#thanks google docs

[aritany]

taken a punch to ye olde groyne

[the-inkwell-variable]

ROYGBV Tag!

thank you, @drchenquill, for the tag!

RED

Amara nodded slowly. "Okay," she agreed, unable to meet his coal red gaze. "You…have a point." She cast her eyes around the room before settling them on the sink. "Why don't you go to bed? You kept the shop afloat today - you're probably beat. I'll do the dishes."

ORANGE

The acrid rain left cold stinging streaks on her cheeks, but Kia made no move to wipe her face.  Could be worse – it was only drizzling right now.  If it was pouring, she’d have to go find an umbrella.  The sky orange hoodie she’d swiped from the apartment wouldn’t do shit against that kind of rain, though it certainly helped her fit in right now.  No thug would look twice at the girl in an Arkham Asylum hoodie.  They’d assume she was one of them, and they’d be right.

Sort of.

YELLOW

Amara was about ready to give up when she found an open doorway that led to a long wide kitchen the length of three rooms.  The wall across from the door was lined with counters, a few cabinets, and a single stove with a steaming but not quite whistling kettle on its surface.  The walls were blotchy and yellowing, as if tinted by years of pipe smoke. Several round tables, each with four chairs, scattered around the room. 

GREEN

At the farthest one sat an olive green half orc with a shaved head and pocked skin.  She took a large chomp out of a vivid red apple with the fangs that curved up from her bottom lip as she scribbled a note in a thick ledger.  As the half–liefling stepped into the room, tail twitching against her calf, the half-orc glanced up with bored gray eyes.  “I dunno who sent you here, pretty thing,” she drawled, lowering her eyes back down to the ledger, “but we ain't hiring right now.  Try after the winter solstice.  Business usually picks up around the start of the new year.”

BLUE

Cursing, Amara quickly painted a complicated sigil in the air.  Sparky, the spectral hound, appeared in a swirling vortex of sparks.  “track that man - but don't hunt him!  Don't scare him more than he already is!”  Sparky let out a low woof and shot off between the trees, leaving a trail of shining blue pawprints hovering over the soft almost-mud.

VIOLET

Sheriff Kain gave her the saddest rendition of puppy dog eyes she'd ever seen, but he tipped his hat and silently padded out the door.  It was only as the door swung shut behind him that she realized every single patron was staring at her.  Most quickly looked away, but a few were bold enough to continue staring.  Her blue face flushed purple.  She tucked away the bourbon and scrubbed at an invisible stain on the counter.

Tagging @theink-stainedfolk for the From Matcha to Murder snippets (all but orange!)

Tagging @watermeezer - @willtheweaver - @captain-kraken - @leahpardo-pa-potato - open tag!

[empressofthewind]

Mello opens his mouth and a whole fucking wall comes flying out

[daz4i]

pretty pretty

[spicymcbean]

Google Docs just hates Tim for some reason?? Like it keeps trying to correct his name to Tom. Which tricks me into accidently trying to write Tom instead of Tim.

So for shits and giggles I have a new DC oc named Tom.

Now Tom has black hair, blue eyes, pale skin, and just shows up places sometimes randomly, you'll never seem him coming either. He's just there. Like this 🧍‍♂️

His friends mistake him for Bruce Wayne's ward Tim Drake. While Tim Drake sometimes gets confused with this random guy named Tom??

I dunno I just find this really funny.

[treecakes]

google docs has given me the answers to these relative pronouns questions 😭

[technically-human]

Fell in love with this fucked up version of Charles and the gang so i drew them !! <3

Here they are spliced up for better quality :3

(Can you tell montys my favorite character ? LOL)

LOOK AT MY FUCKED UP BABIES!! SO PRETTY!!!

I love it so much thank you thank you thank you

[tiresomespaceplant]

venti lore stuff i like to think about a lot bc brainrot <3

he's good buds with morax and they play catch with mountains sometimes [teapot landforms descriptions]

he was made into an archon by andrius, who gave up the title because he saw how much venti loved humanity and saw that he'd do better than he would. i love this because he was never destined to be a god, just a wind wisp who wanted to do good

despite being the god of freedom, he is eternally bound to his role of being an archon and looking after his people and his nation

however, despite being an absent god at that, monstadt lives up to it's name of being the city of freedom thanks to him

some people who worship him thinks that drinking is bad yet their god is a drunkard and downs 37 bottles of wine on the reg

he terraformed the whole of mondstadt, reduced pilos' peak (the highest mountain in teyvat at the time) to musk reef (a small island in the ocean), led his people to new land to remake their city better, and then went to sleep for 1000 years???????? Honestly i get it

when he saw how self sufficient his people are, he entrusted the freedom of his own people to themselves because he never wanted to become a tyrant -- which is super interesting as this realization took morax and ei a while to acknowledge

he's allergic to cats and he hates cheese

he says he knows every song from the past, present, and even the future. he's either a branch of or IS the god of time, in this essay i will

barbatos's past was recorded in books and epics but he, as a bard, decided to write ballads about his own mischief which came off as blasphemous to his devoted nuns... so he got kicked out of his own cathedral

the moment he became a god, he used his power to liken his image to his late friend so he could live out the dream of said nameless bard and roam the land outside old mondstadt

that said, it makes me think that the last sight he ever saw of his nameless bard friend was him dying no wonder he needs a drink or two when he decided to gain a corporeal form

he forged a treaty that said the old aristocrats sold mondstadt to the geo archon and liyue, only for the people to realize years later that it was fake and was only made to prank morax and overthrow the aristocracy LMAOO

in one of mona's voicelines, she tried getting a reading on 'that bard who sits around all day' only for venti to send a strong gust of wind at her so she wouldn't find out he was the anemo archon

xiao's voiceline about him implies he could play the flute, which leads me to believe he could play any instrument he wanted his hands on

venti's hobbies voiceline: "i like to drink! and i like the wind! if only there's such a thing like wind-brewed cider"

guys i might like venti idk tho

[xxplastic-cubexx]

eternally grateful that no matter the verse within cherik either one of them will always have long lushish hair the other can lovingly comb through

[rowanisawriter]

2024 —my year in writing

last year, i wrote more than i ever have like literally in my whole life. this year i beat my record by about 200k words. i am writing A LOT and it’s all because of you.

yes, you, reading this now. anyone who kudos’d or commented or liked or reblogged anything i wrote, and followed me here and on ao3, and ranted in my dms and added me to servers. you, reading the weird things i write, the things i can only write and only i can write, seeing it and liking it and coming back again and again for more. thank you :)

so here’s my 2024 summary:

words written: 358,963

fics published: 74

my favorite fics:

real world (stardew valley) - a story about parenthood and roads not taken. genuinely the most important story to me, a diary entry as much as fanfic

pilgrimage (bg3) - a story about two people without a past as they work toward an even more uncertain future. i also have no past because of a strange upbringing so this story is kinda personal to me even though it’s about a cleric and a vampire

novel (hades) - a story about looking for adventure and finding love and family instead. i had so much fun writing this and posted weekly without pre-writing which was a challenge but it all worked out

patchwork self (datv) - a story about finding pieces of your brother in yourself. i wrote a lot of structured fic this year and i think this one flowed the easiest and was the most precise in how it delivered the message i was trying to get across, also it’s gen which i never write

my most written pairing: thanzag with 11 stories! not surprising since ive spent most of the year humiliating myself over thanatos

my most used tags: romance, introspection, character study

what i learned: i learned above all to trust myself! this year i wrote and completed three multi chapter fics that i didn’t prewrite and posted week by week until it was done. i’ve never been able to do that before but this year i just did it and didn’t overthink it, and i trusted that i could finish the stories and i did lol i can do anything i think i just have to trust myself a little

what i want to write next year: i would like very much to write something original, i have a loose idea so i just need to sit down and write so my goal is really small and simple, hopefully i don’t let myself down

[darsynia]

Surprise blurb bomb!

You’re at a conference and a little worried because your boss has enlisted you to present. You’ve got about a day to go, so you’ve been in pacing in your hotel room rehearsing. However, the frustration mounts every time you hear yourself make a little mistake. Your next door neighbor has heard all of this, so they come to knock on your door, checking that everything is alright. When you explain what’s going on, they nod sympathetically, having to present as well. They kindly offer to help you practice, which leads to the two of you falling asleep collapsed on top of each other on your bed. What happens after that? Who’s your babe?

Thank you so much for this!! I chose Steve, and this is teeth-rotting fluff with my signature little characterization moments. I hope you enjoy!!

gif from @askthesuperhusbands

Notes: Pre-Ultron, no warnings, 2,447 words, first draft so I get it out without fussing

Excerpt:

“I get it. Public speaking is hard enough when it’s important, but it’s even harder when there are no friendlies in the audience.” Steve smiles wryly. “That won’t happen here, I promise. I’ll be in the room, because just like with the war bonds, I’m a symbol of what you’re fighting for.”

Always On

“The idea of ‘public relations’ has fallen into disrepute, just like ‘human resources’--and I think their tarnished reputations are related,” you say, hands clutching the edges of the wooden desk chair ‘podium’ precariously balanced on the hotel bed. “I know everyone in this room is well-acquainted with the concept of finding common ground with a myriad of people-- Argh!”

You frown, feeling the judgment of the rumpled sheet hanging on the wall. It’s covering the mirror that had pulled your focus away for the first twenty minutes of this practice exercise, but you still know it’s there. At this point, the sheet is a fig leaf covering your dignity and your inability to stay focused.

It’s past midnight, and the long day is getting to you. The introductory paragraph of your presentation is in the bag, but paragraph two isn’t working at all. It’s your thesis statement, the crux of the whole project, and you know you’re fighting an uphill battle. Without help from the well-respected UNITY Project, the governments of the world might try something extreme to keep the Avengers in line. Each year the group of philanthropists, aid workers, humanitarian lawyers, and other notorious do-gooders meet and choose ten groups to endow aid or oversight on. You’re hoping for the oversight, but it’s a long shot. The group has a sterling reputation, and their clout might be enough to get Secretary Ross to back down.

Your hands ache from where you’ve been clutching at your makeshift podium, but you square your shoulders and try again. “What we’re seeking is a partnership, a way to celebrate this team’s efforts and smooth over their rough edges.”

The sheet is mocking you, so you close your eyes and picture the faceless group you’re going to be appealing to.

“Citizens around the world trust your judgment and their heroism. Together we can ease fears and--” You stop, struggling to remember the word you’d thought up in the rental car on the way to the hotel. No amount of squinting at the note cards does any good. Your notes are rain-splattered and ruined in exactly the wrong spot, of course.

Throwing your head back, you let out yet another miserable groan.

Seconds later, there’s a gentle tap on the door. You recognize the pattern.

“Go away Steve, I’m busy dying of frustration!”

There is silence for over thirty seconds, but you’re not fooled. After counting to fifty-five, you stride over and throw the door open right before Captain America’s knuckles strike the wood again.

“Yes?” Your withering glare doesn’t faze him. Steve just raises his eyebrows and holds his hands up in a ‘surrender’ gesture.

“Three ‘arghs’ in fifteen minutes gets a visit, you should know that,” he tells you with mock sternness.

Hot embarrassment has you stepping back in dismay. “You could hear that?”

“A few words of the speech, too,” he nods, prompting another ‘argh’ from you.

Your choices are to spontaneously develop superpowers so you can drop through the floor, or do as you always do in this friendship--or let Steve Rogers be the hero. Your dilemma must show on your face, because for once, he doesn’t wait for you to ask for help.

“Something tells me the board of United International Continuing Acronym won’t be convinced by those noises,” Steve says, using Stark’s nickname to cover for the way he pushes past you into the room. For a few seconds, the fronts of your bodies brush against each other, and the heat from those few seconds burns through you.

By the time you recover, Steve’s already across the room, clearing his throat. “I sympathize, believe me. Doesn’t matter how much public speaking I’ve gone through, it still ties my stomach into knots.” He turns and gives you a look of teasing determination. “I have a few suggestions, but I’d have to swear you to secrecy.”

Your crush surges up to color your voice with maybe a little too much affection as you say, “Captain America has secrets?”

The look he shoots you has the same sort of heat from seconds ago. “Here,” he says, pulling a folded page from his pocket. “This is a new one, but back when they first put me in tights, I practiced my script in a room set up with some of these.”

Steve hands you a drawing of a crowd of people, some smiling, some frowning, some turning to their neighbors instead of looking forward. It’s got all of the charm of his usual drawings, despite being more simple than usual. When you look up at his face, his sheepish expression tells you why. He must have drawn it right before knocking on your door.

“Steve,” you breathe, touched by the gesture but also the way he’s captured the spectrum of audience reaction. It reminds you of everything he’d gone through to be the man he is now, the man you’ve fallen for as inevitably as a crowd cheers for a brilliant performance. You couldn’t help it.

“Not now, all right?” he whispers, a kind of pleading in his eyes. “Speech first.”

You blink at him. Did he just acknowledge that something’s different between you? What is it about this corporate hotel hundreds of miles from the home that’s turned everything deliciously sideways? He’s already on the next Act, and you shove those feelings aside to focus like he’s asked you to.

“My place was a quarter this size, but maybe we can…” Steve trails off, propping his drawing on the draped wall sheet and flipping off all but the lights above the bed. Somehow it works, limiting distractions and changing the covered mirror into an easel for his thoughtful drawing.

There’s only one problem.

“Are you planning to lurk behind me?”

“Well, I’d sit in the chair, but--”

“Steve!” You can’t even glare at him, because all you can see is the glint of the fluorescent light reflecting off of his shined shoes. He pushes off the wall and steps forward just enough so you can see the kind look on his face.

“I get it. Public speaking is hard enough when it’s important, but it’s even harder when there are no friendlies in the audience.” Steve smiles wryly. “That won’t happen here, I promise. I’ll be in the room, because just like with the war bonds, I’m a symbol of what you’re fighting for.”

There’s no way he could know how romantic that sounds, so you swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat and nod at him.

You start again, and suddenly it works. The chair is a podium. The crowd is real. Steve is somewhere out of sight, rooting for you. You get through the whole thing, and it feels great. You can hear Steve clapping for you through the relieved buzzing in your ears.

Then it all falls apart. When you let go, the chair falls over and smacks you in the face, and the little breeze from your flail of pain knocks the drawing down. Steve rushes over to help, but he bumps into you, and you both fall sideways onto the bed.

The giggles last for a glorious few minutes, and then he says, “Okay, since everything went sideways, can I make it worse?”

You’re lying on a bed with Steve Rogers and his smile is like an early sunrise, so you say yes.

“The concept is good, but you sound like you’re using big words to impress. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s not really us. Tony’s irreverent, Clint’s the salt of the Earth, and Bruce is the kind of scientist that puts everyone at ease, at least until he turns green.” Steve turns onto his back, but he doesn’t get up, which feels consequential, despite his criticism. “Nat’s public persona is standoffish but not pretentious, and I’m--”

“You’re folksy,” you interrupt, still stinging from the unfortunate truth of the word ‘pretentious.’ “The epitome of ‘plainspoken.’”

Steve shoots a look over at you, and you realize those two words are exactly what he meant.

“The guy next door,” you add. Inside, you’re crumbling a little bit. Does he think you’re pretentious? Are you pretentious?

Steve rolls to face you again, reaching out to brush his thumb gently across the place the chair had struck you. It’s covered by your hair, but he somehow knows exactly where it is.

“You still have a full day left of the conference before it’s your turn. I could have colored that drawing and given it to you tomorrow, but that wouldn’t have helped tonight.” He pulls his hand back, but sets it on the bed between you. “That’s what makes us a team.”

You’re confused, but comforted nonetheless.

“You paint with words. It’s not that different from art, and every artist chooses how much effort to put in each piece,” he explains patiently. “It’s the same for this. You’re representing everyone, and that means you have to save some of that energy for the physical part of it. Not everyone realizes that.”

“Oh, God,” you blurt out, sitting up. “You are a symbol, just like you said. You’re always on, even at the Compound! How much energy does that take?”

He looks up at you, and the truth in his eyes is painfully intimate. “It’s not as bad now. When I came out of the ice, it kind of felt like I was still in tights. Always exposed for the greater good.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. It’s your job to book him for events. You’re the one shoving him onto the stage.

“No, no, don’t do that,” Steve says, sitting up and framing your face with his hands. “It was worse before, when it was Tony or some random person at SHIELD sending me out. I trust you. This conference was your idea--”

You scrunch up your face with guilt at that, and Steve gets this look of determination on his face. The next thing you know, he’s leaning forward and kissing you. It’s electric, stage lights blaring, orchestra in crescendo, and the velvet curtain rolling closed on the triumphant final scene to the roaring of the audience applause.

Then he’s pulling back, standing, and running his hand over his face. “That was out of line, I’m sorry.”

“It was a masterpiece,” you say, looking up at him with your hands clutching the blanket and your heart in your eyes.

The way his nervous tension completely leaves his body is even more reassuring than the softly-spoken “Oh. Good,” he lets out. His encore wins all the awards your heart has to give: “I didn’t practice that at all.”

Joy colors your voice. “You’re a natural.”

Steve’s ears turn red, and he says, “Well, I should let you get back to it. It’s past one--”

“You could stay,” you rush to say, standing up and stepping past him to pick up the drawing. Behind you, he makes a strangling sort of coughing noise, and you realize what you’ve said. “To practice!”

That just makes Steve gasp your name, clearly amused and scandalized in equal measure, and you groan in frustration. Feeling giddy just destroys your cognitive abilities.

“The speech! What is it about this hotel??”

“A new medium. Canvas instead of watercolor paper. A speech instead of short stories,” he says, setting the fallen chair back upright.

“You know about those?” you ask, surprised. You’ve made a point of working on them only during your downtime.

He has the grace to look apologetic. “Tony made a comment once, that I’d turn up in one of your stories if I offended any world leaders, when I was sent to the UN Grand Assembly.”

“Shit, I forgot I threatened him with that one time when he was being an ass.” Your grumble ended in a colossal yawn. “What time does breakfast start tomorrow?” The conference is a multi-day affair, and missing the early meal had not set you up to stay awake through the panels today. “I won’t have any time to practice this tomorrow night and you’re right, I really need to clean up the wording,” you add, feeling your elation at the kiss drain away with worry.

“Then let’s keep at it,” Steve says, taking the drawing and setting it back up on the sheet. He turns and gives you as wicked a look as you’ve ever seen on his face. “The speech, I mean.”

You wake up to the alarm with a sore neck, your dress pants digging into your hip, and a bed partner. He’s the farthest from a pain in the neck as a man can get, but falling asleep fully dressed with your head on his shoulder wasn’t the wisest decision you’ve ever made. You pull in a deep breath, trying to clear out the mental cobwebs scattered in happy glitter, and Steve tenses up under your head.

“I’m sorry,” you say immediately.

“Don’t be. I’m the one who should have left you to sleep.”

You sit up so he can slip out of bed, knowing that he needs to put distance between you for his own peace of mind.

“Be honest: have you ever voluntarily abandoned a woman who needs your help?” you tease. “In all seriousness, you were a huge help last night, and I’m sure that was outside your comfort zone. That was probably the most I’ve ever seen you talk outside of lecturing Stark!”

“I didn’t even notice,” he says, pulling the sheet off of the mirror expertly folding it over in the corner of the room.

He’s faced away from you, so you indulge in a back-arching stretch while muttering under your breath, “You have no idea how hot that is.”

“Right back at you,” Steve retorts, looking back at you with the sheet in one clenched fist. “I need to get going. Want me to pick up breakfast for you?”

You’re off script and floundering, trying to reconcile the sexy rasp in his voice with this attempt at professionalism. It’s exactly the kind of relationship you’ve always dreamed of, and you find your heart slipping further into romantic oblivion.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Thank you,” He says, holding out a hand to help you up. Once you’re standing, Steve holds your gaze and lifts his eyebrows in a very clear question. Heart pounding, you nod, and he takes your lips in a brief but fervent kiss. He moves back, pausing at the door. “I just thought of something, but it’s--”

“Tell me anyway,” you interrupt. “You don’t have to alter your wording for me.” It’s maybe too symbolic and cheesy, but you’re sleep deprived.

“I’m looking forward to another collaboration,” he says, flashing you a brilliant smile.

Note: I may have to write a sequel with what happens AFTER, given that I impulsively wrote this and missed that the prompt was 'what happens after that' I feel so dumb haha

[nowandforalways]

I'm back and I'm having emotions about Samwise Gamgee.

I'm trying to articulate why Michael Kurowski's Sam is actually possibly surpassing Bill Nighy for my favorite Sam and is at the very least tied and I think it's because the way that he plays him (and the way that everyone else plays off of him), Sam is allowed to not know things, without his social class ever being the butt of a joke.

Like he was much closer to movie Sam and BBC radio Sam than Watermill Sam in that he was wide-eyed and wondering and very straightforward and emotionally effusive and a lot like what you'd picture when you picture in your mind's eye how Samwise Gamgee acts.

But it was never his lack of knowledge that was the butt of the joke. Or, like, the fact that he was Sam that made things funny, if that makes any sense.

He wasn't being a caricature of a country bumpkin. He was being...a realistic country bumpkin? One who's still a 3-dimensional person with loads of intelligence and also is respected by the people around him?

Yeah. Michael!Sam, man. So freakin good.

[ameliadoesstuff]

[adhdo5]

INEFFICACY - an HOA webweave

absoluteconceptofbeauty // Raleigh, NC Municipal via screenshotsofdespair // WebSMP - thepikachusorcerer // Cicada Days - Will Wood // WebSMP - spider-shoes / WebSMP - sunsplatteredfeathers // Fatigue - John Brosio / WebSMP - sunsplatteredfeathers, adhdo5, thepikachusorcerer // Daylight Town No. 3 - Jing Zhiyong // WebSMP - adhdo5, thepikachusorcerer // The Flood - Jessica Haywood / WebSMP - gaysneeg / Sally's Interlude - Everybody's Worried About Owen / cobra-bubbles // WebSMP - adhdo5 // Cicada Days - Will Wood // WebSMP - adhdo5, thepikachusorcerer / zinesbycee / gec 2 ü - 100 gecs // WebSMP - adhdo5 / WebSMP - adhdo5, thepikachusorcerer / Little Crazy Love Song - Mary Oliver // dappermouth / unknown, via deactivated user / salivasisters on twt / Julia Igosheva on Unsplash / Little Crazy Love Song - Mary Oliver / saiwormoon on twt / Converse County - Raccoon Tour // Julia Tsukurova on Unsplash / mothcub / dimespin / unknown, via goodpokemoncenterreviews // Utopia - Jessica Haywood / Same Tasks - 8485 / WebSMP - adhdo5, thepikachusorcerer / peklo - sukinapan // WebSMP - gaysneeg, thepikachusorcerer / Same Tasks - 8585

Thank u to @thepikachusorcerer for being cVwoop and to, among others, @sunsplatteredfeathers and @gaysneeg for playing touys with us and making HOA a whole terrible world to exist in <3

[goatsandgangsters]

gdocs offered me many helpful suggestions on my last binding christmas fic

[kaisollisto]

(Based off of the reality of having a metal ring in your back as a constant reminder of your fate and how that affects you as a person set in the Switzerland arc)

“Does it hurt?” 

Ava’s pressed face down into the pillow sleep curling around her limbs. She hums, she can’t remember what she says, she’s exhausted. Her arms are tangled beneath her pillow. She holds her fingers tightly between each other, her bones ache from the pressure but her hands no longer shake. Ava hasn’t experienced this before, a fear that haunts her at night. (She finds she cannot stop dreaming about dying. It’s stifling in the cover of night trying to figure out where she is.) 

She slowly opens her eyes and squints in the darkness. Beatrice is facing her a furrow in her brow that Ava knows she’s doing unconsciously. Ava’s lip quirks a smidgen, Beatrice looks funny. It’s a bit silly to her, Beatrice no doubt working out a solution to an unknown problem that Ava has yet to see in the middle of the night. In her sleepy state she wants to laugh at the imaginary cogs churning in Beatrice’s head. 

Beatrice scooches closer and Ava panics, her skin can taste the dust of Bea’s forearm. She hoists herself up on her elbows, turning to face Beatrice. “Wha?” Ava’s shaking off bits of sleep from her mouth when Beatrice repeats herself. 

“Does the Halo hurt?” 

She doesn’t know if she wants to answer that. Ava peers over Beatrice squinting at the harsh light of the digital clock on Beatrice’s side. Ava loves it, it reminds her of the early 2000’s and the aesthetic of waking up to an alarm to go somewhere. The clock blinks an innocent 1:43 Am, and Ava debates on letting her head thump back down. 

She turns her body on her side, she can feel the halo shifting in her back and it makes her want to throw up. The sides of the halo press against her shoulder blades and Ava resists the urge to yank it out. She grits her teeth and settles ignoring the skin of her back pulling tight to accommodate for the ring. Beatrice is still expecting an answer and Ava can’t lie to her, she pulls the covers of the sheet up to her chest hoping to bide more time for an answer. 

"Everything hurts Bea," Ava smiles, "getting my ass handed to me is hard work."

Beatrice frowns displeased but looks at her through her lashes, it's unguarded, the stress and worries of the world stay out of their room in the dead of night. Her lashes are so pretty and Ava wants to curse the soft glow of the moon. There’s just enough moonlight to illuminate her eyes but overshadow her freckles. Ava swallows down the taste of defeat, she can’t win, she thinks. 

Her gaze is soft, Beatrice is looking at her and it’s different yet the same. The same feeling in her chest constricting her lungs, the same soft gaze of Beatrice. Beatrice who likes what she sees in Ava when Ava can barely see where she begins. She doesn’t like to dwell on it, the truth of the matter being what belongs to Ava.

If she closes her eyes she can pretend just a little longer. She can give herself the hope of the future and what comes after all this. She can put down the fighting and the artifact and live. Ava doesn't want to think about it anymore, at least not tonight when Beatrice is here with her. 

Beatrice is soft. She knows it from hours and hours of training. She's felt it when Beatrice corrects her form, in the way she talks. She speaks from a place of care like she has turned the harsh words in her brain over and over to soften the syllables spoken to Ava. And Ava doesn't linger on it, the meaning behind it, (Ava didn't think she'd make it this far, finding a person who cares quite like Bea does.)

And Ava's got it bad, she knows she's fucked because Beatrice doesn’t say anything about her language and Ava can't not tell her the truth. She looks down, her hand fiddling with the bed sheet underneath them. 

"It doesn't hurt," if she thinks about it she can feel the fibers of the cotton between the pads of her fingers. "But it's very uncomfortable." She doesn't want to find the response in Beatrice's eyes, content to hear it from her voice. The soft British lilting accent that holds her just as soft as a touch. 

She waits, she can picture Bea’s mannerisms with her eyes closed but maybe she should check just to be sure. Ava peers up at Beatrice and she’s suddenly closer. Her eyes really are pretty, there’s a depth to them that Ava wants to spend an ungodly amount of time studying.

“Can I help?”