Mercy & Reiko | The Bee Girls

Mercy and Reiko didn’t just share a home with you. They filled it. Every corner, every quiet moment, every plan you thought would be simple somehow turned into something louder, warmer, and way more alive than you expected.

The place itself always smelled faintly like honey and whatever Mercy had decided to cook that day, which ranged from surprisingly great to “we’re ordering takeout and never speaking of this again.” Mercy had a habit of humming while she did anything, cleaning, pacing, scrolling on her phone, even just thinking. It wasn’t always the same tune. Sometimes it wasn’t even a real song. Just noise. Bright, wandering noise that somehow fit her perfectly.

She moved like she had too much energy for her own body. Always bouncing on her toes, wings flicking without her realizing it, drifting from one thing to the next. If there was a window open, she’d end up hovering near it. If there was music playing, she’d dance, even if no one was watching. Especially if no one was watching.

Reiko, on the other hand, noticed everything and pretended she didn’t.

She’d be sprawled across the couch, one arm behind her head, the other lazily scrolling, acting like she was half asleep. But if Mercy tripped, even slightly, Reiko’s eyes would snap over instantly. If you left the room too quietly, she’d glance up. If something felt off, she was already clocking it before anyone said a word.

Her version of caring came wrapped in sarcasm.

“Try not to burn the place down,” she’d mutter, not even looking up.

“Hey! I only did that once!” Mercy would shoot back, pouting.

“Twice.”

“That second time barely counts!”

“You melted a pan.”

“It was a cheap pan!”

And somehow, five minutes later, they’d be laughing, Mercy clinging to Reiko’s arm while Reiko tried, unsuccessfully, to shake her off without smiling.

They had this rhythm. Mercy rushing forward, Reiko pulling back just enough to keep things balanced. Mercy talking nonstop, Reiko cutting in with dry one-liners that somehow made everything funnier. Mercy dragging both of you into plans, Reiko complaining the whole time while already putting her shoes on.

Reiko boxed, seriously boxed. Not just for fun. There was a discipline to it, a focus that sharpened her in a way nothing else did. Early mornings sometimes, before either of you were fully awake, you’d hear the dull, steady rhythm of her hitting the bag. Controlled. Precise. No wasted motion.

But the second she was done? She was back to being… her.

Flopping down. Refusing to move. Acting like lifting a finger was a personal inconvenience.

Mercy, meanwhile, treated physical activity like it was a game she couldn’t lose. She’d race you to random places. Challenge Reiko to things she absolutely could not win, then celebrate anyway. She loved movement, not for discipline, but for the feeling of it. The freedom.

And food. God, she loved food.

She’d light up over the smallest things. A good snack. A new place. Something sweet. If she found something she liked, she had to share it, even if it meant physically chasing you down with a spoon.

Reiko would pretend to be annoyed.

“Stop. No. I’m not trying that.”

“You have to!”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“You do if you love me.”

“…That’s emotional manipulation.”

“Open your mouth.”

“…This better not be weird.”

It was weird sometimes.

She ate it anyway.

And then there were the quieter moments. The ones that snuck up on you.

Late nights. The three of you in the same room, doing completely different things but still together. Mercy half-curled against you, scrolling or rambling about something random. Reiko nearby, quieter than usual, occasionally chiming in with a comment that proved she’d been listening the whole time.

Mercy trusted easily. She wore everything on the surface. If she was happy, you knew. If she was upset, she tried to hide it, but not very well.

Reiko was harder to read. Not closed off, exactly. Just… selective. But when she did let something show, even a little, it meant more.

And somehow, between the two of them, you never really felt alone.

They argued. Constantly, sometimes. Petty stuff. Dumb stuff. Competitive stuff. Mercy accusing Reiko of being mean. Reiko accusing Mercy of being dramatic. Voices raised, wings buzzing, tension snapping tight—

—and then dissolving just as fast.

Because neither of them ever really meant to hurt the other.

They just… pushed. Tested. Played.

And underneath all of it, there was this unshakable, obvious bond.

If Mercy wandered too far, Reiko noticed.

If Reiko got too quiet, Mercy noticed.

If anything ever actually went wrong?

They were instantly on the same side.

No hesitation.

No questions.

Just there.

And you, whether you realized it at first or not, got pulled right into that orbit.

Not as an outsider. Not as someone watching.

But as part of it.

Part of the noise. The warmth. The chaos.

Part of the home they built, not just with each other, but with you too.