Drowning In Fanfics

And so, like many other nights, Ronnie found solace in Winnie's temporary home. Since their first priority was making themselves comfortable, the coats followed the shoes' fate, the motion accompanied by the sound of soft laughter and the creak of floorboards beneath their steps.

Ronnie made straight for the window, faintly glowing with streetlight. She popped it open and leaned halfway out, lighting a cigarette with fingers that were slightly clumsy from the sherry. The night air was cool against her hot face.

Winnie flopped onto the bed with a sigh, her cheeks pink with drink and leftover adrenaline from the night. Her curls were a little messier than they had been a few hours prior, and she didn’t bother on fixing them.

"We did not pay for a single drink." Ronnie announced, exhaling smoke into the air like punctuation. "Lesbians are lovely I think."

"When they fancy you." Winnie mumbled into the pillow, her now gloomy mood not quite matching her friend's. "You're a total flirt, Ron."

Ronnie glanced over her shoulder, grinning. “Oh, come on. You are, what do you call it?” She waved the cigarette vaguely. "Uhm... un caramelito. Caramelo?"

Winnie's head popped up to meet Ronnie's furrowed brows ask she struggled to find the term. And so the Brit, who had by now gotten used to Ronnie's mother tongue due to the countless afternoons spent at her aunt's house, tried to bridge the language barrier. "Candy?"

"Eye candy!" Ronnie stated, snapping her free hand's fingers. "That last woman? She wanted to kiss you full on the mouth."

Winnie made a face and stared at the ceiling. Her voice was quiet when she muttered an unconvinced "If you say so."

Ronnie took another drag, sea colored irises judging her friend's wariness to her words. As if she would lie to her about anything. Ronnie wasn't one to try and bloat someone's ego just for the hell of it. Winnie was gorgeous, whether or not she admitted it, and the fancy women at Le Monocle saw it as it was.

"She was very pretty, you know? That woman." Veronica's tone was gentler now, more thoughtful. "You should have kissed her." Winnie breathed out a sentence too low for Veronica to catch, so she asked, "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Win, come on." Ronnie coaxed the slumped girl with little patience. "You know I don't like when you speak under your breath and then—"

"I said I've never kissed anyone, Ron."

"I know." Veronica deadpanned. She waited for her friend to elaborate, and when she didn't, Ronnie questioned her again. "So what? Someone has to be the first person you kiss, no? At some point. Or you will be one of those old women who don't know how kisses feel like."

Winnie whipped her head around, hand thrown over her face in embarrassment. "Jesus Christ, Veronica—"

"What? Didn't you want to kiss girls?"

"Ron!"

"What?"

"You can't just ask that!"

Ronnie held up both hands in surrender at Winnie's hostility, cigarette still between two fingers. "Alright God. I didn't know we were pretending you did not say that."

"'S not like that."

Winnie fell into yet another silence, hoping Ronnie would understand her obsessive thoughts without her having to properly voice them. She'd die out of embarrassment, she feared.

Veronica was already dissecting her unspoken worries. She turned to the ajar window, took a quick drag, exhaled slowly. Her eyes flicked back to Winnie.

"So… are you scared of kissing… uh…" She waved vaguely, searching again for the perfect term, giving up before properly trying. "Wrong?"

Winnie furrowed her brow, face still pink, now for a whole different reason. "If you mean I’m scared of being a horrible kisser, then yes. That’s it. That’s the problem."

Ronnie snorted and almost choked on smoke. "Joder." She coughed, stubbing out the cigarette on the windowsill and crossing the room in a few steps to stand in front of Winnie, who was now sitting stiffly on the bed.

"I can kiss you." Ronnie said.

Winnie looked up at her, eyes wide behind her round glasses.

"Sorry what?" The Brummie in her voice came out thick and unfiltered — pure disbelief.

Ronnie didn’t flinch. She just repeated it, calmer now:

“I can kiss you. I can be your kissing practice.” She gave a little shrug, and Winnie wished she could be as unbothered as Ronnie was. “I mean, I haven’t kissed a lot of people, but I think I’m good. I can teach you.”

Winnie scoffed, trying to hide how red her ears were. "Bit full o’ yourself, aren’t you?"

Ronnie smirked and sat beside her on the bed, hands resting on her knees. “If you want to kiss girls, this is good practice.”

Winnie wanted to laugh, really, but she didn't find it in herself to do so—not when she was blushing like a schoolgirl over a stupid kiss offer. Her mind ran over a hundred different scenarios, stumbling with each possiblity. She sat up straighter, tugging her legs underneath her and turning to face Ronnie’s side, crossing them neatly. Her eyes narrowed, curious and cautious both.

“You’re not into me, right?”

Veronica snorted. “I should be asking that. I don’t even know if I like kissing girls.” There was a pause — one that Winnie knew by now her friend made after making a joke meant to ease the tension. When Ronnie realized it hadn't landed, she opted for a more candid approach to ground the British girl beside her. She looked at the floor for a second, then back at Winnie. “I don’t like you like that,” a pause stretched, and Ronnie added. “You are my best friend.”

"Alright." Winnie nodded, biting her bottom lip. “How do we…?”

Ronnie gave a dramatic puff and shifted on the bed until she was sitting cross-legged too, facing the shorter girl.

“You kiss me first,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Then I show you how I do it.”

Winnie blinked. Once. Twice. Then, because for better or for worse, she'd trust Ronnie's judgement unconditionally, she took a breath, exhaled slowly and gave herself an encouraging nod.

“Alright.”

You’ve faced scarier things, she thought. Like oil painting critique. You can kiss Veronica.

She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to Ronnie’s in a soft, very deliberate kiss. It wasn’t bad. It was just careful. A little stiff. The kind of kiss that knew it was being judged.

She pulled back an inch and looked at her friend nervously, and was met with Veronica's tilted little smile— the one she put up when she was trying her best to be nice.

“It wasn’t bad. You just need to… uhh…” she wiggled her hands. “Loosen up.”

Winnie puffed out a breath. “AHow’d you do it then?”

Ronnie lifted her brows, like the answer was obvious. “Well, I use my hands.”

Winnie blinked again. “What?”

“Um. To go with the kiss. You know. To touch, too. Like this—”

Veronica leaned in and brought both hands up gently to cup Winnie’s face. Her palms were warm and smelled faintly of tobacco and cold air. Her thumbs brushed lightly over Winnie’s cheeks.

And then she kissed her.

This kiss was different —not romantic, still, but more practiced, natural. Ronnie’s lips parted just slightly, guiding without demanding. Winnie’s fingers gripped Ronnie’s wrists reflexively, needing something to hold onto. Her heart thudded loudly in her chest, more out of newness than feeling.

Veronica was the one to pull away first, slow and careful, like she didn’t want to spook her. Her hands stayed right where they were, framing Winnie’s face.

“See?” she nearly whispered. “It’s better to use your hands too. You can’t kiss with just your mouth. You have to kiss with your whole body.”

Winnie sat still for a second, big, grayish blue eyes flicking between Veronica’s. The words filtered through slowly, like she was still catching up with what had just happened. Her lips tingled, and her ears were hot.

She nodded once.

When she leaned in again, it was more deliberate; a quiet sort of bravery had substituted the initial anxious hesitation. Her fingers slipped into the curls at the back of Veronica’s head, careful and soft, and her other hand came up to mirror Veronica’s earlier gesture, cupping her cheek; a little awkwardly, perhaps, but determined to learn.

Veronica’s hand lifted to cover Winnie’s, anchoring it there—a wordless 'I got you covered'—, and Winifred's lips returned to Ronnie's again.

This kiss was fuller; Winnie's mouth pressing with more intent than before. Veronica deepened it the smallest bit —the faintest slip of tongue over slightly swollen lips— enough to show her, not to overwhelm. The British girl startled at first, but soon eased into it, mirroring her friend's doing and finding the right rhythm for the shorter girl to gain enough confidence to take over.

Kissing wasn't so difficult, Winnie thought to herself, thumb caressing Veronica's rosy cheek. Perhaps the fact that she would have trusted Ronnie with her life had something to do with how comfortable Winifred was having her best friend's tongue down her throat.

The kissing per se didn't arise any kind of romantic emotion towards Ronnie, but it did make Winnie's mind drift off to a different set of puckered lips, the ones she had been staring at for a good couple of weeks now.

Nicolette Thibaut —or Colette, as the Parisian insisted on being referred as in class— had claimed a permanent spot in Winnie's head after that first night at Le Monocle. She had appeared so bold and unapologetic, even despite the distance set in the crowded club between them that Winifred had yet to stop obsessing over the crossdressed Frenchwoman. The Brit's big eyes seemed to try and find Colette everywhere now; at Le Monocle, in the streets of Montmartre, during Professeur Vannier's classes, or in their scarce free time at L'école.

And most times Winnie's eyes did find Colette. Colette with her short hair and her fair cheekbones and her rosed lips that Winnie wished was kissing instead of Ronnie's.

Too lost in her own mind, Winnie didn't fully process the moment her friend softly pulled away.

"Kissing was not hard, was it?"

Winnie blinked at the Spaniard's rhetorical question —at least she hoped it was rhetorical.

"Uhm," Winnie pushed the bridge of her glasses up with her index, trying to gather her thoughts despite feeling at loss of words for more than one reason. "I—"

"Oh, do not tell me you fancy me now, Freddie." Veronica deadpanned with a tilt of her head and the most serious expression Winifred had seen of her. Too unnatural to be true, Winnie figured, and so the Brit burst out in laughter half a second before Ronnie did the same.

Both girls folded on themselves over Winnie's small mattress, going breathless in a matter of seconds that could've turned into minutes and hours. Happiness and comfort tended to flourish easy between the two friends, and this odd situation they had gotten themselves into wasn't exempt from that comforting pattern.

The laughs turned into lazy giggles and then melted into amused smiles, with Winnie being the one to break the silence before it fully formed.

"You're a good kisser, Ron."

"Well, thank you very much." The Spaniard singsonged, picking at the pins buried in her curls to set them loose. "You kiss nice too. No need to be scared of kissing other girls, Win." Ronnie must have noticed Winnie's hesitant exhale and the way her doubtful eyes dropped to her crossed legs, because she swiftly added, "Not even Colette."

"What?!" Winnie's head shot back up again, finding Veronica's irises expectant, already sizing up the Brit's reaction with the ghost of a prideful, satisfied grin.

"Oh, you are so obvious, cielo." Ronnie's amused chuckle was cut short by the feather pillow a flustered Winifred tossed at her face.

"I'm not obvious!" Winnie countered in a high-pitched, panicked voice. "Stop laughing! 'S not funny!"

"Shhh! Do you want to wake up that french witch?"

And just like that, the laughter returned to both girls, this time poorly stifled but not less joyous. The pair would eventually fall asleep half unwillingly out of exhaustion, and the late night kissing practice would become one of many anecdotes the two best friends would talk about.

Their time in Paris would be full of those; unbelievable stories, some bittersweet, some hilarious, some even terrifying. Stories that they would hold onto throughout the following years of their lives, in which the horrors of the war would fight to swallow them whole. Stories that would serve as heartwarming candlelights in a world that would soon fall into the deepest darkness.

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Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @fromjupitertocentauri @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae @jetjuliette

Ronnie knew about Le Monocle; she'd been living in Paris with her mother's sister for over a year already. She'd walked Montmartre's streets, and she'd seen the women at the cafés sitting together. Her aunt talked about it occasionally—said everything but good things, but for better or for worse, Ronnie rarely listened to anybody.

She listened to Winnie, though. Maybe it was because the shorthaired girl was the voice of reason Veronica very much needed in her life.

The Spaniard hadn't expected to make any friends when she applied for the scholarship. French girls were too different from what Ronnie was accustomed to, and she didn't expect to find anything different in a place like L'école, but she was lucky enough to cross paths with an anxious short Brit who seemed as our of place as her.

There were two main reasons why Winnie and Ronnie had collectively declined the invitations until now. First, Winnie's knowledge of the french language was close to non-existent when the course started—Ronnie having to almost fully translate for her during the first month. Second, Veronica had the tough luck to be born in mid December, which meant that, until that week, she'd been under her aunt's tutelage.

God knows what her aunt would do if she found out Ronnie had been out and about anywhere near Montmartre.

Now that both girls were of age and Winnie's french was decent, they'd decided to give it a shot together.

"If you do it, I will do it." Ronnie had whispered to the British girl between classes.

"Oi," Winnie whispered back, a bit flustered. "why're you puttin' it on me, then?"

"Because I don't want to go alone?"

And so that night they both headed to Le Monocle.

Missing the dress code entirely—the two girls realized the moment they stepped inside. Short-haired women in tuxedos, waistcoats and slacks, some smoking with swagger that looked lifted straight from film reels. A handful of women in dresses and lipstick dotted the room, but it was clear they were the exception.

The two immediately overwhelmed eighteen-year-olds froze in the doorway. Winnie's wide eyes darted around behind her wire-rimmed glasses, her mouth slightly open.

"Bloody hell." she muttered under her breath. God, was she far from Birmingham.

Ronnie tried to shove the whiplash down into her stomach and pull on a mask of nonchalance—as if this was normal for her. Yet, she reached out and caught Winnie's hand as they started down the stairs into the bar.

Winnie leaned in, whispering urgently, "Jesus—is that Colette? From Professeur Vannier's class?" She stretched her neck awkwardly to get a better look at a woman in a sharply tailored tuxedo and slicked-back hair.

"Don't look at her, Winnie! ¡Dios!" Veronica hissed, slapping her friend's fur-covered arm. "Let's just—keep walking."

Before they could reach the bar counter, a woman dressed in a tuxedo stepped smoothly into their path, wedging herself between them and the bar counter. She had the confidence of someone who knew she was beautiful—all angular lines and tailored confidence. Her gaze settled lazily on Winnie, and a smirk played at her lips.

"Quelle charmante demoiselle… J'crois pas t'avoir déjà vue ici, toi."

Winnie blinked. "Pardon?"

The woman chuckled softly and leaned back a little, tilting her head. "J'vais vous laisser tranquille, Ta copine et toi. Installez-vous, prenez l’ambiance… Viens me trouver quand tu veux, beauté."

She winked before melting back into the crowd.

Winnie followed the woman with her startled gaze before turning back to Ronnie, who was doing the exact same thing.

"Wha'd she say?"

"Dios mío… she think you are a…" She leaned closer, almost whispering into Winnie's ear. "…a lesbian."

Winifred felt the blood rush up to her cheeks. "Goodness—"

Veronica straightened up, piercing eyes scanning the room. "This place is full of lesbians."

Winnie turned her back to the counter, opposing Veronica's motion, and replied with, "Well what'd you expect, babs? You said—"

"I did not think there would be this many. Joder, you think Marie thinks we are lesbians? And that is why she invited us? Winnie?"

But Winnie had stopped listening.

Her mouth had fallen slightly open, her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose as she stared across the room.

Two women were sitting on one of the velvet settees, leaning into each other, their mouths locked in a kiss that could've been pulled straight from a movie screen. One of those kisses—slow, heated, the kind with tongue and everything.

Except there was no man. Just two women. And one very overwhelmed British girl watching them with something more than curiosity creeping in.

Ronnie smacked her friends back. "Winifred."

Winnie peeled her eyes off the two women to turn to her friend starstruck. "Sorry, what?"

"Do we look like lesbians?"

Winnie pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, heart thrumming in her chest, mind running wild with a million thoughts at once—the memory of that one girl back home who she wanted to be best friends forever, the one she use to draw.

"What?" Winnie repeated.

Ronnie huffed, flustered but trying not to show it. Before she could say more, the bartender caught her eye. She turned to the counter, forearms resting on the wooden surface, her accent switching gears with difficulty now that she was struggling to regain her footing.

"Deux verres de vin blanc, s'il vous plaît. Et… eh..." She shifted on the spot, moving half a step to the side to put space between her and the two girls courting beside her. "peut-être un peu de citron? si vous avez."

This is normal, she told herself as she handed over the coins. This is normal.

She took the two glasses, nodded a polite thanks, and motioned for Winnie to follow her. They weaved through the crowd, settling onto a small velvet couch tucked behind a pillar.

Before either of them could speak, another woman appeared, smooth and confident, and took the empty space beside Veronica. She was older, probably in her late twenties, with curled dark hair and a cigarette balanced between her fingers like it belonged there.

She leaned close, smiling with the kind of heat that made Ronnie stiffen slightly.

"De si beaux yeux…" the stranger began, voice like velvet. "Comment t'appelles tu?"

Ronnie blinked startled, and surprised herself with how smooth the French came out. "Eh bien, merci. Je m'appelle Ronnie."

"Ronnie. C'est… exotique." The woman's warm eyes skimmed over Ronnie's form. "Comme ta beauté."

Ronnie gave a polite smile, grasping her glass like it might anchor her. "Vous êtes trop aimable." She tried. "Je passe la soirée avec mon amie. Si cela ne vous dérange pas—"

"Je vois," The woman’s gaze flicked to Winnie, who was still staring off in semi-catatonic fascination at the women on the settee. "Ce fut un plaisir, Ronnie." She took Ronnie’s hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and slipped away like a ghost in silk.

Winnie leaned forward slightly, blinking out of her daze. "Did she just… kiss your hand?"

Ronnie huffed again, taking a long drink and avoiding eye contact with anyone who could spot the disorienting haze behind her irises. "I need air."

Winnie didn’t need to be told twice.

The two girls slipped away from the velvet murmur of the crowd and made their way back toward the entrance, glasses in hand. The air there was cooler, quieter — a little more like the world they knew.

For a moment, they just stood. Breathing. Watching. Processing.

Then, in a voice equal parts curious and panicked, Winnie broke the silence.

"Ron. You ever kissed a boy?"

Veronica traced the rim of her glass with her finger, not looking over. "Yes. Two times, when I lived in Salamanca." She took another sip, inquisitive eyes zeroing in on Winnie. "You?"

"Not really." Winnie replied, and quickly added, "You ever think about kissing a girl?"

Ronnie paused, and this time, the silence stretched. "I don't know." She tried not to dwell too long on the question. But she did think of someone—that girl at church, the strawberry blonde covered in freckles who always wore a blue ribbon. She remembered wondering what it would feel like, just once, to touch her face. "Do you?"

Winnie took a breath. Swallowed. "Dunno."

She rocked a little on her heels, a frown pulling at her brows. Her heart felt like it was in her throat. If there was anyone she could say this to, it was Ronnie. After all, she'd come here with her.

So, with quiet determination and her heart threatening to beat out of her chest, she corrected herself. "Yes."

The British girl attempted to read her friend's reaction, but panic bubbled up her throat before she could draw any conclusions.

"You reckon that makes me a lesbian?"

Ronnie finally looked at her then, shaking her head slowly, eyes drifting back toward the stairs where the women were still enjoying themselves, unbothered by the two girls' crisis.

"No, I don't think it does." She half shrugged. "I think every girl feels that. It doesn't make you a lesbian."

But Winnie wasn't just feeling it — she wanted it. Wanted to kiss women. Wanted to know what that meant. The realization hit her like cold water—sudden, shocking, impossible to unfeel.

And yet, just beneath the panic, there was something else; relief.

It took her a second to catch the other thing Ronnie had said. The thing Ronnie didn't seem to hear herself say.

'I think every girl feels that.'

Oh, Jesus, Winnie thought to herself.

This was bad.

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Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @fromjupitertocentauri @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae @jetjuliette

Moribund soldiers whimpered and groaned in every corner of The Churchill Hospital, making it impossible for anyone to sleep.

Ronnie didn't mind that part; if she had wanted to sleep, she would've stayed in Winnie's house—now hers too, she supposed, after three years living there—, in Birmingham. But she chased untold stories, and so she grabbed her camera and her notebook, and took that damn train in the late afternoon to spend yet another sleepless night in the American-commanded hospital.

It was the fifth in a row. Bribing the officers in charge only got her so far, but when the women serving in the US Nurse Corps found out Ronnie was there to write about them—not the officers, not the States, not the Allied forces; them—, they advocated for Veronica to stay.

She had reached an agreement. A week-long permit to observe, interview and photograph the nurses. The had given her a timeslot belonging to the graveyard shift—hoping she would turn it down, Veronica figured—, but Ronnie hadn't complained then, and she surely wouldn't complain now.

The curly haired woman knew half of her article wouldn't make it to the Oxford Mail. Even under a male pen name, her work never fully got through. In order not the get her photographs immediately scratched out of the draft, she'd learn to prioritize beauty over truth.

Lucky Ronnie, on her second night over, she had found the perfect muse for the photograph she'd send. Beauty and truth merged together in a white uniform, adorned with golden locks and bloodied hands.

Dolores Holbrook had introduced herself to Veronica as 'Dottie', even though the Spaniard had used her full name. Veronica hadn't asked why, which the blonde was grateful for. In a matter less than an hour, Dottie had shortened the brunette's first name to a warm 'Ronnie', like they had been friends since childhood.

By the fourth night together, Veronica had learned a lot. Not so much about the Nurse Corps, but about the girl who was now the main subject of her photographs. This article was something Ronnie could've gotten done in two days maximum, but was there any harm in prolonging her time at the Churchill Hospital to get to know Dottie better?

"And is this much different from Chicago?" Ronnie asked absentmindedly, giving the blonde a kick-starter so she could focus on structuring the nurses' answers to her questions.

"Oh, y'know, it's England," she began, her tone soft so she wouldn't disturb her patient; Ronnie looked up from her notebook just in time to see Dottie pull a face. "It's... Y'know."

"Gray and miserable?"

"Yes, thank you." Dottie breathed out, reaching for a pearl white cloth that would soon be stained with pus and blood. "And the Brits—" she huffed, manhandling a man twice her size to turn him around. "I miss the States. And the weather there. And my brother. He's a paratrooper, y'know? Shipped to England too but—" another huff, another rag. "I never see him, which is fucked. We're in the same country, it's not like I'm in America and he's— whatever, it's fucked."

"It is a bit fucked." Ronnie agreed, setting the notebook and fountain pen on a stool beside her. "I don't think I'd miss on the chance of seeing you."

Dottie hummed, said something about Veronica being sweet, and zeroed in on her task.

Ronnie was far from sweet. Yes, she could sugarcoat her words with a honeyed tone and fluttering lashes if she wanted something, but she was not sweet. Dottie thought she was, and she was too stubborn for Ronnie to convince her otherwise.

"Can you hand me that gauze?"

Veronica complied with the request, her fingers purposefully brushing Dottie's bloodied ones with the ghost of an endeared smile, and turned heel to walk back to the corner she had claimed as hers.

"I'm going to take some pictures, alright?" She announced distractedly, setting the parameters of her camera to fit the low lights of the room.

"Can I ask you something?" Dottie started, rubbing her palms against her white apron. Ronnie nodded, stepping closer, and so she asked, "You need these many photographs?"

Veronica pretended to muse the inquiry for an instant, rising the camera up to her face. "Honestly? No." Through the lens, she saw Dottie break an open smile, one of her golden curls framing her cheek.

Snap!

"Then why are you taking them?"

"Because you're pretty," Ronnie stated, rolling the film forward to take another photo. "The public likes to see pretty things."

Snap!

"You're sweet."

Ronnie breathed out a laugh. "No, I'm not."

She was just playing nice, because that's what she did when she wanted something and knew she wouldn't get it by going head on.

Tags:

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @fromjupitertocentauri @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae @jetjuliette

★ Winifred "Freddie" Hawthorne

★ Veronica "Ronnie" Valero

★ Elsie Taverna

★ Dolores "Dottie" Holbrook

★ Sandra "Sandy" Wexler

★ Florence "Flo" Taverna

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @fromjupitertocentauri @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae @jetjuliette