she wanders about the city with a tall blonde whose name she cannot remember - Brody or Cody or something surfer-y. She’s heard a lot of names like that back in Tampa, blown a few too.

She stumbles through the lobby at five in the morning, detached from whatever guy she was holding to help her make it through the night. The gym is the only thing lit up, glass walls a window into who she could be she swears she sees Brooke, lifting weights. Assumes she is mistaken.

Their call time is 10 am so she rolls into bed and sets an alarm for half past nine. When it comes back around she dusts the powder off the bathroom tiles and takes a shower to try and wash her of her sins. She puts on a copious amount of concealer and a bandana around her neck to hide whatever marks may have marred the skin, hopes no one will notice the way the bags under her eyes are full of deceit and thinly veiled problems. The rest of the girls are too tired to recognise her façade.

She leaves the dressing room in the venue to paint. She shares it with Silky but no matter how many times the girl has had to put her to bed, she will not let her see her barefaced. Too many secrets lie beneath the makeup, too raw to be exposed to the prying eyes of someone who cares. On the way to the bathroom, she bumps into Brooke. He is shirtless and fully painted, pale and pallid. His body looks like solid muscle but his posture is one of weakness and exhaustion. She wants to tell him, she knows how it feels to be so tired your bones won’t hold you up - so tired that you cannot rely on yourself for support but from your friends. Wants to remind him that she could be a friend, but she remembers that she cannot and instead, powers past to the bathroom.

She paints a little heavier and pads a little harsher and if people notice they don’t say anything. She is trying to make up for all of the parts self-destruction ate away. There’s not a lot of things a good mug can’t fix.

She says you don’t want to get this way

Famous, and dumb, and no age

My, I’m dying

He switches back to Marlborough’s in Helsinki. It’s their fourth city and they’re easier to find in Finland than menthols. He switches from the gym at 4 am to midnight yoga and Nina joins him occasionally, not to actually stretch, but to watch him. They go to bars and he kisses so many people but none of them taste like her, then again, he’d be hard-pressed to say what she tastes like nowadays. Probably regret and tequila. When Nina tells him to slow down, he does and when she tells him they should leave, he follows her blindly.

He’s a shell of who he used to be so he resorts to his most basic functions. He follows instructions when given, never argues, lets self-pity fill in for self-respect. Nina is his emotional support animal but also his handler, she guides him away from possible dangers, lets him make his own way through life whilst keeping a watchful eye and a helping hand on standby. He settles himself into a routine, something recommended by a therapist a long time ago. He acts as if he has a 9 am call every day and a show every night. He eats oatmeal for breakfast, salad for lunch and part of his own soul for dinner, filling in the gaps with protein shakes and coffee. Yvie calls him out one morning, she’s awake when he is even though she didn’t go to sleep until two. She savours her coffee like it’s her lifeforce and asks him why he looks so tired. He doesn’t respond, they both know the answer. They make small talk over their food, neither touch the elephant in the room, merely lets it wallow in the corner while they discuss lighter things like makeup and wigs. They discuss changes in their numbers as they perfect them each night on stage, want to arrange a remix of ‘Sorry Not Sorry’ and agree to make it happen on their next day off.

When she enters the breakfast room, they do not make eye contact. He doesn’t dare look up from his oatmeal and can hear Yvie’s soft chuckle at how much of an idiot he’s being. He can’t bring himself to care. She breezes right by them, nods at the other girl before going over to the breakfast bar and picking up her food. He doesn’t understand how she’s so functional at 7 am, doesn’t think she’d been up in time for breakfast all tour. It’s only when she looks up that he sees she’s really not. Her eyes are bloodshot and skin looks like it’s been scrubbed raw. She’s a mess, looks like she’s crumbling and her façade is all wet paper and crumbling brick. Her hair looks like it hasn’t been cut in months and it’s only now he realises that through all the staring he’s been doing, he hasn’t really looked at her, hasn’t taken in who she is in a long time.

It stings a little, in all the places he least expects it to, like salt in an open wound, one that should have scarred over months ago. He wonders when it got this bad, can’t pinpoint when it all started but vows to ask Nina during their daily catch up.

Nina tells him that he’s been in his own world but also lets him know that yes, it’s awful but no, she’s not alone. He learns that Silky and A'keria are always on damage control and he’s so angry that they don’t stop her but then he remembers that she’s like a force of nature. She’s a hurricane blowing down all of the storm defences they have. She’s a flood that no levee can stop. Vanessa exists in a microcosm of the universe where she is all-powerful, she yields to no one, especially not a Canadian who broke her heart.

The boys, the girls, they all like Carmen

She gives them butterflies, bats her cartoon eyes

It is the third week of the tour when she wakes up in someone else’s bed. They flew into Geneva last night and that’s all she remembers. Because life is a cruel joke she spent the three-hour flight sat next to Brooke. He was engrossed in ‘The Great Gatsby’ but that didn’t matter because she spent two hours smelling him and immediately felt like she needed to wash the scent off her body. He smelled like peach and lemongrass and lost dreams and it brought the taste of him back onto her lips. When she closes her eyes she can still see him, happy go lucky with peach juice rolling down his chin, voice light and airy. She can watch the months unfold like a tape, fast forward and rewind till it hits the exact moment that he first told her he loved her. The moment where the rest of her world fell away and there was only him. She can’t bring herself to wonder what happened, she is too scared of what she might discover.

She sits up in the bed, rubbing at her eyes with hands balled into fists. The guy, another tall blonde, is still asleep but the bright light streaming through the window tells her that it is both late and that she has a pounding headache. She slips out of the bed, looking around for her phone and any smidge of dignity she may have dropped when she came in. She only finds one of them. Her phone quite helpfully tells her that she’s missed call time, it does not tell her where she is though and her data isn’t working enough to get her a solid GPS. She finds what she hopes are her pants on the floor and hastily pulls them on, stealing a shirt from the guy and sneaking out of the door as fast as her legs will carry her. It’s the middle of July so it’s not freezing in Switzerland but she wouldn’t say she’s warm as she hovers on the pavement outside the flat. She still has no clue where she is and her phone battery is dwindling so she calls the one person she hopes will make sense of this situation. She calls Nina.

While Nina tracks her down, having told her to ‘under no circumstances move’, she tries to remember what happened. She assumes she drank a lot, judging by her pounding head and her nose hurting which tells her more than she wants it to. Her entire body aches for a warm bed and a nice cuddle and she wants to laugh at how soft she’s become but she remembers that she’s getting older and she can’t keep outrunning it. She’ll continue trying though.

Nina comes in a cab at 11:45, eyes full of pity and maybe a little bit of disdain for the man before her. She can read him like a book, doesn’t need to say anything because she knows that she already hates herself. They take the twenty-minute ride back in silence, the only words shared a brief ‘we were worried,’ and ‘I’m glad you’re okay’ from Nina’s part towards the end.

She arrives and is pardoned from the rehearsals that day, goes straight to bed with no plans of being seen until she is safely within the confines of Vanessa, no raw Jose left for the world to wag a finger at. At some point between the dinner she skips and the show she’s supposed to do, Nina finds her way into her room. She is not like Silky or A'keria, she doesn’t pry or tell her she’d been dumb, she just listens. Listens when Vanessa tells her she doesn’t want to talk about it but doesn’t argue when she starts spilling her guts, halfway through doing her eyebrows. She tells Nina everything, as one does. She explains everything she’s done in painstaking detail, ashamed of every second but doesn’t hide from her mistakes. It’s only when she’s finished that she looks up, she locks eyes with Nina through the mirror, unmoving since she began and wordlessly begs her to say something. anything. Nina gives a soft smile, she looks tired, having just taken on the weight of another friend’s secrets and Vanessa doesn’t envy her.

“You can do this,” comes the soft voice, it sounds like the offer of ice cream on a hot day, like understanding. For once, Vanessa believes her.

She laughs like God, her mind’s like a diamond

Buy her tonight, she’s still shining

Like lightning, light, like lightning

Carmen, Carmen, staying up 'til morning

It is the third week of the tour when he spends his morning in a panic. He saw her leave after they checked in and never heard her return. He’d stayed awake until 3 am, sat outside his door because, of course, this was the one hotel without the adjoining rooms.

They landed at 8 pm into Geneva airport after a three-hour flight from Helsinki. He ended up sat next to her, her cologne tickling his nose every time he inhaled. It was the one she’d worn the weekend they’d gone to Coney Island. They’d had time off that coincided with them both being in New York and she’d (in her childlike wonder) always wanted to go. He’d go anywhere if it made her happy. They’d gone on the carousel, bought copious amounts of candy floss and ended the night on the Ferris wheel. He’d always counted it as their first proper date - the first one where one of them wasn’t in drag and they both left the house. The cologne had been retired after that, she’d said something about it not feeling right to keep wearing it when not every day would be as good as that one. He had to blink back tears on the plane.

When he woke up the next morning, he immediately asked A’keria if she’d come back. He knew that she was the least likely to either laugh or ignore his question and she dutifully told him that no, she hadn’t come back and yes, they were worried.

By call time, he was close to ripping his hair out. His hands had stiffened in the fists they were balled into and his heart was beating out of his chest like in a cartoon. He was sure that there  had to be the smoke coming out of his ears because he felt like his brain is on fire and there is no one there to put it out. His thoughts are like gasoline, igniting the flames that burn at his skull. They are a warning of what happens when you get too attached and he kicks himself for getting here.

Nina gets a call at twenty past ten, goes wide-eyed and slack awed for a second before composing herself. Brooke doesn’t know who it is but the hush of Nina’s voice and her sudden gentleness tells him is probably Vanessa and he’s just so relieved. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in, his lungs gasping for air as Nina puts down the phone and gives him a half smile. “He’s  alright,” she says, impressively calm in contrast to Brooke’s own panic-stricken demeanour. She organises everything like a boss, tells the managers what happened in cliff notes and makes sure to reassure Brooke every couple of minutes, to let him know that it’s going to be okay.

When Vanessa walks back through the door of the hotel, Brooke almost loses it. He runs up the stairs, three at a time and barrels into his room. Sobbing, he reaches for his Marlborough’s, savouring the way they taste like her and hoping his tears don’t put it out. The fire in his brain has been dampened and he steps out onto the balcony to savour what little time he has left to himself.

He doesn’t sleep easy that night, but he does sleep - and that’s an improvement.

Only seventeen, but she walks the streets so mean

It’s alarming truly how disarming you can be

Eating soft ice cream, Coney Island queen

They’re in Copenhagen and it’s breakfast time. It’s the first time in a week that Brooke has seen her without makeup and god is it a sorry sight. She sits across from him on a long table, refuses to meet his gaze as she nibbles on an apple, a plate of toast untouched to her left. Their mugs of coffee are almost touching, the distance between them probably the smallest it’s been in weeks and yet he’s never felt so far away from her. It’s like he’s on another planet and she’s the Sun. He orbits around her, never getting close enough to get burned. He tells himself it’s not worth the pain, if he doesn’t get burned then he’s safe and he can’t help but hate himself for the thought.

He’s finished his oatmeal (had added some blueberries to change it up a little) and is sipping quietly on his coffee, book in hand when he senses her looking up. It’s like she’s watching him, waiting for him to make a move. She tentatively moves her hand towards her toast and he sees how frail her wrists look. he’s sure he could wrap his thumb and pinky around it, make a perfect circle and she’d still be able to move. She looks scared as she picks off crumbs, places them in her mouth experimentally, on the tip of her tongue as they will dissolve. It’s a little disarming, how small she looks. He wonders how long she’s been like this, hates that he did not notice.

From then on, he watches every meal they share. She only turns up to a few, eyes red and skin blotchy. Her nostrils look scabbed and her voice is less foghorn and more chain-smoker losing their voice. He hopes that it is just the painful fluorescent lighting of the hotel dining room but he swears she looks more pallid and sick every time he sees her. Yet no one seems to mention it. She moves like she is being instructed to, all interactions seem forced and void of feeling but no one seems to bat an eyelid except him. She drowns herself in baggy sweatshirts and loose shorts, the fabric hiding a multitude of sins and keeping what little is left of her warm. She is wasting away, flesh and bone dissolved by vodka and self-hatred.

They get a roast for dinner. It is a Wednesday and she is there and she picks at the meat as if it has offended her. She pushes it around her plate like a child, picking the smallest parts to eat and leaving the rest. She leaves halfway through the meal and no one says a word. Most don’t even look up from what they were doing, conversations do not stop. Brooke does though. He places his knife and fork down and nudges Nina. When they make eye contact, she sighs, reminds him that Vanessa cannot get help until she wants to be helped and reminds Brooke to eat his greens. He scowls because she is right.

She says you don’t want to be like me

Looking for fun, get me high for free

I’m dying, I’m dying

It’s three am in Amsterdam and she’s getting her stomach pumped. It’s horrible, she takes a second to wonder if it’s a fate worse than death but stops herself because, god, she was too close to that to joke about it. She’s getting her stomach pumped at three am in a foreign country and the worst part is that no one knows.

She pays in cash, blatantly ignores the doctor’s instructions to not do anything strenuous for a few hours and bids him a goodbye. Thanking god she’s out of drag (because she can’t imagine how that would have gone with full face), she starts the long walk home. She is tired, exhausted even and her throat burns like someone’s lit it on fire and is enjoying watching it flame. It feels like acid is dripping down into her lungs and to be honest, that’s not far off. Having a tube shoved down her throat was not how she wanted to spend her Saturday night, she is almost grateful she was alone. Except she’s not. She spent the remainder of her Euros on the hospital bill (having already paid copious amounts for cheap vodka and overpriced tequila shots) and having someone there would mean maybe she could get a ride home. Instead, she’s walking dazed in the middle of the night through Amsterdam.

It’s beautiful like the stars have all come out just for her. She stops for a second in places, just to marvel at the sky above her - drinking in the beauty like it is grey goose because she is painfully sober in more ways than one.  

At one point she sits on the embankment by the canal. The pale moonlight shines on the rippling water, refracting onto the houses like a mosaic. Vanessa lays back, head on the dew of the grass; she remembers what life was like when it was simple. She pictures laying like this with Brooke, hands intertwined as if they would never let go. She wonders if he ever thinks about it too - hopes she’s not alone in her longing for easier times. It feels like a cop out when they have earned so much in their lives to wish to be back when they had little, but they had more time back then. She doesn’t have enough anymore.

Her mind wanders to when they were laying on the tarmac drive in the studio backlot. It was late enough that they could see the faint shimmer of the stars behind the California smog and she was so fucking happy. Her head on his chest, feeling the contours of muscle beneath her as he ran his fingers through her hair. They were a different kind of stressed, lighter and less cautious. Worried but less bothered.

She can taste the plastic tubing on the tip of her tongue, feels it like a phantom slide down her throat until she is choking, gasping for air. She coughs for a minute or two before standing again and she starts walking, hoping to get back home. Back to Brooke Lynn.

She says you don’t want to get this way

Street walking at night, and a star by day

It’s tiring, tiring

He barrels into her room at quarter past six on a Monday. They are in Prague and he spent all afternoon out sightseeing while she spent all afternoon soaking in a bath of self-loathing and lavender oil.

He can smell it on her skin the second he walks in and she looks up at him from her pile of blankets on the bed. “I think we should talk,” he says as he approaches the bed. His voice holds no enthusiasm but it is open and honest and he hopes that she knows that he is too. He doesn’t really offer much in the way of dispute, already sat on the end of the bed when she dares to raise an eyebrow. “Should we now,” she replies, although she sounds broken. Her voice is scratchy and weak like someone has scratched their way down her throat (he does not know how right this analysis is). It feels like spiders crawling on his skin, tiny legs prickling at his forearms as he watches someone so strong look so utterly lost.

Brooke refrains from hugging her, scared of what he will feel if his arms are too tight around her frame. “Okay,” she relents. She says it like someone who is already done with the conversation, like she has made her mind up and now just needs to convince him of her beliefs. “I know a place.”

She takes him to a small cafe he hadn’t seen on his explorations. He wonders briefly how she knows about it but knows well enough not to ask out of fear of the answer. He orders two black coffees and some Danish pastries, tries his best to use the language from his phrasebook (part of his routine is trying to speak in the language of the people he is surrounded by). If he is bad, the cashier doesn’t let on - hands him his change and receipt with words spoken in perfect English. It may be summer but she is dressed for snow storm season, something even more absurd because of the fact she is from Florida. Her hoodie is pulled over her hands and down past her shorts, combat boots laced halfway up her shins and a beanie slung awkwardly over her head. It’s a confusing look and it confuses him.

They sit in silence for a while. Neither of them really knows what to say and they’ve spent too long individually wishing for this to be able to enjoy it.

“So,” He starts, grimaces when he hears his own voice. It lacks his usual confidence, every last bit zapped down the drain. “So.” She retorts, carried by a smile that does not reach her eyes. “You wanted to talk,” She draws out the last syllable, drawls it like she’s a Rhode Island mom getting her nails done. He coughs, clears his throat and looks around, the atmosphere is warm and inviting and clearly hasn’t let the chill of their table spread into the rest of the room. “I don’t think I quite understand, you see. I don’t know… I don’t know when we fell apart.” His voice may be fragile but the volume is slowly rising with every word. “When did this become you and me - what the fuck happened.”

This was the wrong thing to do. Any glimpse of patience she had goes out of the window along with whatever he planned on saying next. “I don’t fucking know either,” she says, brash and angry. “Do you think I wanted to turn into… into this?” gesturing to herself she continues. “This wasn’t my fucking plan, Brock.” It is merciless and mocking and the way she says the last part doesn’t sound like his name. It sounds like a knife swiping through the air - cutting through him, like a Canada wind and it hurts like hell.

She looks smaller now than before, more drained but they’ve just started the conversation. “What happened?” he asks again, quieter this time. “Life,” She laughs bitterly, response twisting the knife further into his ribs.

“I miss you.” she says calmly, the eye of the hurricane circling them.

He misses her too, it burns holes through his heart every time he thinks of her and he’s not sure he can do it any longer. “Do you think… do you think there’s a chance, that we could try again?” He isn’t sure if he wants to hear her answer, knows it could be too much for him. He needn’t worry. “I think I’d like that,” he hears - a whisper in a bustling coffee shop like she didn’t want it to be heard.

Maybe when the walk back to the hotel they are closer. Maybe his fingers brush hers just a little bit. Neither minds.

Baby’s all dressed up, with nowhere to go

That’s the little story of the girl you know

She is in A'keria’s room before Brooke shuts his door, eyes widened in a state of panic the other man finds hilarious and concerning at the same time.

“Baby, chill,” comes the low timbre of her voice, loud in Vanessa’s head as she tries to come to terms with what just happened. She needs more time, the walls are closing in and she needs more time. Hands are warm on her wrists and there is a soft voice in her ear as she sinks back against the wall.  She feels like she is sweating from just thinking and it is awful but she can’t stop thinking about it. About the way he looked and the way he moved and how he spoke like he still wanted her; like he cared. So between sniffles and shaky breaths she tells A'keria everything.

A’keria nods and smiles and makes the right noises at the right times, to try and ease the girl’s aching heart. She suggests asking for more time before suggesting she let him in and Vanessa has so many options but she feels trapped. “I - I just don’t understand,” she whimpers. “Why does he want me?” and A'keria’s heart, it breaks.

She sits down next to the short Latina, wipes a tear off her face and sighs. “'Cause you’re you, boo,” she replies, conviction pouring from every word. Vanessa smiles a little at that and hums. She can do this.

Relying on the kindness of strangers

Time and cherry marks while doing party favours

He tells Nina immediately. And by “immediately” he means straight after he spent hours in the shower trying to collect his thoughts from every scattered part of his brain. Once they seem coherent enough though, she is his first stop. He gushes to her, once he’s started he can’t stop and even though barely anything has happened, it feels like a hurricane. A tornado called Vanessa has come into his body and wreaked havoc, his ribs feel broken and his heart flutters like a moth and god why is he so happy with such a little result. It is elation, like getting a test back that you thought you’d failed only to get an A.

Nina listens with a wide grin and a sly look in her eye. She lets him radiate happiness, tells him he has grounds for hope and that this could be good. She tells him to let her talk though, to give her the time and space she needs to metamorphosise because she will come back a butterfly. He agrees because Nina West is nothing if not a voice of reason and a damn good friend and he loves her. And he loves Vanessa. And he realises that he is so screwed and he loves her, he loves her.

He tells Nina this on their second bottle of wine. He hasn’t had a drink in a little while, saw what it did to Vanessa and can’t let himself fall too - it hits him hard and fast like a freight train or a well-thrown dodgeball. Before he knows it he is wine drunk at ten pm on a Monday and spilling his guts to a man he loves like a brother and he is so happy. Brooke is so happy.

Put your red dress on, put your lipstick on

Sing your song, song, now, the camera’s on

And you’re alive again

They’re not sure how it happened but they share a dressing room in Glasgow.

Brooke walks towards his assigned door, bouncing a little on his heels. They’re in one of his favourite cities and he’s been on a cloud nine ever since he spoke to V. Through Nina’s encouragement he knows he should talk to her more, has figured out that there are things she should tell him before they try anything but even the hope for something more, anything, makes him jittery. It’s like adrenaline pumped straight into his veins, he feels alive and free - like on a rollercoaster when the bottom drops out and you are just so in the moment. That’s how he feels.

He doesn’t check the door before he walks in - had he read the sign he would have been less surprised when he opened it to see two vanities, one already occupied by a short Latino. She’s got her brows glued down and looks like she’s got concealer on too, workstation neat and orderly as she packs on the powder. He sits down at the empty mirror without a word, lays out his supplies in a much less systematic way and immediately sticks on his wig cap. He is running late already.

“It’s a little, sus-susp… odd, don’t ya think?” she mutters, drawing on contour like war paint. He smiles as he pushes his brows down with a metal comb, “Suspicious, maybe,” he replies - he’s not totally sure what she’s on about but he figures he’ll let her explain. “I mean I thought it was gon’ be Silky with me, then she went off with A'keria, and now we here,” she tells him, stumbling in places as she concentrates on blending. He begins to understand, grasps at the olive branch she is holding out and realises just what she is going on about. “You thinking foul play?” he smirks, eyes widening at the realisation. This is Nina’s doing through and through. “That litt-” he catches himself, words falling off his tongue almost faster than he can stop them.

Vanessa raises a half painted eyebrow and continues her paint, he goggles for a little bit before remembering that he does not have time to get caught up on her beauty - he should focus on his own.

He’s got a crease brush halfway into his eye when he next speaks, words feeling stiff in the warm air of the room. “Total honesty,” he says, louder than intended. It comes out more brash and accusatory than he wanted it to but in the end, the tone feels right. She sighs, taking the powder brush off her cheek and tilting her head. “I don’t like what you’re im-implying Brock,” her tone is warning and he recoils a little. “We both want this to work,” he reiterates, “So we need total honesty.” She scoffs. Vanessa looks at him like she’s been scolded, like he took away her toys or something along that line. “Okay, I’ll be honest. I hate that colour on you.”

When he laughs it is raucous and noisy and it feels like flying. His lungs want to give up but it is freedom and love in a noise and he can’t stop. She joins him and they giggle like madmen for a while, makeup left forgotten on the vanities in front of them. She composes herself first, lets the calm music in the background wash over her as she gets back into the zone. “Give me a little more time,” she asks, she’s not begging but when her voice breaks a little, she sounds pretty damn close.

He nods, smiles, and goes back to his art.

When she leaves the room, having finished ahead of him as he thought, she presses a warm kiss to his temple. It’s not a promise, but it’s pretty damn close.

Mon amour, je sais que tu m’aimes aussi

Tu as besoin de moi

Tu as besoin de moi dans ta vie

Tu ne peux plus vivre sans moi

Et je mourrais sans toi

Je tuerais pour toi

London is the first time in weeks they’ve had adjoining rooms. It takes three nights to realise that the door is not locked. On that particular  evening, Brooke is calmly watching Netflix, refusing to de-drag quite yet out of laziness and a little bit of pride for his handiwork. He and Yvie debuted 'Sorry Not Sorry’ and the crowd loved it, he knew they would, the English crowds always went a little mad for that kind of thing. He recalls Vanessa’s face as she watched it, the little smirk she had as he did his handstand against the wall. In the break in the song, he winked at her, a challenge maybe - for what, he didn’t quite know. She’d looked gorgeous, in gold fringe with a grey-blonde wig that highlighted her everything. He’d always loved how she performed drunk but god, he’d forgotten how well she performed sober. With nothing but adrenaline rushing through her, she was like a rocket ship. She glowed brighter than the Sun, eclipsing all of them and no one could be annoyed because it was beautiful.

Back in the hotel, Vanessa leans against the door, she’s painfully sober - an unspoken promise to Brooke that she is going to try, just try to do this right. She wants to be drunk in love, high on his touch, his kiss, his everything. Leaning heavier onto the door, she feels it give out under her weight, and as her hand finds the handle, she pushes down.

He is laying on his bed in full drag, watching something about puppies and he looks up in surprise at her as she enters. She raises an eyebrow at him, almost teasingly. “What are you doing,” he asks, it’s hesitant as if he’s scared of the answer. He looks worried like he thinks she’s drinking again and she gives a soft smile in reassurance. “Couldn’t stop thinking 'bout you,” she responds, popping her lips and tilting her head to the side. Her smile grows until she thinks she probably looks a little manic but he’s smiling too and for a second it feels like old times. He gets up to greet her, there’s no rushing, he doesn’t see the point when they’ve got all night.

Vanessa José still kisses like there is fire coursing through her veins, the flames licking at his tongue like a warning sign. She kisses like he’s her oxygen, fueling the glow in her eyes with every moment. Brooke nibbles on her bottom lip for a while feeling the way her body moves beneath him when he bites down. He prides himself on how well he knows her, how he knows where to suck to get her moaning his name in a way that is just sinful. It’s just kissing but somehow it feels like more, it feels like they are intertwining, one needy mass of flesh and blood and lust and love. He is enamoured by it. Pushing a knee in between her legs, he moves from her lips to her neck, pulse point pounding beneath his teeth. It is flushed and warm and he sucks on it just hard enough that he feels her knees give out but knows that it will not leave a mark. She whines for him as he nibbles her ear, gives a harsh exhale as he kisses down her collarbone. Lips hungrily reaching past the collar of her shirt and fingers grazing under its hem. And then he stops.

He’s almost on his knees and he can see her eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, looking down to him, her fingers intertwined in his hair. He can’t remember the last time it felt this good to be wanted but he can’t seem to continue.

Brooke slowly stands back up, taking both of her hands in his as he brings her over to the bed. He lazily traces a finger over one of her cheeks as they sit in silence, both too scared of what this could become to say anything at all. Vanessa’s chest is heaving and flushed, her makeup everywhere and her neck red from Brooke’s lips. He’s sure he’s not much better off but he still can’t believe he has this effect on someone, especially not her.

“Did that help?” he asks, voice hoarse. He feels a little silly, playing along with her but she’s got him wrapped around her finger already and he can’t help it. She straddles him in one fluid motion, a knee on either side of his legs as they swing off the edge of the bed. Each hand comes to cup his face, not caring about the makeup still on it. She presses one chaste kiss to his lips, melting into him for a second. “Yes baby,” she whispers into them, pulling away and smirking to herself. With a grace he is certain he wouldn’t be able to manage in this state, she jumps off his lap and leaves the room.

Brooke falls back onto his bed, a hand coming to mirror where hers had been. He is fucked, royally screwed.

The boys, the girls, they all like Carmen

She gives them butterflies, bats her cartoon eyes

She laughs like god, her mind’s like a diamond

Buy her tonight, she’s still shining

They’re both awake for breakfast at 7am, Vanessa calling for Brooke on her way and when they get there, it’s empty. Brooke picks up two bowls of fruit and a plate of toasts, grabbing some juice and coffee on the way past as Vanessa rushes towards the comfy seats. It’s a little odd to him, seeing her not hungover, and he drinks it in, scared it’ll go away at any moment. She’s nigh on bouncing out of the seat by the time he reaches the chairs, body drowned in his white hoodie. He doesn’t know how she got it but it looks pretty damn cute so he doesn’t really care.

She devours the fruit in minutes and he just sips his coffee and watches. “Shut up,” she says with a mouthful of guava as he smirks. “It’s easier to eat when you don’t feel like you going to throw up.” He can’t argue with that, settles for eating his toast in comfortable silence. Every so often he’ll watch her gaze flick down to his chest, the t-shirt tight against his still shower damp skin. He raises an eyebrow and she shrugs back, holding onto her coffee like it’d disappear if she loosened her grip. It reminds him of the Vanessa he used to know, the one that sat at his kitchen counter with Apollo stretched across her lap. Coffee in hand and wit just quick enough to distract him and make him burn the pancakes he’s (unsuccessfully) trying to make. The nostalgia hits him like a train, pushes him back against his seat.

“So are we gon’ talk about last night then?” she questions, curling into her seat and bringing the coffee up to her mouth. Her nonchalance is killing him and she knows it. “Where do you want to start?” he asks, he doesn’t have anywhere to be and wants to know what he’s getting himself into. “I guess the beginning,” laughing a little - although it sounds bitter in his ears - she prepares herself. She tells him how she wants to get sober for him, how she needs him to know she’s trying. She lets him know how much she wants him imprinted on her skin, with words this time rather than soft kisses and tender moments stolen in hotel rooms. He does his best to stay quiet the entire time and when he can’t hold in his reactions she smiles at his unusual brashness. It’s a role reversal and a half, him the louder one and her all soft words and nervous glances. He maps her face with his eyes while she talks about the future, takes in the profile of her nose and the curve of her jaw. She’s managed to grow a slight stubble overnight and he likes it, wants to trail a finger over it and feel the tiny hairs.

He’s snapped back into reality by his own name, tumbling from her lips like ivy on a wall. “Brock, I-  I just want this to work out.” His mother always told him not to make promises he can’t keep but in this moment he would promise her the world if it meant she would curl up into his side for a while.

He stands, pulls her up with him and into his arms until they are holding each other closer than it should be possible. Burying his face into her hair, he exhales the emotions he needs her to know he feels. “Me too baby,” he whispers, each syllable carrying the love he has kept locked away for months.

The hold each other until Nina bursts through the door. She looks at them with the stupid grin she had the first time Brooke walked into the werkroom. It’s full of relief and comforting happiness and it brings a smile to Vanessa’s own face. She pulls away and walks over to the other man, whispers a 'thank you’ into her ear and then waits expectantly at the door. It takes Brooke a second to clock onto what she’s asking, still a little dazed from all the events of this morning. It’s barely eight am and it feels like his world has spun off its axis.

They spend the rest of the day intertwined in each other. They watch an entire season of 'The Office’, Brooke having to stop and explain things more often than he would like to but he finds he doesn’t care, Vanessa is in his arms and that’s all he can think about.

Like lightning, light, like lightning

Like lightning, light, like lightning

It’s the last day of the tour. The past two weeks have been the most joyous of his year so far and Brooke is unbelievably grateful.

After many nights of talking until they fell asleep (Vanessa’s new vice), they’ve agreed she’ll take a bit of time off when they get back to the States. She’s booked herself into a two-week rehab course that’ll teach her coping skills and after that Brooke wants to really take her to Canada. A week with no gigs and nothing they’re supposed to do but explore the places that made Brock Brooke.

Everyone’s noticed the change. They’re both brighter, happier people and whilst they’re not solely responsible, they’re certainly main factors in their newfound joy. They get ready together for the last show, talking for its full duration. Any lull in conversation is filled by Vanessa leaning over to give him a quick peck. Somewhere between eyebrows and eyeliner, they get lost in each other’s lips. They’re only pulled away by Nina knocking on the door, she’s smart enough not to come in but also knows the two well enough to figure out that the increased music volume isn’t just because they liked the song.

They both focus on their faces after that, only kissing once more when they’re both fully dressed. They didn’t necessarily match their lipstick just so they can kiss easily but it’s certainly effective in that area and Brooke plans on exploiting it for all it’s worth.

The show goes perfectly and so what if Brooke spends Vanessa’s number wolf whistling and hollering from the sidelines. Vanessa does the same for all of Brooke’s. At the last bow, Vanessa kisses Brooke on the cheek and the crowd goes wild, Brooke doesn’t let go of her hand until they get back to their dressing room where he pins her against the door. His mouth goes straight to her neck, she’s mewling under him before his lips touch her skin, flushing red like summer strawberries as he licks and sucks his way up her throat. He grabs her by the hips and hoists her up, using the wall to support her and she wraps her legs around his waist, drawing him close. As he pulls away for air, she latches herself onto his pulse point, making his knees weaken a little. She tugs at it, kneads it with her tongue until he’s pulling against his tuck.

He’s expecting her to move away as she usually does when they get this far, they’ve been making out like teenagers, hot and heavy under the covers but are still to consummate the new relationship. Even though he knows it’s coming, he’s still just a bit disappointed when she jumps down, swinging her hips as she walks towards the mirrors. He rolls his eyes, smiles to himself and follows suit, removing the layers of makeup and costuming until he can see himself again. Looking to his left, he can see her too and she’s beaming at him, a big contagious grin.  

She’s not perfect, but neither is he. Maybe together they can be the kind of perfect they need.

Darling, darling, doesn’t have a problem

Lying to herself 'cause her liquor’s top shelf

[hihiyas]

Same Old Feeling (E/É modern AU) - 22/??

— 22. week 3, day 6 - shots shots shots! —

back to the start | previous | read on ff.net

Theodule doesn't know why he ever thought that his lone male cousin would have an epic stag night. Sure, Marius is Grandpa G's favorite and can easily get the old man to dole out some serious cash for all the strippers and booze this town has to offer, but does his idiot cousin even thinks to use it? Hell no. Instead of having all the lap dances money can buy, they're wasting his last weekend as a single guy at his friend's place, having barbeque and playing video games. Man, St. Marius is a fucking nerd. How the hell did he manage to score such a hot girl?

Okay, at least his best man, Courfeyrac, has an awesome, spacious flat. There's a state of the art home entertainment system, the latest console games, even a pool table. Best of all, there's a fully stocked bar! At least I can be blissfully buzzed for free all night if I have to stay at the lamest bachelor's party ever. He grabs another beer and settles to watch the ongoing Mario Kart tourney.

"You okay?" Marius asks, sparing him a glance as Theodule plops on the couch beside him.

"Eh, free beer," he grunts as he takes a long sip of his drink.

His cousin smiles apologetically as he maneuvers Yoshi through his fourth lap on Rainbow Road. "You can take my place in the next game if you like. I know this isn't really your scene, but I really missed just hanging out with everyone like this. We used to do this often before we all went our separate ways for University."

On the other side of the couch, the Blondie he saw with Éponine (Enjol-something? Whatever.) lets out an indignant cry as Mario gets turtle-shelled. "REALLY, 'FERRE? REALLY?! I'm not even that close to beating you!" he shouts.

The tall, speccy guy just laughs as he finishes first. "Revenge for the other day."

"You already had your revenge."

"Four AM, Enjolras. Four. A. M."

"Hah! Our gentle Combeferre is ruthless when it comes to Mario Kart. And that's just as well, considering how poorly you were doing. Carts harder to control that chariots, Apollo?" Grantaire gleefully goads him.

Enjolras, eyes still glued on the TV, merely chucks a throw pillow at his friend’s direction in retaliation, but ends up hitting Marius’s leg instead.

"Darling, don't start," chides Prouvaire as he and Feuilly comes in from the porch, laden with grilled meats, courtesy of Bahorel.

Theodule wrinkles his nose. Ew. He chugs down the rest of his bottle, missing Marius’ embarrassed face and the pointed looks (and knuckle-cracking) of the rest of the assembled people.  

Courfeyrac unwittingly breaks the tension when he appears with several beers and starts handing them to the men crowded in front of the TV screen. "Enjolras is just rusty. See, this is why you should come home more often!"

"...To play video games with you lot?"

"Among other things," he says with a wink, before plonking down on the bean bag beside the couch.

“Quit flirting with me, you’re in a serious relationship,” Enjolras retorts as he finishes Mario’s last lap.

Three seconds of silence, before the room erupts in chaos.

“SAY WHAAA--” Grantaire crashes Wario, but doesn’t pay any mind to it as he stands up to interrogate his friend.

“As in a steady girlfriend? Or is it a boyfriend?” Joly and Bossuet chime in together. Theodule raises his eyebrows, simultaneously bewildered and mildly impressed at the synchronicity.

“Waitwaitwaitwait why is this the first time I’ve heard that you’ve got an SO?”

“HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN TOGETHER OH MY GOOOOD--”

The harassed man holds his hands up, ears pink. “Stop shouting! This is why I never said anything!”

“Hey! What’s going on? Who did something stupid?” Bahorel hurriedly plops his last batch of burgers and surveys his friends’ faces.

“Courfeyrac, apparently,” Theodule supplies.

“HEY! She’s not stupid!” Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Marius chorus.

“Is this a thing with you guys? Saying things in unison?” Theodule asks.

Marius’ Yoshi comes in third place as he replies with the rest of the group. “It happens.”

The rest of the day flows well enough. The Amis eat, drink, joke around, and play games. Enjolras, defeated for the third time on Mario Kart, invites Theodule to a game of pool. Grantaire, noticing the pair, nudges Jehan to come observe the game.

“So, you know the girl Courfeyrac is dating then?” asks Grantaire as Theodule lines up his break shot.

“Yes, she’s a common friend. I’m not telling, so don’t bother trying to wheedle me about it,” Enjolras replies.

“Why the secrecy, anyway?” Jehan wonders.

He shrugs. “They’re still not telling people they’re dating. I respect their decision.”

“This girl ugly then?” Theodule joins in.

“What? No, I wouldn’t call her ugly. Not that I’m any judge of that.”

“Okay… well speaking of common friends, you know Eponine, right?”

The two Amis pointedly look at their Chief at the question. Enjolras clears his throat and answers in the affirmative.

“What’s her deal, man?”

He quirks an eyebrow before lining up a shot. “Pardon?”

“So we go out once, right? Double-date with Marius and his girl. She’s smoking hot but acted so cold. Frigid, even. Can’t figure out why. You think she’s just being coy to keep me on my toes?”

“Perhaps she’s really not interested?” Enjolras replies as evenly as he could.

“Ha! But who wouldn’t be? Ladies love me!” Theodule boasts, too busy peacocking to mind that he missed his shot.

“Éponine has been quite clear she’s not, hasn’t she?” Prouvaire pipes in from the side.

Enjolras nods. “She has, at least in what she’s mentioned to me.”

“She talked to you about me? Are you her gay best friend or something? I thought you’ve been away and all that? Besides, a redhead with a body like that, she can’t not be gagging for it.”

“Can you stop talking about her that way?” Enjolras’ tone would have warned a smarter man, but Theodule barely paid any mind to anybody else when he’s on a roll.

“Come on, you’ve still got eyes, right? I’m sure you’ve noticed, damn, she can fill up a dress. She’s what? A nice C-cup at least? Leggy too.” Theodule whistles, blithely ignoring the rising ire of his opponent. “Oh, I can just see those wrapped around me.”

Grantaire and Jehan stare and shudder as Enjolras audibly clicks his mouth shut. Enjolras mutters to himself, “Wedding photos. Wedding photos.”

“And girls like her should feel lucky I’d even give them the time of the day.”

That stops Enjolras. Dreading the answer, he asks, “How so?”

“I’m a Gillenormand. She should be thrilled I’m even interested in her, despite her unfortunate family. You know what I mean?”

Too appalled for words, Enjolras makes the cue-ball strike the fourth ball too hard, making it jump and hitting Theodule in the family jewels. He crumples in a heap under the table.

Between snickers, Jehan and Grantaire helps up Theodule none too gently. “Oh, dear. I’m sure Enjolras didn’t mean to hit you.”

“Of course not, I didn’t mean for the ball to swing your way.”

Grantaire barks a laugh and smiles, though it seems more like a dog baring his teeth in threat rather than anything remotely friendly, as he clasps Theodule’s arm. “Also, I’m Éponine’s gay best friend. Enjolras here dresses too much like my dear old dad to be anybody’s GBF.”

[foursprouthappiness-blog]

The Book You Should Read Instead Of Binging Netflix, Based On Your Zodiac Sign

New Post has been published on http://foursprout.com/happiness/the-book-you-should-read-instead-of-binging-netflix-based-on-your-zodiac-sign/

The Book You Should Read Instead Of Binging Netflix, Based On Your Zodiac Sign

Unsplash / Aziz Acharki

Aries: March 21st – April 19th

Circe by Madeline Miller

“In the house of Helios, god of the sun and mightiest of the Titans, a daughter is born. But Circe is a strange child–not powerful, like her father, nor viciously alluring like her mother. Turning to the world of mortals for companionship, she discovers that she does possess power–the power of witchcraft, which can transform rivals into monsters and menace the gods themselves.

Threatened, Zeus banishes her to a deserted island, where she hones her occult craft, tames wild beasts and crosses paths with many of the most famous figures in all of mythology, including the Minotaur, Daedalus and his doomed son Icarus, the murderous Medea, and, of course, wily Odysseus.

But there is danger, too, for a woman who stands alone, and Circe unwittingly draws the wrath of both men and gods, ultimately finding herself pitted against one of the most terrifying and vengeful of the Olympians. To protect what she loves most, Circe must summon all her strength and choose, once and for all, whether she belongs with the gods she is born from, or the mortals she has come to love.“

Taurus: April 20th – May 20th

Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep by Philip K. Dick

“By 2021, the World War has killed millions, driving entire species into extinction and sending mankind off-planet. Those who remain covet any living creature, and for people who can’t afford one, companies built incredibly realistic simulacra: horses, birds, cats, sheep. They’ve even built humans. Immigrants to Mars receive androids so sophisticated they are indistinguishable from true men or women. Fearful of the havoc these artificial humans can wreak, the government bans them from Earth. Driven into hiding, unauthorized androids live among human beings, undetected. Rick Deckard, an officially sanctioned bounty hunter, is commissioned to find rogue androids and ‘retire’ them. But when cornered, androids fight back—with lethal force.”

Gemini: May 21st – June 20th

Sometimes I Lie by Alice Feeney

“Amber wakes up in a hospital. She can’t move. She can’t speak. She can’t open her eyes. She can hear everyone around her, but they have no idea. Amber doesn’t remember what happened, but she has a suspicion her husband had something to do with it. Alternating between her paralyzed present, the week before her accident, and a series of childhood diaries from twenty years ago, this brilliant psychological thriller asks: Is something really a lie if you believe it’s the truth?” 

Cancer: June 21st – July 22nd

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

“Newlyweds Celestial and Roy are the embodiment of both the American Dream and the New South. He is a young executive, and she is an artist on the brink of an exciting career. But as they settle into the routine of their life together, they are ripped apart by circumstances neither could have imagined. Roy is arrested and sentenced to twelve years for a crime Celestial knows he didn’t commit. Though fiercely independent, Celestial finds herself bereft and unmoored, taking comfort in Andre, her childhood friend, and best man at their wedding. As Roy’s time in prison passes, she is unable to hold on to the love that has been her center. After five years, Roy’s conviction is suddenly overturned, and he returns to Atlanta ready to resume their life together.“

Leo: July 23rd – August 22nd

The Chalk Man by C.J. Tudor

“In 1986, Eddie and his friends are just kids on the verge of adolescence. They spend their days biking around their sleepy English village and looking for any taste of excitement they can get. The chalk men are their secret code: little chalk stick figures they leave for one another as messages only they can understand. But then a mysterious chalk man leads them right to a dismembered body, and nothing is ever the same.

In 2016, Eddie is fully grown, and thinks he’s put his past behind him. But then he gets a letter in the mail, containing a single chalk stick figure. When it turns out that his friends got the same message, they think it could be a prank . . . until one of them turns up dead.

That’s when Eddie realizes that saving himself means finally figuring out what really happened all those years ago.”

Virgo: August 23rd – September 22nd

The Woman In The Window by A.J. Finn

“Anna Fox lives alone—a recluse in her New York City home, unable to venture outside. She spends her day drinking wine (maybe too much), watching old movies, recalling happier times . . . and spying on her neighbors.

Then the Russells move into the house across the way: a father, a mother, their teenage son. The perfect family. But when Anna, gazing out her window one night, sees something she shouldn’t, her world begins to crumble—and its shocking secrets are laid bare.

What is real? What is imagined? Who is in danger? Who is in control? In this diabolically gripping thriller, no one—and nothing—is what it seems.”

Libra: September 23rd – October 22nd

Simon Vs The Homo Sapiens Agenda by Becky Alberalli

“Sixteen-year-old and not-so-openly gay Simon Spier prefers to save his drama for the school musical. But when an email falls into the wrong hands, his secret is at risk of being thrust into the spotlight. Now change-averse Simon has to find a way to step out of his comfort zone before he’s pushed out—without alienating his friends, compromising himself, or fumbling a shot at happiness with the most confusing, adorable guy he’s never met.”

Scorpio: October 23rd – November 21st

I’m Fine And Other Lies by Whitney Cummings

“Here are all the stories and mistakes I’ve made that were way too embarrassing to tell on stage in front of an actual audience; but thanks to not-so-modern technology, you can read about them here so I don’t have to risk having your judgmental eye contact crush my self-esteem. This book contains some delicious schadenfreude in which I recall such humiliating debacles as breaking my shoulder while trying to impress a guy, coming very close to spending my life in a Guatemalan prison, and having my lacerated ear sewn back on by a deaf guy after losing it in a torrid love affair. In addition to hoarding mortifying situations that’ll make you feel way better about your choices, I’ve also accumulated a lot of knowledge from therapists, psychotherapists, and psychopaths, which can probably help you avoid making the same mistakes I’ve made. Think of this book as everything you’d want from the Internet all in one place, except without the constant distractions of ads, online shopping, and porn.“

Sagittarius: November 22nd – December 21st

The Magic Misfits by Neil Patrick Harris

“When street magician Carter runs away, he never expects to find friends and magic in a sleepy New England town. But like any good trick, things change instantly as greedy B.B. Bosso and his crew of crooked carnies arrive to steal anything and everything they can get their sticky fingers on.

After a fateful encounter with the local purveyor of illusion, Dante Vernon, Carter teams up with five other like-minded illusionists. Together, using both teamwork and magic, they’ll set out to save the town of Mineral Wells from Bosso’s villainous clutches. These six Magic Misfits will soon discover adventure, friendship, and their own self-worth in this delightful new series.”

Capricorn: December 22nd – January 19th

Good Me Bad Me by Ali Land

“Milly’s mother is a serial killer. Though Milly loves her mother, the only way to make her stop is to turn her in to the police. Milly is given a fresh start: a new identity, a home with an affluent foster family, and a spot at an exclusive private school.

But Milly has secrets, and life at her new home becomes complicated. As her mother’s trial looms, with Milly as the star witness, Milly starts to wonder how much of her is nature, how much of her is nurture, and whether she is doomed to turn out like her mother after all.

When tensions rise and Milly feels trapped by her shiny new life, she has to decide: Will she be good? Or is she bad? She is, after all, her mother’s daughter.”

Aquarius: January 20th – February 18th

Every Day by David Leviathan

“Every day a different body. Every day a different life. Every day in love with the same girl.

There’s never any warning about where it will be or who it will be. A has made peace with that, even established guidelines by which to live: Never get too attached. Avoid being noticed. Do not interfere.

It’s all fine until the morning that A wakes up in the body of Justin and meets Justin’s girlfriend, Rhiannon. From that moment, the rules by which A has been living no longer apply. Because finally A has found someone he wants to be with—day in, day out, day after day.“

Pisces: February 19th – March 20th

The Disaster Artist by Greg Sestero

“In 2003, an independent film called The Room—starring and written, produced, and directed by a mysteriously wealthy social misfit named Tommy Wiseau—made its disastrous debut in Los Angeles. Described by one reviewer as ‘like getting stabbed in the head,’ the $6 million film earned a grand total of $1,800 at the box office and closed after two weeks. Ten years later, it’s an international cult phenomenon, whose legions of fans attend screenings featuring costumes, audience rituals, merchandising, and thousands of plastic spoons. Hailed by The Huffington Post as ‘possibly the most important piece of literature ever printed,’ The Disaster Artist is the hilarious, behind-the-scenes story of a deliciously awful cinematic phenomenon as well as the story of an odd and inspiring Hollywood friendship. Greg Sestero, Tommy’s costar, recounts the film’s bizarre journey to infamy, explaining how the movie’s many nonsensical scenes and bits of dialogue came to be and unraveling the mystery of Tommy Wiseau himself.”