#I just love that music can instantly transport you back to a specific time in your life or a specific thing

[skitskatdacat63]

During the 2020 shut-in era, I basically only listened to Coldplay and god the amnt of emotional nostalgia I get from listening to their music is so

[laufire]

Author Questionnaire Tag Game

I was tagged by @aninkwellofnectar a few days ago (ty!)

About Me

When did you start writing?

Pretty much as soon as I knew how. I remember writing short stories about a fairy –a very early prototype of what later would become Eva, my first OC–, when I was around 6, 7 years old. Back then I also illustrated them, though the lack of practice means that I probably can’t match my skill back then lol. I also remember writing “fanfic” based on a little children’s book about a lost baby whale. I don’t know which one came first lol. It was in my early teens when I started writing in earnest, in this ancient computer that gave up on me, making me lose a lot of what were probably terrible, but very imaginative stories 😔

Are there genres/themes you enjoy reading different to the ones you write?

When I write it’s almost wholly in the fantasy genre, though as it is vast, that can look very, very differently. Currently I happen to be reading two books whose styles and themes match my own writing, or what I want it to be: “The Bloody Chamber and other stories” by Angela Carter, and Olvidado Rey Gudú by Ana María Matute, but I also read plenty of books from genres I don’t write in: mystery, non-fiction, poetry, historical fiction (though most of it was contemporary in its time), etc.

Is there an author you want to emulate, or one to whom you're often compared?

There are authors whose prose I envy and I like to think can influence my own (though I know that’s an ambitious goal I have yet to reach): Angela Carter, Vladimir Nabokov, Hope Mirrlees… I would die happy, if I was ever compared to the likes of them lol.

Can you tell me a little about your writing space?

My preferred place is in my bedroom, at my desk, in my laptop. Though lately I’ve moved to the living room’s table, where there’s air conditioner :))). I also write A LOT on my phone, mainly when I’m away from home or in the public transport.

What's your most effective way to muster up some muse?

Reading. Not just in my own genre(s), but in general. For example, one of my stories was reshaped after reading a non-fiction book that analysed the history of Lois Lane’s character, introducing me to the concept of sob sister (a female journalist stuck in the advice columns for the lovelorn), leading to the creation of an original character and a new direction and more grounded historical setting for the tale.

I also find poetry and music a good source of inspiration. There are several instrumental playlists on youtube that instantly put me in the mood to a particular story or ~mood, thanks to long-term self-conditioning :P

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about?

It’s not unlikely, though it’s often not straightforward, and more about little details, specific dynamics (especially family or gender dynamics), and so on. I do use places I know as inspiration from settings, to transmit the feeling I want them to give to the audience. In that sense, growing up in a rural town and then living in a very busy city has been a privilege, for the variety that has offered.

Are there any recurring themes of your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all?

The fight to regain lost agency, dysfunctional families and communities and the struggles to escape them or live within their constrains, “love is not enough”, the relationships between women in all their forms. None of these surprise me, as they’re things I’ve always been drawn to in other people’s stories.

My Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favourite character?

Lucretia, Lucretia, Lucretia. Imperatrix of my heart. She is the protagonist of the novella I’m currently drafting; one with a villainous vent, but the hero in her own journey, of course. There are other protagonists I might love more, but she’s the one occupying my mind right now.

The story is about her, a visionary vampiress belonging to a matriarchal society of vampires with praying mantis-like habits, who saw the (so far incidental to the plot lol) zombie apocalypse as an opportunity to subjugate humanity. However, she has enemies among her own people; namely, Dana, a vampiress who once committed high treason and paid dearly for it, who’s groomed her daughter Raina to become Lucretia’s political rival.

But Lucretia runs a tight ship in her Underground Elysium. She rose from the lowest depths of her society to the very top, she’s calculating, paranoid and pitiless, and she won’t allow anyone to rob her of her hard-earned power.

(have a little "teaser" here)

Also, a small shout out to Jason Todd, in terms of where my head is at for fanfiction, because detective comics comics truly has me in its clutches. Again smh.

Which of your characters do you think you'd be friends with in real life?

There are a few candidates, but I feel I would’ve fit in well with the group in one of my series, “The Wicked Witches of Trickstown”, back when I was their age. Even when they don’t always fit that well with each other LOL, each of them is someone I could get along with, from the scrappy, easy-going Sadie, to the sceptic and abrasive Gillian, the intuitive and quiet Denise, the ambitious control-freak Judith, the zen and adaptable Dinah, or the kind and non-conformist Leo.

Which of your characters would you dislike most if you met them?

Probably everyone in “Underground Elysium” lol, except Graciela (Lucretia’s human maid; she always looks among those with artistic talent, and she’s an excellent ballerina. Melancholic, and more than meets the eye). And maaaaaaaybe Raina, but she’s still under construction.

Tell me more about the process of coming up with your characters.

It’s too varied to say something so definite. I often feel the need to write a particular kind of character, something I find myself craving and not finding so easily in other works; this was the case for Lucretia, in my quest for cold, unendingly ambitious female protagonists who create their own enemies <3. Or something or someone else sparks my imagination, like with sob sister!Lois, and I pull from that threat until I have something fully-formed.

Do you notice any recurring themes/traits among your characters?

I love writing characters that move things forward in the story, for better or worse. Characters who fail and regress and who have unconventional developments, who yearn for freedom and who have goals they’re willing to fight for, though they won’t always win, and even if they do, a pyrrhic victory is very much in the cards.

How do you picture your characters?

I like having solid face claims, as I feel it helps me visualise them much better. For example, for Lucretia I picture DeWanda Wise, an actress I met in the second season of Underground, one of my favourite shows. For Dana, please picture Jessica Chastain with medium-length hair in an understated yet classy black pantsuit lol.

My Writing

What's your reason for writing?

It’s what I do, and I can’t imagine not doing it. I’d rather keep this and have everything else removed from my life than the reverse, as dramatic as that will sound.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers?

I share little of my writing (yet), but what I love most is when, even just with a small excerpt, I can tell I’ve awoken someone’s curiosity; that they’ve given thought to what I’ve written, approaching it with a “yes, and” mentality that shows me they’re engaged with what I have to tell.

How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work?

My grandest ambitions are about people finding my writing captivating, vivid, and thoughtful. Something that they’ll ruminate on and pause at, maybe pondering what they’ve read or enjoying a turn of phrase or description.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

I like to think that my characters feel memorable and novel, and that the work I put on creating an ~ambiance with my narration pays off.

What have you been frequently told by others is your greatest strength as a writer?

I’ve been told I’m good at crafting interesting, gut-wrenching dynamics between characters, and at making them visualise a space.

How do you feel about your own writing?

There is definitely a lot of work ahead of me, both in terms of craft and in terms of consistency. I tend to fall prey to perfectionism, though I try to work with that instead of completely setting it aside, because it’s also a motor to my drive for self-improvement. Writing in a language that’s not my mother tongue adds some complications, but it’s also something I’ve found motivating.

If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write?

Yes. I write from a need to see the stories I conjure in my mind in action, but also from a love of the process itself, difficult as it might be. External recognition and praise is very nice, and validating, and I love getting it, but ultimately I know I can live without it, if not as my happiest, as long as I myself am proud and appreciative of what I write.

Fandom has been good practise in that sense, because though it’s easier (way easier, in some cases) to get attention there than with original fiction, my tastes tend to be niche enough that one (1) comment in a fic is already reason for extreme celebration lol. I know what to expect.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy? if it’s a mix of the two, which holds the most influence?

As of now, not really. At most I think of my friends and mutuals, the very few people likely to read me, and hope they enjoy what I wrote, in the spaces we share, but it does not factor in my decisions (unless I’m writing a personalised prompt). If I end up trying to publish commercially, in whatever manner I choose, it will inevitably enter my calculations. Though as I aim to land a different primary source of income, I hope I can still have room to prioritise my own preferences, as much as possible.

tagging: @richiepapes @snowdropsnake @wildhuntwritings @nightingalesighs @angelfishofthelord (no pressure)

[bokutosbabe]

Tim Mcgraw

Hazashi Yamada (Present Mic) x GN! Reader

Cw; strangers to friends, friends to lovers, lovers to strangers, then all back in a circle, lyrics from Taylor Swift’s Tim Mcgraw used, Yamada drives a truck, toxic relationship, reader goes back to him a lot, mostly GN let me know if it’s mentioning anything of a specific gender! 

Like , comment, & reblog so I can actually feel encouraged to finish this 🤞🏼

masterlist

Present Mic was someone you knew all too well. The two of you had been together for many years; seven to be exact. From your first years at UA to when you were 22 years old,you and Hizashi were the couple to watch. From the times when the press would catch you two off guard when you were simply trying to get coffee to the big hero galas you two would attend together; you were the it couple. 

That wasn’t where your stories began however, no they simply began at UA. The most prestigious hero school in all of Japan definitely was not somewhere you would expect to meet a person you’d want to marry, but at 15 years old you did just that. Seeing Hizashi Yamada with his silly styled hair and awful sunglasses on your first day made you instantly attracted to him; which led to you two talking, and then eventually dating. 

Everything was actually great in your relationship, Yamada had shown you the very…interesting music of American society. You weren’t into rap or pop music much since you could easily get better music here in japan just like that, no, you became obsessed with country music. No one in all of Japan had that delicious twang in their voice the way southerners from the US did. Eventually you found your favorite singer, “Tim Mcgraw?” Yamada had squawked out. 

He had no care for country music, he would only listen to it in his truck, that somehow always ended up getting stuck in the mud or grass if he accidentally went up on the curb, when driving with you. “Yes ‘Zashi,”the nickname rolled off your tongue, it wasn’t intentional, but that type of stuff just happened when you got excited, and Yamada didn’t really seem to mind. “He’s got that amazing voice and it’s so good! You’re bound to like him!” And try as he might, he didn’t enjoy the music, but he would listen to it for you. 

That was how your lives became entangled, and it all seemed perfect before one of his friends you hadn’t gotten to know well passed away. Or that was what he told you, but it seemed like he knew more than that. Perhaps it was just the way he grieved, so you let it be. Yamada only seemed to be getting worse though, distancing himself from you and everyone else besides shouta, and eventually the gap was so big that you couldn’t reach for him anymore, thus ending your relationship with Hizashi Yamada, at least for now. While you never bothered him for the rest of your first year, you still listened to Tim Mcgraw everyday, it gave you some sort of memory of the boy you first loved.

The second time you had begun dating Yamada was the summer before your second year at UA, you two had made up and he became an amazing boyfriend once again. He took you out in that same truck, that still got stuck in the mud due to its driver not getting any better at taking his own transportation, which still made you giggle every time you got in the truck, with Tim Mcgraw playing over the speakers.

 Everything was amazing once more; for about five months before you had caught Yamada texting other girls. It wasn’t anything inappropriate, but it made your trust in him completely disappear. He was telling these girls he loved them, and when you confronted him; he admitted. He wasn’t a saint, and you knew that, but this hurt more than anything. With that, your second time dating Yamada ended much quicker than what you could have expected.

You were still bitter well into your third year, well until he apologized and asked you on yet another date. You knew you shouldn’t have, you had learned your lesson; but at the same time, you needed the old Yamada back. That was what your young mind told you. So you accepted, and when the night came, Yamada picked you up in a brand new truck, his driving skills much better now. He brought you to a lake, “I want to dance with you in the moonlight on the lake.”He’d told you. And he did just that with you; while of course playing Tim Mcgraw through his speakers. This date was what made you whipped for him once more. This led to you two dating, for two years this time, but when Yamada got a job at UA at age 20, he became so stuck in his work that you weren’t getting enough attention. That may have sounded bratty and childish, but not once in the past two years had Yamada ever ignored you and you just didn’t know how to deal with it. So you two broke up on a random day in September, a month full of tears that you were happy Yamada wasn’t there to see. 

The fourth, and last time, you had dated Yamada was when you were 21. You had also gotten an offer at UA to be a teacher, which forced you to be within close proximity of Hazashi. The more you two worked together, the closer you grew, but you were wiser now, less stupid than your teen self. Yet, for some reason, you couldn’t help yourself when you began falling for him once more. It was an embarrassing, silly crush that needed to be put to rest, but of course he just had that draw to him. One where once you were pulled in, you couldn’t get out. So you began dating again; which was inappropriate in this environment, so you kept it a secret. Hookups in his office and rendezvous in the teachers lounge weren’t enough though. You two eventually told principal nezu, which resulted in him giving you both an ultimatum; Break up or one of you leaves.

To be with him, you would’ve left the school faster than the speed of light, but yamada answered first,” We’ll break up. Been meaning to anyways.” and that was the moment you decided; Hazashi Yamada had no place in your heart anymore.

So here you are now, a 22 year old teacher who was invited to the heroes gala out of respect, not because you had to be invited. You watched as your ex lover was being the DJ, when a random woman, some hero from America, requested a song. The way Yamada’s face drop made you instantly know what she asked for, and your thought was correct when ‘Something Like That’ by Tim Mcgraw began playing. You didn’t wish to be here anymore; you hadn’t even had an horderves, yet you were full. On revenge or satisfaction; you weren’t sure, but you were sure of one thing; Hazashi Yamada would think of you everytime he heard Tim Mcgraw.

playing next;

picture to burn

[maximuswolf]

Can you name a music that brings back a specific memory?

Can you name a music that brings back a specific memory? I’ve gotta share this memory that pops up every time I hear "Sweet Home Alabama." It takes me right back to summer road trips with my buddies back in high school. We’d pile into my friend’s beat-up old car, windows down, blasting that song while we sped down back roads, singing at the top of our lungs like we were rockstars.I remember one night in particular; we decided to camp out by the lake. We roasted marshmallows, cracked jokes, and just soaked in the freedom of being young and carefree. That song always brings back that feeling of adventure and friendship, you know?It’s funny how a single track can unlock a treasure trove of memories. I still get a little nostalgic every time it comes on. What about you? Is there a song that instantly transports you to a specific moment? I’d love to hear your stories. Submitted October 02, 2024 at 11:22PM by knowledgeablewidget https://ift.tt/EPvHexC via /r/Music

[danielsiegelalonso]

Decoding Listener Psychology in Music | Daniel Siegel Alonso

Music can get under our skin, toy with our emotions, and remain in our minds long after the last note fades. Do you ever wonder why a particular song can make you feel on top of the world or shed a tear? The secret lies in the fascinating interplay between music and listener psychology. Daniel Siegel Alonso explores how and why music affects us the way it does and why understanding this can be as complex—and entertaining—as mastering a Bach symphony.

The Emotional Rollercoaster

Music is an emotional powerhouse; it can evoke a wide range of emotions, from the spine-tingling chills of a soaring opera aria to the throbbing energy of a rock anthem. This emotional connection isn’t just in our heads—Siegel Alonso notes it's deeply ingrained in our brains.

When we listen to music, our brain emits dopamine, the “feel-good” neurotransmitter. This chemical reaction is like what we experience when we eat our favorite food or fall in love. It’s no wonder that certain songs can make us feel euphoric or deeply moved. Think of Whitney Houston's “I Will Always Love You.” The fusion of Houston's powerful voice and Dolly Parton's poignant lyrics can make even the most stoic listener get misty-eyed.

Memory Lane

Music and memory are intricately linked. That's why Siegel Alonso points out that hearing a song can instantly transport you to a specific moment. That's because our brains retain musical memories in an easily retrievable way, making songs powerful triggers for remembering past events.

This phenomenon is why “your song” with a significant other can stir strong memories, or a tune from childhood can make you feel nostalgic. Songs become our lives' soundtracks, weaving into our personal histories. The Beatles’ “Hey Jude,” for example, might remind you of a summer road trip with friends, while Green Day's "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” could bring back memories of a high school dance.

The Rhythm of the Heart

Music doesn’t just tug at our emotions and memories; it also affects our bodies. Have you ever noticed how your heart rate syncs with the beat of a song? Upbeat music with a fast tempo can make your heart race, while a slow, calming melody can help you relax.

This is why music is often used in therapeutic settings. For instance, patients undergoing surgery may listen to calming music to reduce anxiety and pain. Similarly, buoyant tunes are used in workout playlists to keep the energy high and motivation strong. Try running to Lady Gaga’s “Edge of Glory” and see how much faster you go!

The Social Glue

Music is a social experience. It brings people together at concerts, parties, or even online fan communities. This social aspect of music plays a significant role in how we perceive and enjoy it. Singing along to a favorite song with friends or dancing in a crowd at a concert creates a sense of connection and shared experience.

This social bonding aspect can be traced back to our ancestors, who used music and rhythm to strengthen group cohesion and communication. Today, it’s why national anthems can evoke patriotism and why songs like “We Are the Champions” are perfect for celebrating victories together.

The Cultural Mirror

Music reflects and shapes our culture. It can be a powerful tool for expressing identity, beliefs, and social issues. Genres like hip-hop, punk, and folk have been at the forefront of cultural and political movements, giving voice to the marginalized and sparking change.

Understanding listener psychology in this context means recognizing that our cultural backgrounds and personal experiences influence our musical preferences. For example, country music might resonate more with someone from rural America. At the same time, K-pop has a massive following among younger audiences worldwide due to its catchy beats and elaborate performances.

Personal Preferences: The Musical DNA

Why do some people love heavy metal while others prefer classical music? A combination of factors, including personality, upbringing, and exposure shapes our musical preferences. Extroverts might gravitate towards energetic, danceable music, while introverts might prefer more mellow, introspective tunes.

Interestingly, research suggests that our brains respond differently to different types of music, depending on our personalities. For instance, people open to new experiences often enjoy complex, unconventional music, while those who score high on conscientiousness might prefer more structured, harmonious pieces.

The Marketing Maestro

Understanding listener psychology is also crucial for the music industry. Knowing what makes listeners tick helps artists, producers, and marketers create and promote music that resonates with audiences. This includes everything from songwriting and production techniques to album artwork and promotional strategies.

Consider how pop songs are often meticulously crafted to include catchy hooks and repetitive choruses. These elements are designed to make songs stick in your head and compel you to listen repeatedly. 

Conclusion

Daniel Siegel Alonso suggests that music’s power to move us, make us remember, and unite us is a testament to its deep roots in our psychology. Whether it’s a lullaby that soothes a baby, a love song that captures a romance, or an anthem that unites a crowd, music speaks to us in ways that words alone cannot.

So next time you find yourself swaying to a beat or tearing up to a ballad, remember it’s not just a song. It’s a complex interplay of emotion, memory, culture, and social connection, all orchestrated within the symphony of your mind. And that’s something worth dancing about.

[daechwitatamicrecs]

Okay Jewel LET ME TELL YOU some facts about myself. I take bedtime S E R I O U S L Y. I am in my 30s living like I’m 85. I don’t get heated about much but I will get CRANKY if you fuck with bedtime.

I stayed up a full NINTEY MINUTES past bedtime ON A WORK NIGHT!!!!!!! because I was in the middle of this and I could. Not. Stop.

We won’t talk about how I cried through the entire thing lmfao

Okay but!!! before I even start!!!! That album is so so so so so so so special to me and some of those tracks SPECIFICALLY and some of those LYRICS specifically hold SO MUCH MEANING TO ME from my past, like I am 33 and married with a career and you know how music can just transport you through time??? suddenly I was 20 again listening to “she is beautiful but she don’t mean a thing to me” and wondering if anyone would ever NOT feel like that about me lmaooo so like DAMB the emotional journey hit me harder because I was instantly in this really emotional place before I even applied the story to it! NOT TO GET PERSONAL OR ANYTHING SORRY

Reading this as a married person was like wheeeeeeeeeeeew I had a get up a few times and go hug my spouse!!!!

God the opening scene. Like. Jesus fuck. The very specific pain of hurting and then hurting more because the person who’s supposed to care doesn’t even fucking notice the hurt in the first place?? Like… my throat’s getting all tight as I type my reaction to it. I might cry again during the review lol.

Ugghhh the feeling of not being worth the fight!!! Fuck!!!!! My *spouse* has never made me feel that way but many people have through the years and it’s such a biting pain and just like reader expresses, it feels so impossible to fight back against that! How do you fight back when someone is stepping away from you? What can do you do that doesn’t push them further, faster? How can you change someone’s mind when they decide you’re not worth it? Asjkfhaskjfhajaj like?????

And she can’t even cut her losses and lick her wounds because he’s holding her hostage??? I’d be furious – either love me correctly or LET ME GO, damn! Ughhhhhhhhhhhhh it hurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtssssssssssss!

God, their fight! The “I’m so tired” and the “It isn’t fair, this thing you do” asiofhkjfhakjsfh JEWEL. I’m telling you. nothing has EVER laid me out like this before, oh my GOD is my heart even BEATING anymore?!

(Me: oh word, your husband puts his socks in the hamper instead of the floor NEXT TO the hamper? Keep him.)

“Is that where you’re at? With me.” He makes a sound that’s a lot like a whimper. – ups, cried again here

You might leave, and you’d be okay, and I wouldn’t. – aaaaaaaand here

God her meltdown while they’re fucking is just…….. woof, can’t even cry, I feel absolutely hollow. Babygurl you are letting the intrusive thoughts win rn!!!!!! Tell that brain to shut up!!!

even if you leave, you’re gonna know how much I love you. – ah, okay, crying again!!!!

“Don’t take on the full burden of this. We wound up here. It’s okay to say that.” – aaaaaaand  back to openly sobbing JUST SO YOU KNOW I AM NOT EXAGGERATING this is EXACTLY WHAT IS HAPPENING

The, like…. Hesitantly hopeful vibe through the middle? My god. Like we’re tiptoeing right along next to them.

And like!!! Ugh!!!! Jewel!!! The contrasting views about “how did we get here”?!!! one saying, it doesn’t matter, what matters is where we go next. And the other saying, it does matter, because we have to make sure we don’t do the same thing again? Alfjskfhksjhfaskjhfjhjh I wish I was better at wording what I’m feeling about this because goddamn!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yoongi pouts again. Really exaggerates it. “I’m really stuck on this bit. I might need a kiss for good luck.” – LIKE!!!!!! WHO ALLOWED THIS!!!!! GOODBYE MIN YOONGI I AM DONE WITH YOU!!!!!!

Lmaooo seokjin is such a menace

AND THEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YOU DID NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! TURN IT INTO A EURYDICE THING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AND THIS!!!!!!!!!! “All the quiet, private ways Yoongi used to tell you he loved you. When was the last time? Just minutes ago.” THE CALL-BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HOLY FUCKING DAMN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sentences that made me want to throw my laptop out the window and quit writing forever because of how good they were:

you’ve made peace with knowing there are things that are built to last and things like what you and Yoongi have: things that make you hesitant, things that make you yearn, things that sit in your stomach all wrong, taste caustic on your tongue.

Getting Yoongi to do anything these days is akin to pulling teeth, and you’ve got a mouth full of blood.

Sometimes you hurt Yoongi when you mean to hurt yourself because it feels the same. (full on openly sobbing by this part on my first read btw lol)

You think I haven’t already—” Mourned the end of my marriage, JESUS FUCK OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sometimes things are easier to say in these in-between spaces

Sometimes it’s just nice to believe in luck, on top of all the other things you already have to believe in. (Like each other.)

There are not enough words for how amazing this was. I know it lived in my brain for weeks after I read it the first time and I’ll be back to read again. I’m just floored and astounded at how great this was. Thank you for your hard work and for sharing this with us!!!

by the time i've figured out what it's worth | myg

(or, sometimes you go through hell, and sometimes you make it to the other side.)

✤ PAIRING musician!yoongi x f. reader ✤ SUMMARY you used to find comfort in it—listening to those old songs. the shy sounds of falling in love, the tinkling of a ring in a dish, the inevitable crash and burn. all those songs aren’t so comforting anymore, when you’d do anything to keep him and yoongi’s got one foot out the door. ✤ GENRE est. relationship, marriage au | angst, smut, fluff ✤ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✤ WARNINGS this fic deals with a lot of unhappy topics: mental health, self-worth, divorce, the general demise of a relationship & marriage, counseling & therapy—therefore, there are moments of heavy-ish angst. there are moments where this couple is not all that nice to each other. there are arguments and resolutions. so, it's heavy but they get through it (aka there is a happy ending). american setting, yoongi is a solo artist, everyone pls pray for marriage counselor kim namjoon, seokjin is once again the fic's mvp, swearing, alcohol, recreational drug use (weed/edibles), one quick reference to c*vid, emotional hurt/comfort, miscommunication, two knuckleheads engaging in knucklehead behavior, lots of repetition and space metaphors. this is basically "what would happen if yoongi wrote tiny vessels about his wife: the fic," so do with that what you will. ✤ SMUT WARNINGS oral sex (both receiving), fingering, very slight dom yoongi, dirty talk, unprotected vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, angst and crying during sex, hands on throat but no choking, fingers in mouth bc it's me. i think that's it. the smut is mostly tame. ✤ WORDCOUNT 20k ✤ LISTEN TO all of transatlanticism by death cab for cutie, especially "tiny vessels." all the lyrics used throughout the fic are from this album, so it'd help contextualize a lot! also "monday morning," "stay young go dancing," and "you are a tourist." ✤ WRITTEN FOR the composition of the century collab. thank you to isi (@raplinesmoon), ryen (@kithtaehyung), and mars (@joheunsaram) for letting me participate. ♡ ✤ THANK YOU to jess (@the-boy-meets-evil) and bee (@hot-soop) for being my betas. this was a labor of love and a big ask, so i appreciate the both of you very much. ✤ AUTHOR'S NOTE hi! thank you for checking out my fic. before you read, i just want to overemphasize that this is a pretty angsty piece at times. a lot of it is very personal, and therefore i understand if it's not your cup of tea! if you do read it, i hope you enjoy it and find something human here. relationships are messy because humans are messy, and sometimes both the easiest and most difficult thing you can ever do is love another person.

so this is the new year, and i have no resolutions / or self-assigned penance for problems with easy solutions.

There’s a woman on the television trying to sell you a recliner.

Yoongi isn’t paying attention. He’d downed two glasses of whiskey and said he had something to work on, and he’s here, just like you’d asked, but the distance between the two of you feels insurmountable. Your ninth New Year’s Eve together, and all you’ve got to show for it is a crumbling foundation, a pair of headphones shoved over his ears, a woman on the television trying to sell you a recliner. Some home shopping channel, because you couldn’t bear to see anyone else having a good time. Selfish. Fucking selfish, and you wonder if Yoongi would be on your end of the couch if you weren’t.

What does it matter. You’d be here either way, because you’ve made peace with knowing there are things that are built to last and things like what you and Yoongi have: things that make you hesitant, things that make you yearn, things that sit in your stomach all wrong, taste caustic on your tongue.

It’s logical, then, that you just need something to do. A distraction. You push yourself up from the couch with a sigh, joints cracking, and you feel old. Exhausted, more like; something bone-deep and not easily cured. You pass through the dining room on the way to the kitchen, and all those wedding photos taunt you. Happier times, the two of you smiling into a kiss, Yoongi’s hands on your waist, fingers tangled in chiffon.

You wonder which one of you will stay here after it all goes to shit.

Him, if you were a betting man.

You scrub at the dishes in the sink until your hands are nearly cracked from the scalding water. Yellow gloves sit unused on the counter—sometimes you want the burn because pain is familiar, and a physical pain is easier to solve than your failing marriage. So you scrub away the remnants of a dinner that found you and Yoongi eating in silence. Nothing to say to one another after another year gone by. Not much to look back on fondly. And then you scrub some more, like you could get rid of all the scabs inside of you just as easily.

Some things circle the drain and wash away. Others stain.

You already know which one Yoongi is.

From the living room, the muted sounds of a countdown. Palpable excitement you should be able to feel, but find only numbness instead. Yoongi must have changed the channel. There’s a supercut playing in your head, all the past celebrations. All the parties the two of you have gone to, the years spent alone but together. All the people you’ve kissed in front of. All the quiet, private ways Yoongi used to tell you he loved you. When was the last time? What does it matter. There’s seven seconds until the new year and Yoongi hasn’t come looking for you, so what does it fucking matter.

Fireworks explode outside. A sob wracks your body as you crumble to the floor. There’s a small puddle of dishwater that seeps into the hemline of your shirt. Yoongi hasn’t come looking for you and he can’t hear you, so there’s no one to witness your breakdown but the fucking dishes in the sink. Yoongi had chosen the countertops.

You’re going to miss this place when it’s no longer your home.

instincts are misleading / you shouldn't think what you're feeling / they don't tell you what you know you should want.

Kim Namjoon wouldn’t have been your first choice, if you’d had the luxury of choice.

You like him enough, though. Wicked smart, patient to a fault, pragmatic when it’s required. There’s not much more you could ask for in a marriage counselor besides not needing one at all, but that hadn’t been in the cards. The first time you and Yoongi had met him, you’d cracked a joke that hadn’t landed. The embarrassment of it still stings, made worse by the discomfort of the couch in his office.

“How are things?” he asks. He always dresses impeccably. Today he’s in a sage green sweater and tan trousers that must’ve cost a fortune to get tailored. Even his notebook is genuine leather; sometimes it squeaks when he jots down notes too fast, friction against the fabric of his clothing.

Yoongi is quiet. If you’re embarrassed over a joke, he’s embarrassed over everything else. At least you’re willing to work on things. Getting Yoongi to do anything these days is akin to pulling teeth, and you’ve got a mouth full of blood. “Fine,” Yoongi answers, eyes locked downward. Namjoon’s office has hardwood floors. Tigerwood, he’d said once. Yoongi had complimented them. That had stung, too.

Wicked smart. Namjoon turns to you, glasses slipping a little down his nose. “Would you agree with that?”

You wouldn’t, but the urge to make this easy on Yoongi is hard to fight off. Everything is hard. It’d taken him twenty minutes past midnight to come find you in the kitchen all those weeks ago, chest still heaving, eyes swollen. He’d been distraught, tried to kiss your tears away, apologized over and over like they were the only words he knew. Things aren’t fine, but at least you’ve been willing to fight, and the cost of that persistence feels like the weight of the world.

“No,” you admit, and Namjoon just nods. Writes something down. You don’t have the courage to look at Yoongi. Sometimes it’s easier to let go of a dying thing.

“Okay. How were the holidays?”

It’s hard to breathe around the lump in your throat. All you want to do is hold Yoongi’s hand, scream at him, shake him and ask why he’s doing this to you. Why he’s giving up. Why you aren’t worth more effort—not worth it anymore, when you used to be. If he doesn’t love you anymore you’ve already said you’ll go, and he begs you not to, says he’ll do better, he’s sorry, please don’t.

“They were hard,” you answer, and Yoongi nods his agreement in your peripheral. “We didn’t exchange gifts this year. First time ever.”

“And why is that?”

Yoongi stays quiet. Like pulling teeth, you think, and there’s a flashbang of anger, resentment. Sometimes you want to hurt him. Sometimes you want to make him feel as awful as you do, want him to suffer, want him to atone. It isn’t fair, the things you think, and all you want to do is love your husband without guilt, without wondering if there’s someone out there who’d appreciate it more. Still, you’ve got a nasty streak, and you can’t help but press on the bruise. “Because I knew I’d be the only one.”

“Can you expand on that?”

You shrug. Pick at invisible dirt beneath your nails. “Yoongi said he’d be busy this year. I know what that means.”

“That’s not—” Yoongi sighs, cuts himself off. Runs his hands over his face, sick of this same argument. “Baby, that isn’t fair. I asked you if you wanted to do gifts this year and you said no.”

The laugh that bubbles out of you is derisive, cruel. You’re sick of the same arguments, too. Sick of feeling stuck, some helpless animal in a glue trap. Sick of this office, with Namjoon’s priceless art that doesn’t mean a fucking thing to you; the tigerwood floors that got nicer words out of Yoongi than you have in months; the low thrum of the baseboard heat. Sick of asking Yoongi what you can do, what you can change to make this work, and getting nothing besides a self-deprecating sigh.

Yoongi loves you. Doesn’t want to hurt you. Doesn’t want you to put those kinds of burdens on your shoulders, but taking on all that water himself does nothing but make the both of you sink.

He’ll write about it, though. That’s the thing. Yoongi will write about it, and it used to bring you comfort—listening to those old songs, an aural timeline of your and Yoongi’s relationship. The shy sounds of falling in love, the tinkling of a ring in a dish, the inevitable crash and burn. All those songs aren’t so comforting anymore, when you’d do anything to keep him and Yoongi’s got one foot out the door.

“Because I listened to the song,” you say, and it should feel relieving, should alleviate some of that weight you’ve been carrying around. Instead, you just feel guilty, confessing to some cardinal sin. Yoongi goes stock-still, doesn’t dare to breathe, spine straighter than it’s been in years, and all you feel is guilt.

Namjoon quirks an eyebrow. “The song?”

this is the moment that you know that you told her that you loved her, but you don't / you touch her skin and then you think that she is beautiful but she don't mean a thing to me.

“It wasn’t meant to be about you,” Yoongi says, and his words are pleading, like if he uses the right inflections he can get you to understand. “It was just—shit, I don’t know, I just. I was just writing. I needed to do something with the way I was feeling.” His words take on more panic the longer you’re quiet, and by the end there’s a dazed look in his eyes. They’re taking on water, too. “Baby, please. Did you really think—”

This isn’t the kind of argument meant for an audience, and you’d said as much in therapy. Told Namjoon you’d like to discuss it with Yoongi in private and maybe you could all hash it out during your next session, because you knew this would happen. Knew you’d break down, knew you’d be embarrassed. How do you say your husband wrote a song about not loving you anymore and make it out still feeling whole? How do you swallow all that anger and remember all that bullshit Namjoon had taught you about how to communicate? Your stupid fucking “I” statements.

“Silver Lake?” you retort, resentment burning in your veins. “That wasn’t supposed to be about me? What, are you fucking someone else out there?”

Your husband looks like you’ve slapped him, and sometimes you want to. Sometimes you want to opt out of this life—where they’re just words to Yoongi, but a little too biographical to you. Because you’re not the only one who listens. Yoongi writes these songs and people listen to them and they think, isn’t he married. They think, did he really write a song like this about his wife. They think, that’s a little fucked up. Because they’re just words to Yoongi, and the rest of the world doesn’t know. They’re not in on the joke, and neither are you.

There are few words you can use to explain your hurt. How you’ve sat with that song these past few weeks, scouring each line for something to tell you it hurts now, but it’s going to be okay. Always coming up empty. Those lines you’ve fixated on, refused to let go of—

So when you ask, "Is something wrong?" I think, "You're damn right there is, but we can't talk about it now.”

—because that’s how it is, how it goes.

“This is my fucking life, Yoongi.” There’s only heat where there used to be patience. “You write these songs and you don’t spare a single thought for how they might affect me. You write these songs instead of talking to me, and I’m supposed to know how to fix everything, right? Aren’t I? You can’t even tell me how to fix this fucking marriage, but you’ll write a song about how I don’t mean a goddamn thing to you.”

There are tears rolling down your face. You hadn’t realized you started crying, but everything feels wet, feels wrong. Feels like you’re occupying a body that isn’t yours. You’re having this argument in someone else’s bedroom. You’re watching someone else’s marriage fall apart. Someone else’s life. “Either help me fix this and put in the work or let me go.” Everything boils over eventually. There’s only so much you can stave off before the inevitable, and now it’s come for you. “Please.” You choke on a sob. “Yoongi, please, I’m so tired.”

And Yoongi—Yoongi’s got a lot of nervous habits. Little things he does when the anxiety gets to be too much, and there’s one you share, one of those couple things where you pick up one another’s mannerisms, ways of speaking, specific inflections. Yoongi fidgets with his wedding band, pushes it up to that knobby fourth knuckle with his thumb, twirls it around.

Usually, when he pushes it far enough, there’s a strip of even paler skin. A place the sun hasn’t touched; a place that bears proof that Yoongi is yours. Yoongi pushes his wedding band with his thumb and that strip of skin matches the rest, and it strikes someplace deep that’s irrational and unfair. Because it makes sense that there isn’t a discrepancy, that everything is uniform. It makes sense, but everything is so fragile that the thought comes unbidden. Maybe there’s no discrepancy because Yoongi isn’t wearing it. Maybe there’s no discrepancy because Yoongi has let go without letting go, and there’s nothing to salvage, no point in begging, in putting the gun in his hand and forcing him to make the decision. It all tastes sour, tastes like your tongue has crumbled to ash, but—

“I’m not letting you go,” Yoongi responds, words just as waterlogged as yours. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“But you want to,” you say, and it sounds like a conclusion but you mean it like a question. A plea. Perhaps that’s the crux of it: you just can’t say what you mean. Sometimes Yoongi’s honesty feels like a brand, a permanent reminder of everything he’s ever felt that you’re forced to carry, but at least there’s honor in that. At least Yoongi doesn’t talk in fucking riddles.

He shakes his head. “No.” At least there’s conviction in his words. “No, I don’t. This is just—it’s hard right now, okay. It’s hard and it fucking sucks, and I don’t know why, but I’m not—” He sucks in a breath. Sometimes Yoongi can’t say what he means, either.

“Just say it, Yoongi.” So, you prod. Sometimes you find the most mottled bruise on his body and you press on it, because when you love someone the way you love Yoongi, you also know all the ways to hurt them. Sometimes you hurt Yoongi when you mean to hurt yourself because it feels the same.

“What do you want me to say,” he answers, defeated and raw. “Tell me what you want me to say, because if I didn’t know better, it’d sound like you wanted me to leave. It sounds like you want that but you want me to be the bad guy. You want me to pull the trigger.”

You don’t. You know that for certain, just by the way it feels excruciating to merely think about. What would your life even look like without Yoongi? What would it be? But you’re still that caged animal. Still resentful of Yoongi’s composure, because you can fall apart at a moment’s notice and Yoongi is always calm, prepared; always the last building standing in a hurricane.

“I don’t want that,” you say, borrowing a bit of your husband’s honesty, his fortitude, “but I need you to know that’s where we’re at. I need you to be able to say it, instead of treating it like it’s some impossible thing—“

“It is,” Yoongi argues, brows pinched, lips pouted. “Baby, what are you saying? It is. Why wouldn’t it be? That’s what you want?”

“You don’t write songs like you did about someone you’re not planning on leaving, Yoongi. I don’t know how you don’t understand that. I don’t—how can you think it’s impossible? You think I’ve just been doing all of this for fun? The therapy, the crying? You think I haven’t already—” Mourned the end of my marriage, you want to say, but you can’t. You need to be realistic. You need to say what you mean, and even if it’s true—even if you’ve mentally divided up everything in this house, thehouse itself—it doesn’t do you any good to create new wounds when both of you are already beaten and battered.

“You’re my fucking wife,” comes Yoongi’s response, and the way he says it feels dirty. Yoongi calls you his wife the way lesser men would use a slur, and sometimes Yoongi is composed but sometimes he’s angry. Sometimes he’s so angry the world becomes too small to contain him. “I’m not gonna—you’ve already what? Given up? Checked out? It’s not fair, this thing you do. Decide how things are gonna play out before they even happen. It’s fucking bullshit. You’re my fucking wife, and the least you could do is give me a little credit—”

“Oh, that’s rich.”

Yoongi’s pupils blow wide. Sometimes you think they’re the darkest thing in the universe. Vantablack. “Yeah, it is. It is fucking rich.”

“At least I’m trying! At least I’m doing something, not just writing little fucking songs about how much I don’t care about you.”

Yoongi slams the door behind him.

For the first time, you wonder if he’s coming back.

i am waiting for that sense of relief / i am waiting for you to flee the scene / as if you held in your hand the smoking gun / and on the floor lay the one you said you loved.

You feel him before you hear him, and he doesn’t wake you up.

It’s dark. Probably sometime between one and two, judging by the pillar of moonlight creeping in through the curtains. Yoongi is quiet as he moves around the bedroom, still so considerate even now, and you just watch. Jeans removed one leg at a time, hung neatly in the closet; socks removed one by one, into the hamper; flannel unbuttoned with calloused fingers, dropped on the floor. He’ll pick it up tomorrow, just like he always does. Down to just a t-shirt, neckline loose and stretched from overwear, and black briefs.

Moonlight suits him, you think. (You’ve always thought.) Casts silver shadows on his skin, fills in the contours, lends credence to the thought that Yoongi is something ethereal, someone wasting his time on earth.

He’s down to a t-shirt and briefs, and he hesitates. Takes a step toward the bed and thinks better of it. Doesn’t know what to do in this liminal space, in this liminal period of time. There’s only two ways to go, and Yoongi will either leave or he’ll stay, and right now he doesn’t know which one it’s going to be.

“Yoongi,” you say, and you try to make the decision for him. “You’re home?”

You see him swallow, watch his shoulders slump. “Yeah,” he says, and it’s quiet like the nighttime. You’re in the middle of the city and this moment is so quiet. “I’m—did I wake you? I’m sorry, I just—”

“No,” you answer. You don’t want to fight. “You’re fine. Do you—are you coming to bed?”

He nods. Seems to fold in on himself just a little more. “Yeah. Yeah, just have to brush my teeth.”

There’s the padding of feet on hardwood. Something that sounds like a stubbed toe. A loud curse. The flick of the bathroom light, the faucet, spit. The padding of feet on hardwood, then the bedroom rug. The depression of the mattress, his phone plugged in and discarded carelessly on his nightstand. An exhale, like he’s finally home after a long day.

Does Yoongi still consider you his home?

“I’m sorry,” you say. Still quiet, just like the nighttime. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

You hear Yoongi swallow again. Smell just the faintest hint of alcohol. “No one’s fighting, baby,” he answers. Woven into his words is a softness you don’t deserve. “We can talk about it in the morning.”

“Can we talk about it now?”

Yoongi suits the moonlight, but so do you. It makes you brave. Sometimes things are easier to say in these in-between spaces: love and heartbreak, midnight and morning. Sometimes the sun is too reflective, and sometimes it burns.

“Do you want to?” You nod, even though instinct tells you to shirk away and take it back. A small piece of honesty to work yourself up to something bigger, more consequential. “Okay.”

Sometimes you get what you want and aren’t sure what to do with it, so you roll onto your side, the one facing your husband, and suck in a breath. Hold it. Count to five. Let it go. Yoongi reserves all his patience for you, always. “I’m really scared, Yoongi.”

His sigh is fractured, watery. “Me too,” he admits. “There’s a lot I want to say and I just—I don’t know how. Which makes it worse, I know, and then I don’t know how to fix it.”

Is that why… “The song?”

Yoongi nods. “I needed to get it out. Like, some call of the void shit, you know? Put those big fears into words in a way that—it doesn’t make sense, looking back, because I thought it was just an outlet. Just, write this hypothetical song about the collapse of our relationship because it fucking terrified me and then let it go. Like how sometimes Namjoon tells us to write letters to each other and burn them.” He fists the duvet. Moonlight gleams off his wedding band. “I’m sorry. I need you to know it wasn’t real… like that.”

“Okay.”

“I—you were right. About the other thing. About me not being able to say it.”

“Can you now?”

Yoongi shakes his head. “I don’t think I can. Makes it real.”

“You also can’t stand in a burning house and pretend it’s not on fire.”

That gets a laugh out of him. Sardonic, a little self-deprecating, but it’s there. “Is that where you’re at? With me.” He makes a sound that’s a lot like a whimper. “Divorce.”

“I don’t want to be,” you answer. Another small truth leading up to a bigger one. “I’m trying not to be.”

“But you are.”

Shakily, you nod. “Yeah, I am. Things just aren’t… they’re not working, even though I’m trying, and I just.” Yoongi’s hand finds yours. It’s sweat-slick and cold. “Sometimes I think it’d be the kind thing to do. Put us both out of our misery.”

“Relationship euthanasia.”

“Yeah, kind of. It’s funny, you know. My vet always used to say you’d know it’s time when there’s more bad days than good, so I guess that really is the best way to put it.”

“What would that even look like?”

You want to say you don’t know. That you haven’t thought about it. Is this the call of the void again or is this for real? But the twilight makes you honest, so you tell the truth. “I would leave,” you say. “I wouldn’t be able to stay here, and I couldn’t ask you to go. It’s always been more your space than mine.”

Yoongi hums an agreement. Not cruel, it just makes sense. “I’m not tied to this place,” you continue. “This city. This state. I’m not sure I’d be able to stay, knowing you’re still here in a house that used to be ours without me in it. But sometimes I’m scared I wouldn’t be able to leave, either.”

“You could,” Yoongi answers. When you look up, he’s crying. Cheeks streaked with tears, eyes swollen. “You can do anything, you know? You’re so much stronger than me. You could do the hard thing and be okay. It’s part of the reason I’ve been so scared to have this conversation. You might leave, and you’d be okay, and I wouldn’t.”

“Yoongi...”

“I know you’re tired,” he says, voice laying his own exhaustion bare, “but I want you to be happy. So I will—I’ll let you go, if it’s what you want.” He’s crying harder now, staccato sobs wracking his body, making him smaller. “I don’t want to,” he whispers. “I don’t think I can, but I will. For you. If it’s what you need. If it’ll make you happy.”

You can’t stand it. “Yoongi, no.” You’re on your haunches, wiping furiously at his cheeks, thumbing beneath his eyes. “Being apart from you would never make me happy.”

You’re in his lap. He’s still too anxious to reach out and touch, maybe still a little scorned, and his hands lay at his sides. Twist into the duvet again. You want them on you. You always want Yoongi on you. “Tell me how to fix this,” he begs. “Tell me and I’ll do it, I promise, baby, please just tell me. I can’t—I don’t want to—”

“Yoongi.” He looks up, meets your eye. Moonlight suits him. “Something has to change, and you know that as well as I do. We can’t keep going like this, but just—just meet me in the middle, okay? Help me. Let’s start there.”

“Okay,” comes his automatic response. He’d agree to anything right now. Take any lifeline. And then the words sink in, and the sobs taper off but he’s still got the shakes, so you hold him. Wrap him in your arms and just let him breathe. “Okay,” he repeats. Measured. Considered.

Still standing, even after a hurricane.

i need you so much closer, so come on.

Morning comes, and with it—tenderness.

Also the mug of coffee on your nightstand, Yoongi’s hand splayed on the swell of your hip, the warmth that seeps into your skin. He’s typing away on his phone with the other, and he abandons it to pull you closer when you stir.

“Morning,” you murmur. Yoongi’s reply rumbles against your back.

“S’the afternoon, baby.”

Your laugh is abrupt, soft. Dissipates into the air as quickly as it’d arrived. “Okay. Good afternoon, then.”

Yoongi shuffles closer, adjusts so he’s pressed fully against your back. The hand that was on your hip moves beneath the hemline of your shirt. Explores the soft skin of your stomach, thumbs at the valleys between each rib. Yoongi’s touch is always laced with soft confidence; now, he still knows the way, still has the map memorized, but he’s reluctant.

You place your hand over his, move it higher. His thumb grazes the bottom swell of your breast and he sighs, presses impossibly closer still. “I love you,” he says quietly, like a secret. “Want you to know that.”

“I do,” you answer. He sighs again at your affirmation—more of an exhale, all relief—and drops his head to the crook of your neck. Presses a kiss there. The heat of him is almost disorienting, especially after being deprived of it for so long. “Haven’t been this close to you in months.”

He nips at your ear with his teeth. “I’ll make it up to you,” he says, and something stirs low in your belly. “Take a shower with me. I still smell like the bar.”

You snort. “Very sexy. Top tier dirty talk.”

He presses another kiss beneath your ear. “Please?”

“Let me drink some coffee first. I’m barely awake.” When you roll onto your side, Yoongi looks small, on the verge of dejection. Soft. You can’t help but smile. Can’t help but reach out to smooth the furrow between his brows, kiss away his pout. “I’ll be there, I promise. Give me five minutes.”

He wants to push it, you can tell, but he just says okay, baby. Presses one final kiss to your forehead before he’s gone, before the sound of bare feet on hardwood returns, before you hear the shower turn on, Yoongi’s low hum as he patters around and talks to himself.

You sit up and take stock. Your eyes are sore, head feels like it’s been split in two, but your heart feels… lighter. Scabbed over. Another battle fought and won, and even though the war isn’t over, you feel cautiously optimistic. Better than you have in a while, and you’re smiling when you press the coffee mug to your lips. Still warm, so Yoongi hasn’t been awake much longer than you. You wonder how many cups he’s already had, if he drank them black.

Half your cup is gone before Yoongi starts yelling from the en suite, complaining loudly that he’s cold and lonely, to hurry up. That he’s going to use all the hot water out of spite, but what if it gets too hot, what if he perishes in here and you have to live the rest of your life overcome with guilt. If it’s too hot, wouldn’t I perish too? you call back. Yoongi’s responding silence is so loud, but you fill it with a wild cackle.

“I’m gonna use all the nice shampoo!” he yells, but you’re already in the bathroom.

“And you’re gonna pay to replace it,” you retort, and he’s so caught off-guard that you’re there that he screams, drops a bottle on his foot, screams again. Up and off goes your t-shirt—Yoongi’s; smells like him and not a bar—and then you’re peeling off your underwear, tossing everything in the hamper. Into the shower. You reach out and touch Yoongi just so he knows you’re there even though he already does, but you press a kiss between his shoulder blades all the same. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he grumbles, all embarrassment.

Yoongi had insisted on a large shower. Something big enough for the both of you to fit in, and he’d blushed furiously when talking about it, but it was never anything sexual. You’d tried shower sex once, back in that shitty Silver Lake apartment, and never bothered again. But Yoongi craved the intimacy of showering together, the vulnerability, and over time you found it almost lonesome to shower by yourself.

So when he says, “Come here,” there’s enough space to maneuver beneath the spray, warm and not perishable-hot, and stand beside him. Enough space for Yoongi to rake his hands through your hair, get the strands wet; enough space to reach back for the nice shampoo he didn’t use all of; enough space for him to lather it in his hands and massage it into your scalp. A practiced song and dance. Something Yoongi could never forget the steps of.

Rinsed out, down the drain. Yoongi works in the conditioner next, brushes it through with his fingers, presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I was talking to Jin,” he says, and your mind is blank for a second. Then—when you woke up and he was on his phone. “About the cabin.”

“The one in Oakhurst?”

Yoongi nods. Turns you around so your back is to the spray, facing him. Lets the water rinse the conditioner away, too, before he’s placing a hand beneath your chin, tilting your face up. “Would you wanna go? Just us?”

“How long?”

A thumb settles in the contour of your cheek. Third finger traces the bridge of your nose. “However long you want. I—I don’t have anything, for a while. Could you work from there?”

You nod, a little delirious on how gentle Yoongi’s being with you. “Ye-yeah. Should be fine.”

You suck in a breath, shuddering as Yoongi brushes your rib cage when he reaches for the loofah. “D’you—” A pause. Time for you to swallow that familiar lump in your throat, keep from crying. “D’you think it’ll help?”

He pauses. Nods, so minutely you almost miss it. “I don’t know,” he admits, “but I want to try.”

“Me too.”

“Okay.” Presses his lips to yours. “However long you want, then.”

After he’s scrubbed the scars from your skin, the sadness, he wraps you in a warm towel. Stands behind you and wraps his arms around you as you both brush your teeth. Presses a kiss to your temple. Watches, so fond it makes you ache, as you dry your hair. Cracks little jokes about each product you use, says surely you don’t need all that, and you swat at him because you do. Because he uses just as many as you do, and sometimes uses yours. Tenderly takes the lotion from your hands and rubs it into your skin. His hands are firm when they run over your calves, your thighs, and your moan is quiet but it’s there, and you watch, mouth open, as Yoongi’s eyes flutter shut. As he takes a second to collect himself, breathe through it.

He just hasn’t heard that sound in a while, is all.

“Can I make it up to you now?” The words are spoken into your skin, pressed into the ditch of your knee, all warm breath skirting along your skin. “Show you how much I missed you? How much I love you?”

Goosebumps erupt all over. Dazed, you nod, and instead of words, you can feel the way Yoongi smirks. “Gonna take my time with you,” he promises. “Gonna take you apart. Would you like that, baby? Want me to take you apart?”

You meet your own eyes in the mirror, quick to forget where you are when Yoongi’s like this. You already look picked apart. Glassy eyes, mouth parted. The towel slips in your slackened grip and you dare another glance in the mirror, already knowing you’ll find Yoongi’s hungry gaze staring back, at full height.

“Look at you,” he chides, tone husky, and it’s not a shock that your husband wants you, that you’re both desirable and desired, but Yoongi is usually so unshakeable. Stable. Seeing him so affected from so little has you lightheaded, has your thighs clamping together unconsciously. “No.” Words firm. “Don’t hide from me.”

You reach back, still staring into the mirror, eyes still locked with Yoongi’s. Your hands tangle in his hair. Dark, longer than it’s been in so long, soft when you pull on it a little. Yoongi groans, buries his face in your neck, nips at the skin there. Through half-lidded eyes you watch as his hands roam your body. Feel the way he grows hard against the small of your back. Briefly, you think you might want it like this. Might want Yoongi to hike up the towel, bend you over the counter.

(Impersonal, because that’s what you’ve grown used to.)

But your hand finds his, slow their travel, lace your fingers together. “Not here.” He bites at your skin again and your whole body flushes when he begins to suck a bruise into your neck. “Yoo—Yoongi. No-not here.”

The bites slowly melt into something taunting, almost cruel. “You sound a little needy, baby.”

“I am.” You’re not embarrassed to admit it. It’s been so long you’re nearly aching with want, and you know Yoongi, know the kind of lover he is. The want is so strong you’re trembling with it. “Yoongi, please.”

Your words are hushed, meant only for the sanctity of this moment. Yoongi looks up long enough to catch your eye—long enough for the corners of his lips to pull into a smirk, to squeeze your hand tighter. “You don’t want it like this?” he asks, even though he knows your answer. But he still makes a show of it. Uses his free hand to grip the edge of your towel, drag it up and over your ass. Pauses to knead the flesh there before planting his hand in the center of your back and bending you over the counter. “Bet I could take you just like this, couldn’t I? Bet I’d just slide right in.”

The whine that escapes you is honestly pathetic, but you’re already so wound up, coiled tight, that you’re long past the point of caring. And you wonder, briefly, why you should care at all; why you care about the sounds you make, the way your body looks, when it’s Yoongi. When it’s your husband and not some random hookup. It’s that thought—this is my husband, my husband, my husband—that has your toes curling against the cold tile. It’s seeing the glint of his wedding band in the mirror.

“Do it here.” Your voice betrays your desperation. “Just—fuck, Yoongi, do it here, I don’t care.”

It’s maddening, the fact that he hasn’t even touched you yet. Not properly. But that’s the thing about space: sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it’s a dying star, a supernova explosion, and you know what comes after. A black hole. Endless, inescapable, dark dark dark. That’s where the two of you are. That’s what all of this is, just a perpetual pull towards Yoongi, fated. Perhaps nothing more than gravity, but you let it reel you in nonetheless.

If the two of you are fated to go out the same way, the same dying star, you’ll go willingly.

“I’ll give it to you how you wan’ it,” Yoongi slurs. Leaves wet, open-mouthed kisses across your neck. “Get on the bed, baby, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

He’s on you before you even have a chance to drop the towel. Drapes his body over yours and presses you into the mattress, wraps one hand around your throat just to keep you there. Like you might leave. Like you might decide you don’t want this, don’t want him. As if you could. “Tell me what else you want,” he says, words unstable and wavering. He’s so fucking hard.

“Your mouth.”

He cock twitches at your words, your direction, and he smiles down at you in a way that makes you feel like you’re burning. “Yeah? That’s what you want?” A switch flips when you nod, chest heaving. Yoongi gets so serious, laser-focused, and it’s overwhelming when it’s pointed at you. You reach out, trace two fingers over his cheekbones just to make sure he’s real, and Yoongi captures them, presses a kiss to the center of your palm.

He’s not so gentle after that.

Yoongi moves slowly, intentionally, and you feel like prey, all part of the show. He trails his tongue down the column of your throat, the space between your breasts, your stomach. Spreads your legs and settles between them, places them over his shoulders. Stares. You can only imagine what you must look like: how wet, how open. His breath is so warm against you when he speaks. “You have to come on my tongue before you can have my cock.” He presses his thumb against your clit and circles slowly, and you can’t remember the last time he touched you like this. “Do you understand, baby?” A few months at least, maybe longer.

You nod. You’d agree to anything to feel Yoongi’s mouth on you, and he knows this, laughs before he leans in to lick a fat stripe against your slit. It’s instinct, the way your hands fly to his hair, trying to pull him closer. Having him here isn’t enough; you need to be consumed by him, need him to ruin you from the inside out, even though he already has. It’s also instinct, the way you know you belong to him, the way everyone who might come after him will pale in comparison.

As diligently as ever, Yoongi works you over. Eats you out so sloppily you can feel it pooling between your legs, seeping into the sheets below you, and the way he’s moaning around you makes you writhe. Has you gripping at the duvet, his hair, his hand. Has you rolling your hips against his face, groaning when Yoongi just takes it. When he says like that, yeah, so fucking hot, baby, love when you use me. When he reaches up to shove two fingers in your mouth and gives you no warning before he presses them inside.

“Fuck, fuck—”

Embarrassing, the way you can hear yourself, the way you can hear every wet pass of Yoongi’s tongue. Embarrassing that he’s only had his mouth on you for a few minutes and you’re already teetering on the edge. Embarrassing how hard Yoongi has to grip your hips to keep you where he wants you. Embarrassing that you welcome the bruises, want to be marked by him. “Are you close?” You think you nod. It’s hard to do much of anything when Yoongi crooks his fingers, presses firmly against your g-spot. “Is my beautiful girl gonna come from my fucking fingers? My mouth?”

(You are beautiful, but you don’t mean a thing to me.)

You try not to go there. You squeeze your eyes shut and try not to think about the words in that song, try to remember that’s all they are. If Yoongi had meant to hurt you, though, he’d hit his mark. Just words, you remind yourself, but they take you out of your body completely.

And it’s a funny thing, this almost-grief, because you’re hurting so badly it feels like you’re drowning, but with the pain comes guilt. What do you do when the person who cut you is the only one who can bandage it? What do you do with this pain when you want to talk it to death, make sense of it, but you don’t want to make Yoongi feel worse?

You hide—hide the pain, hide yourself.

You’ve gotten good at it over the last few months, too much practice, so you let Yoongi suction his lips around your clit and get you off just the way he said he would. You let him kiss you after, taste yourself on his tongue, and you think, This is what you deserve, I hope you taste like me forever, I hope it never washes away. You tug your lip between your teeth when you push him away and reach for his cock. Spit into your hand and say something dirty as you jerk him off, and Yoongi falls for it. Moans brokenly and thrusts into your hand, gets greedy just the way you had before reality humbled you.

“Ba-baby,” he whines, rutting a little harder, a little faster. Everyone gets selfish eventually. “Gotta fuck you.”

It should feel satisfying, seeing him desperate like this, seeing firsthand how badly he wants you, the fucked-out look on his face, but it all rings hollow. So you finish the show—push two fingers into yourself and coat Yoongi’s cock once more with your own slick—and roll over onto your stomach, arch your back the way you know he likes, and beg him to fuck you.

Yoongi falls for it. Yoongi pushes inside and groans, and you moan because you should and not because it’ll cover the sound of your sobs. Yoongi rolls his hips and lets whatever he thinks come out of his mouth, all filth, and it should do something for you but instead you’re wondering what he’d say to someone else. Would he fuck someone else like this? Would he be as desperate for it?

Eventually you forget to keep moaning but you don’t stop crying. You wonder if it should feel cathartic or if it’ll just feel like this forever. You think about New Year’s Eve and crying alone in the kitchen, how Yoongi hadn’t known. You think, I’m scared I could eventually hate him. I’m scared that line gets blurrier everyday.

“Baby?” Yoongi realizes this time.

You think, Another dying star.

“Did I hurt you?”

You think, Maybe I’ve already burned up. Maybe this is all that’s left.

“Baby, talk to me, please—”

You think, How many holes can you patch before it all sinks anyway?

“I’m sorry—”

You think, I’m scared of how much I want to hurt you. I’m scared I’m going to be angry forever.

Yoongi turns you gently onto your back. Takes a long, hard look at the tears rolling down your cheeks. Seems to commit them to memory. Starts crying, too, and it’s nothing more than vindication that doesn’t feel satisfying. Everything just tastes like ash: remnants of the supernova, the crash and burn, a thousand cuts.

Yoongi loves you. “Keep going,” you say, because you both need it. Not every problem can be fucked through, but you think this one can. “Please, keep going.”

Yoongi hesitates. Must find whatever he’s looking for as he stares down at you before he nods minutely and pushes back in. This is not the way you thought you’d heal, but there is only one way this is going to end, so you might as well. The first time was always going to be the hardest.

“I love you,” Yoongi says, and it’s raw. It’s real, the way he drops his head to the crook of your neck and cries. The way he finds your hand and laces your fingers together. His wedding band is cool against your skin. “I fucking love you. I’ll love you for the rest of my fucking life, you know that?”

He’s got something to prove. Wants to fuck devotion into you, wants to promise you impossible things. You wrap your legs around his waist and whimper, ask him to fuck you harder, but he doesn’t. Fucks you steady. “We’re gonna go to that cabin,” he rasps. “We’re gonna figure this out, and we’re gonna do all those things we talked about years ago. I’m gonna fuck you in every room in that place, just like this. I’m gonna make sure you know—even if you leave, you’re gonna know how much I love you.”

He’s going to be the end of you. “Yoongi.” He already is.

He moves your hand to your clit, tells you to make yourself come. Tells you he wants to see it. Fucks into you just a little faster, a little deeper, and you can feel the coil tightening again. Another supernova, you think as your body surrenders and shudders, and buries himself to the hilt and comes with you.

Sometimes space is a dying star, and sometimes it’s salvation.

and when i see you, i really see you upside down / but my brain knows better. it picks you up and turns you around.

There had been a time, years ago, when you and Yoongi would sit at your cramped kitchen table and pluck scraps of paper out of a bowl.

A lot had been left to chance back then. Probably too much, in hindsight, but that’s just the way life was. Carefree, a summer breeze, blissfully naive. The two of you were young and love-drunk and warm from the sun. Yoongi had worked endlessly—gigs for shit pay in shittier bars, overnights in his studio, fingers calloused from guitar strings and networking—to put a ring on your finger, nothing certain except how he felt about you, and that had been enough.

It’d gone like—

(“What’d you write on that one?” you ask, trying to peek over the bowl between you to see. Yoongi laughs, swats your hand away, says oh my god, go away, you’ll see if you pick it. “You’re no fun.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m no fun because I don’t want to spoil a surprise.”

“But you know what’s on all of mine!” you argue, and you feel more in love with Yoongi than ever, picking a place out of a bowl, leaving things to fate.

It’s your pout that does it. You jut out your bottom lip and turn on the puppy dog eyes, and Yoongi folds like a bad hand. Yah, yah, don’t do that! he says, laughing harder than before, covering his eyes with those calloused hands. There are so many stories in those hands.

So Yoongi laughs and unfolds his scrap of paper and pushes it in your direction. Refuses to meet your eye as you read it over, and you can’t figure out why he’s embarrassed of it. “Jin’s cabin? It’s up in Oakhurst, right? That’s only a five hour drive.”

“For a honeymoon, though?” Yoongi’s question is quiet, small. Still embarrassed. “Isn’t it kind of lame?”

“No, it’s not lame. You’ve wanted to go to Yosemite forever.”

“Yeah, I’ve wanted to go. And it’s mostly just for Horsetail Fall—”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing dramatically. “Yoongi. Put it in the bowl.”

“But—”

“Put it in the bowl.”

A flush creeps up his neck but he listens nonetheless, re-crumpling the paper and tossing it into the bowl. You’ll be picking soon, and you know the odds are slim, but you put a silent hope into the universe for Jin’s little cabin in Oakhurst to be the one, to be able to do this one thing for Yoongi when he’s been working himself to the bone to do so much for you.)

—and it hadn’t worked out, that cabin trip. The two of you had gone to Italy, Yoongi having been the one to pull it, and you rented scooters and ate gelato and soaked in the coastline. You’d dragged Yoongi on a tour of the catacombs and he spent hours at the Roman Forum, reading all the plaques and taking it all in.

You hadn’t felt like you’d missed out. Time hadn’t been wasted, and you still look back fondly at those pictures—the one of Yoongi with powdered sugar on his nose from too much sfogliatella, the two of you at Lake Como, you with all the stray cats at the Gatti di Roma, one in your lap, all gray, that you said had looked like Yoongi.

But, going to that little cabin in Oakhurst now, it feels a little like redemption. It feels like the universe is handing you the keys on a silver platter, saying, it’s okay to do it again; even if you got it right the first time, who says you can only do it once. So you take a day off for the drive and your boss gives you the week; you pack as many clothes as you can fit in your suitcase; you set an alarm for seven o’clock and try to stay grounded.

First, though, you have to survive Namjoon.

“How are things?” he asks, folding one endlessly long leg over the other.

Beside you, Yoongi radiates nervous energy. Jittery but not anxious. The kind of pent-up energy a runner might have: in position, awaiting the gunfire before a race. Composed to a fault, it’s not often you see him like this. Maybe right before an album drop or a big show, but never in marriage counseling.

So it doesn’t feel like a lie or lip service when you say, “Better,” and Namjoon and Yoongi both swallow down the same kind of smile.

“And why is that?”

“We’re going on a trip,” Yoongi says, and this surprises you, too. Protective, fiercely private Yoongi. “To, um. A friend’s place. Up in Oakhurst.”

Namjoon looks excited. “Near Yosemite,” he says. Not a question. “Is this a getaway or just a change of scenery?”

You look at Yoongi; Yoongi looks at you. “I’ll have to work some of the time, so I guess it’s a little bit of both,” you answer, “but it feels… good, exciting. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Yeah?”

You’re fidgeting, digging imaginary dirt from beneath your nails again as your cheeks warm. “Yeah. I know Yoongi has wanted to go for a long time, so I’m excited for that. I think… I think it’s important for him to do something like that, right now. Something big, you know? Or, something that feels big, I guess. I think it’ll be good for him, and—”

“It’ll be good for us.” Yoongi’s correction is gentle, dandelion-soft. He can’t look you in the eye as he says it, but he doesn’t need to. His neck is flushed and Namjoon’s expressive enough for all three of you. “Anything that’s good for me is good for us.”

If you’re stunned, Namjoon is shell shocked. It lasts all of five seconds before he’s coughing to cover his grin, jotting down notes like a mad professor, and it’s a little tooreminiscent of the way your parents had pushed you out the front door on your prom night—that same brand of giddy excitement, like they knew something you didn’t. But, Namjoon is a professional before anything else, so he simply asks, “How long are you going?”

“TBD,” Yoongi answers again.

“You’re able to take the time off?”

Right back to earth. Another sore point, because sometimes, like now, it’s easy to forget who you’re married to; easy to forget when you’re the pinnacle of American suburbia—standard nine-to-five, family health insurance plan, a maxed-out Roth IRA—and Yoongi is anything but. It’s easy to forget when your lives are so different. When Yoongi’s got songs and albums to write, for himself and everyone else, and shows and tours to plan, for himself and when someone else needs him as a fill-in, and you’re gearing up for another half-year spent alone at home.

Sure, it sucks sometimes, but getting to watch Yoongi live out his dreams tampers down all that negativity. When it’s two a.m. in Los Angeles but midday where he is and he sends you pictures of whatever he’s doing, what he’s eating, candids of his tourmates, all the sights and sounds. Yoongi’s doing exactly what he’s always wanted, what he’s meant to, and it’s okay.

What’s good for him is good for you, after all.

“I, uh—” He pauses, rubs at the back of his neck. The flush is still there. “I put a pause on the stand-in work for the rest of the year. Told everyone I wanted to focus on writing and producing and… stuff. Everything else. Getting my shit together.” You can hear it when he swallows, can see the slight tremor of his hands. Yoongi has never done well when he’s not working himself to the bone—when he has too much free time to spend in his own head. “And I can do that from anywhere, so.”

Namjoon catches your eye over the rim of his glasses. Seems to ask a question you’re not sure the answer to so you just stare back, and then his attention turns back to Yoongi. “When you say ‘stuff,’ what do you mean?”

“Well, I wound up here, didn’t I?”

From anyone else, it would sound snappy and bitter, but from Yoongi it’s just… self-deprecating, wounded, like it’s nothing more than a personal failure. Like Yoongi is the only reason the two of you are in marriage counseling and not a million little things the two of you have done. “We,” you correct, dandelion-soft just like Yoongi had been, and his head turns toward you so sharply you worry his neck is going to snap. “Don’t do that, Yoongi.”

He’s stock-still, back uncharacteristically ramrod straight, jaw dropped slightly. “Don’t take on the full burden of this. We wound up here. It’s okay to say that.”

Namjoon tries so hard to hide another smile that his dimples look more like craters.

i roll the window down and then begin to breathe in / the darkest country road and the strong scent of evergreen.

“Hi.”

Yoongi is slouched in the doorway of your office, beanie pulled down low. Strands of curls stick out of the bottom and you shoot him a smile, distracted from your task of packing up your work equipment. “Hi. What’s up?”

“Are you all packed?”

You shrug. “Just about. I don’t really have that much stuff. Just my laptop and some files.” You eye him skeptically, already sensing where this is going. “Are you?”

Your husband pouts, and it’s such a pathetic expression that you swear you can feel your heart grow three sizes. “In my defense—”

“Oh my god.” You try to look stern, but a laugh bubbles out of you anyway. “Why do you always do this?”

“I don’t like packing,” he whines. “And I need help.”

“With what?”

“Some of my production stuff.” He pouts deeper, sends you an impressive pair of puppy dog eyes. “Please help me. You’re my only hope.”

“How much are you bringing?”

“Not that much,” he answers in a way that sounds like a promise. “I wanted to bring the Yamaha because the cabin has that screened in porch and I think the acoustics could be really interesting in there, but it’s really heavy—”

You sigh. Look down at your laptop and stack of paperwork and wireless mouse and sigh again, then nod your agreement, because it’s not the first time you’ve helped Yoongi lug his gear in and out of your place and it won’t be the last. You’ve all but perfected it by now.

The car looks more like you’re moving than going on a trip. Your neighbor’s such a shithead you’re surprised he hasn’t poked his head out by now and asked when the house is getting listed so he can buy it and flip it for three times the price. Another brainless capitalist shill, Yoongi always says, and you laugh to yourself as you force another duffel bag of god-knows-what into the trunk. And we’re his neighbors, so what does that say about us? you always reply.

It takes the better part of twenty minutes, but then it’s done and you’re left with sore arms and a sweaty brow. Yoongi looks like the weight of the world’s been lifted from his shoulders rather than his hefty digital piano, and the thankful smile he shoots at you is worth any price.

“Do you need help with anything?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“No,” you respond, picking up the stack of files only to drop them back down on your desk. “It’s really just my laptop and this stuff. I’m fine; go do whatever it is you’ve got left to do. I’ll take care of it.”

There’s a look Yoongi gets when he’s laser-focused. Intense, unmistakeable, intimidating, especially when it’s trained on you. That’s how he’s looking at you now: looking at the sheen of sweat on your skin, the way your tongue runs along your bottom lip, your mussed-up hair. Both of you know exactly what he wants, and it drives you a little crazy when he’s shameless like this. When he’s not shy about looking, about wanting.

So Yoongi bends you over your desk and fucks you right there, right in your office in front of the street-side window. It’s hazy and primal but he takes his time, does and says exactly what he wants, has you a trembling, incoherent mess in record time, and it works. You come so hard you don’t think about the song, you don’t cry, and those threads of optimism start weaving something you can hold in your hands.

—

“Shut it off,” Yoongi slurs, voice deep and raspy from sleep.

You snort, turning off your alarm, seven a.m. sharp, and roll over to press a kiss to his forehead. “Wake up, sleepyhead, I got breakfast.”

He opens one eye, looks at you questioningly with it, blinks in confusion. “How long have you been up?”

“A while. Now, come on, I ordered your favorite.”

That piques his attention. “The breakfast sandwich?” You nod. “And the little strudels?” You nod again. “Coffee, too?”

You grab the plastic cup and shake it, rattling the ice. “One large iced Americano, at the ready. I even got you one of those bottled horchata cold brews for the road, even though you swear you don’t like them.”

“They’re too sweet,” Yoongi answers. It might be early, but apparently not early enough to not lie right through his teeth.

You glare. “You steal mine every time I order one.”

“That’s not true,” he grumbles, accusations forgotten as he spots the greasy takeout bag. “I should brush my teeth first,” he whines, looking agonized. “I should, right?”

“Says who?”

“I don’t know. The universe or whatever.”

You laugh. Watch, fond, as he drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom. Watch, even more fond, as he returns with a little toothpaste on the corner of his mouth that you thumb away. Watch, hopelessly and forever endeared, as he buries himself back under the duvet, pulls it up and over his nose. You can see the way he’s pouting from his eyes alone, and he starts whining about the cold, how early it is, how the only thing that’ll cure him is a kiss.

Which you give. Freely, without thought.

(And the two of you barely make it to Santa Clarita before Yoongi cracks open the cold brew he didn’t want. Doesn’t say a word about it being too sweet, just sits quietly in the passenger seat, half asleep, as he scrolls through his playlists. Queues up something soft, easy to listen to, and talks your ear off about Jeff Beck when one of his songs comes on.

Beck’s Bolero, which is not as soft and easy as the songs that played before it, but it makes Yoongi’s eyes light up. Has him seemingly speaking in tongues as he spits guitar terms to you, half of Jeff Beck’s life story interwoven with endless praise and awe, all the while he drinks his horchata cold brew and doesn’t say a word about it being too sweet.

You want to listen to him for the rest of your life.)

—

Oakhurst is small.

Only two traffic lights before you reach the road Seokjin’s cabin is on—a sharp right turn off the main highway, an acute angle, a steep decline. You’re glad you’re doing this in early March and not the dead of winter. Doubly glad you’d ignored the judgmental stare Yoongi had given you at the car dealership when you’d insisted on an SUV, all-wheel-drive.

You’d know the cabin was Jin’s even without an address. Baby blue exterior, pink front door. Blends in but still manages to stick out, much like the man himself. More like a bungalow, maybe. Looks, from the outside, like the kind of place that might be good for starting over. Someplace small and unassuming—someplace with a screened-in porch with two rocking chairs. A place where you can drink coffee. Decompress from the city. A place where the only thing you know is Yoongi, so he’s your focus.

A place that makes you smile.

You kill the engine. Just sit in the silence for a moment, hesitant to wake up Yoongi. Unsure, honestly, how he’d slept through the last leg of the trip, all the hairpin turns and uneven roads, but you close the car door gently and punch in the lock code for the house and lug in everything except Yoongi’s gear and let him sleep. Then, when he stirs awake, looking confused and a little lost, you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth and gesture theatrically at the baby blue bungalow with the pink door and say, “Surprise! We’re here!” even though it’s not a surprise.

Yoongi laughs anyway.

There isn’t much to unpack, nor is there much space to put it. Only a closet in each of the bedrooms, so you dump everything out of your suitcase and thread your clothes through velvet hangers. Laugh at the thought of Yoongi doing no such thing—of Yoongi living out of his luggage for the next couple weeks, everything wrinkled and looking lived-in.

He comes and finds you, places a hand on your hip as he asks for the car keys, says he’s going to the store. Seokjin had stocked the pantry, but he wants to get fresh stuff, and you know that means he’s going to come back with more coffee than groceries. So you just nod, say okay, ask if he’d like you to unpack and put away his clothes. His nose scrunches; you hide your smile and leave it alone.

When he’s gone, you crack a window in the living room to air out the lingering emptiness. Suck in a mouthful of fresh air that seems to sting your lungs, all evergreen. There’s still so much to do, and you should probably stretch your legs after so long in the car, but the temptation to sink into the couch is strong. Seokjin’s got a soft blanket thrown over the back that you arrange over your legs, and then you’re asleep, some stupid paranormal show playing on the television to greet Yoongi whenever he gets back.

You dream of forgiveness, endless sprawling mountains, and the smell of coffee.

the rhythm of my footsteps crossing flatlands to your door / have been silenced forevermore. and the distance is quite simply much too far for me to row. it seems farther than ever before.

There’s a dive bar up the highway that does karaoke on Friday nights. You crack a joke about going.

“Fat chance,” Yoongi answers. He’s driving this time, and his hands are gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles have gone purple-white.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It doesn’t. Yoongi isn’t a dive bar karaoke kind of guy anymore. Left those days back in college, where you were suffering through your economics courses at USC and barely had two nickels to rub together. Yoongi would play open mics during the week just to cover the bus fare for the two of you to go into Koreatown on Fridays—enough to cover a noraebang for an hour, just to sing some girl group song horribly off-pitch just to make you laugh.

So it shouldn’t sting when Yoongi scoffs and says fat chance about singing karaoke at the dive bar when you drive past it, because Yoongi isn’t a dive bar karaoke kind of guy anymore. Now he’s the kind of guy who gets up on a stage and sings songs to thousands of people. They don’t laugh; they take pictures and videos and sing along to words he wrote, so it shouldn’t sting, and you try not to let it.

Instead, you focus on the blur of scenery: all the greens and browns; whites and deep grays from all the trees that have burned; the blue of the endless sky; the color of the asphalt, the edge of the world, like you could tip right over and disappear, nothing beyond the margins. Yoongi drives the thirty minutes to the park and it doesn’t sting, and you wonder if it’s just because it doesn’t or if it’s because you’re numb.

—

Yosemite is hard to put into words.

You feel small, wrapped in the expanse of the mountains, in this ancient nature that has existed long before you and will persist long after you’re gone. Maybe insignificant is a better word for it, because there’s so much to see—so much that’s known and unknown—and it feels like counting grains of sand. Feels like you could never possibly catch up.

So you sit on the ledge of an overlook and just exist. You don’t watch Yoongi take pictures on an old point and shoot, the one he’d ordered from Japan, because this is just for you. Whatever happens between you and Yoongi, these memories will only belong to you, and you don’t want to override something that’s happy with something that could eventually be sad.

The two of you get back in the car. The drive to Yosemite Village is slow, made even slower when you pass a bunch of cars pulled over. There, about thirty feet from the road, is a baby bear and a crowd. There’s a woman standing too close in order to take a picture and ten more people screaming at her for it. Yoongi looks awestruck when you catch his eye.

“I’ve never seen a bear before,” he says, and you nod. Neither have you.

Maybe you were a little stung before, about the karaoke, even though it’s stupid. But the fact that you and Yoongi have been together for so long and still manage to see new things together eases it a little. Plants a tiny, hopeful little seed.

All you have to do is water it.

—

The weather in the village is bitter cold.

Both of you are wrapped up tight, only your noses peeking out from between the layers of your scarves, tinged pink. Yoongi had wanted to go to Mirror Lake; didn’t seem at all deterred when he found out the shuttles were only doing basic routes so the two of you would have to follow the trail from the shuttle stop. Just under two miles. Hadn’t seemed so bad at the time, but now your lungs ache.

Snow and ice cover most of the lake. It isn’t as reflective as it’s known for, but you’re glad to experience it nonetheless. The sand crunches beneath your boots as you look for a log to sit on, the chill seeping through your clothing as you rummage through your backpack for a protein bar. Yoongi’s off taking pictures again, and it’s another moment you’re content to sit in the quiet.

Gives you time to take stock, figure out how you’re feeling. Instinct wants to say better, but you know it’s wishful thinking. Immature. The tendrils of hurt are still wrapped around your heart, and it’s only been a few days. Not enough time to hack them away. But you’re… at ease. For the first time in a while, it feels like you can breathe, and doing so doesn’t make you feel heavy, doesn’t weigh you down with guilt. Things might not be okay right now, not all the way, but you think your compass is finally pointed in the right direction.

Your husband joins you once he’s done. Doesn’t say anything, just sits beside you on the log and accepts when you offer him half of your protein bar. He’s got a nervous energy about him, like there’s something he wants to say but can’t figure out how to, and that feels familiar. That feels like the status quo. Two people who love each other but can’t figure out how to talk to one another.

So you say, “It’s gorgeous here,” and hope it’s enough. You’re not going to push him if he doesn’t want to talk, but it feels necessary to extend an olive branch. It feels necessary to try.

“It is,” Yoongi agrees. Rubs his hands together. Watches his breath dissipate in front of him. “It feels different.”

“What do you mean?”

A bird lands on a branch in front of you. Orange chest, vibrant blue on top; striking against the dreary backdrop of winter. You watch as it ruffles its feathers, shakes off the snow, and Yoongi cocks his head to the side. A guy who knows a little about a lot, full of knowledge, so you aren’t surprised when he says, “That’s a western bluebird.”

You hum an acknowledgment, because you know what it means to see a bluebird. You know the symbolism, but it feels a little too heavy to bear right now. “Pretty.”

“Yeah.” Then he’s sucking in a breath. Says, “There’s a ramen spot in Mariposa, if you’d wanna go there for dinner.”

It’s not what you were expecting him to say, but you nod anyway. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

Yoongi finally turns to you, then. Raises an eyebrow in question. “But is it what you want?”

“It’s just dinner,” you shrug. “Something warm will be nice after this.”

That nervous energy amplifies. Turns all those words clearly biting at the back of his teeth into a tangible thing. “Something warm—yeah, okay. Sounds good. They have matcha cheesecake.” He smiles, like he doesn’t want to but can’t help himself. “Seemed like something you’d like.”

Two things strike you, then: that your husband is always centering you in his world, even when the two of you are like this, and how badly it hurts that you can’t seem to talk to one another. Because you aren’t taking pictures with him because they might turn out sad, and Yoongi is choosing restaurants because they have matcha cheesecake.

And to hell with that, you think. Yoongi is your husband, and if you can’t talk to him then who can you talk to? So you sigh, say, “Look at me, Yoongi,” and you know there’s a fragment of surprise evident on your face when he listens. You know there’s a fragment of sadness on yours when you take in how exhausted he looks. Almost defeated. “Why can’t we seem to talk to one another?”

It must be what he was working up the courage to say, because his shoulders sag immediately. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I’m trying, but it’s just… I don’t know. Sometimes I’m scared I’m gonna say the wrong thing and that’s gonna be it.”

Your brows pinch. “Okay,” you say, because sometimes you aren’t easy to talk to. Sometimes you take things too personally, sort of revel in the hurt. You understand hesitation. “I… want to fix that. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me.”

Yoongi nods. “Yeah,” he eventually answers. “I do, too. We’re not really gonna fix anything unless we can talk to each other.”

“Yeah, true.” The bluebird chirps from its spot in the tree. Stares down at the two of you with these jerky little tilts of its head. “Do you think that’s our problem? How it got… like this.”

“I don’t know, baby,” he says again, and you immediately want to push back on it. I don’t know doesn’t tell you anything. Doesn’t tell you how to fix it, how not to let it get this bad again. But then he says, “It could’ve been anything, you know? A million things. I think—I know that doesn’t help you, but for me, it’s less important how and why we got here because that’s… gone. I can’t change it, and the more I dwell on it the more I spiral, so I’m trying not to do that.”

A stuttered exhale. “I haven’t felt present in a long time and I guess it just compounded. Like, once I realized something was wrong, it felt like I’d left it too long to try and do something about it. I knew you were hurt, and instead of trying to fix it, I’d just think, of course you hurt her, because you’re good at that.”

“That’s what you think?”

“Sometimes.” You reach over and take his hand, barely able to slot your fingers together with the thickness of your gloves. “I know I explained it to you before, but the song… it wasn’t honesty, it was self-destruction. Because I thought if all I do is hurt you, then you should be with someone who doesn’t do that. Someone who knows what they have and is able to hang onto it.” He hangs his head, guilt-stricken. “I don’t know why I wrote it. Call of the void shit, I guess, like I told you. I knew the whole time it was a bad idea. I just thought… maybe you’d hear it and do what I couldn’t.”

“Leave?”

He laughs, all derision. “Yeah. Stupid, isn’t it? I’m scared to death that you’ll leave me, so I tried to speed up the process.”

You sit with his words for a minute. “I don’t think it’s stupid, Yoongi. Can I tell you what I think? I think you feel like you deserve to be a little sad, like some kind of artist’s curse. I think you think you need to feel tortured in order to create, and I think you’ve appointed yourself the arbiter of my happiness, so you see me being human as a failure on your part. And I think I made a very smart choice when I was twenty-one years old, because I think you’ve taken my heart and kept it safe all these years.

“It… does matter to me, how we got here,” you continue, “because if I don’t know why, I’m scared it’ll happen again. But you told me I need to give you more credit, and that goes both ways. I know I can be a bastard, so I’m going to be selfish and ask for patience, and I’m going to give you the same. Just… please believe me when I say I’m not going anywhere. Not as long as we’re both gonna try to fix this.”

Yoongi stays quiet. Sticks out his pinky, and you hook yours around it.

(You know what it means to see a bluebird. Remember reading about it once, back when you were desperate to find meaning in everything. Right after a time of tremendous difficulty, the bluebird comes to bring good fortune in all things such as love, healing, and happiness.)

and together there in a shroud of frost, the mountain air / began to pass through every pane of weathered glass / and i held you closer than anyone would ever get.

Yoongi’s birthday is soon.

Four days, to be exact. The two of you will be celebrating in Jin’s cabin in Oakhurst, surrounded by nature and a town still foreign to you, Yoongi’s music gear scattered all around like a treasure hunt. Follow the cables until you find him, hunched in front of a glowing computer screen, massive headphones shoved over his ears as he gets absorbed into his own world, strumming his guitar all the while.

You think thirty will look good on him.

The weather’s still mild, still colder than you’re used to, but the breeze feels nice when you open the small windows in the kitchen and let it blow through. It feels nice when you run to the grocery store and stand in the foreign aisles, staring at all the ingredients you’ll need to bake a cake. You haven’t done it in ages; since Yoongi’s twenty-sixth, you think. Almond with chantilly cream. It had taken you ages because the cream kept splitting, and you insisted on meticulously arranging little strawberry slices between the layers, but Yoongi had loved it so much it hadn’t felt like work at all.

So you grab what you need and some things you don’t and you feel as light as the breeze on the drive back to the cabin. You make a last-second decision to stop at the donut shop because it closes in the afternoon and you never catch it when it’s open. Two blueberry old fashioneds, a large Americano for Yoongi, and a mocha iced coffee for yourself. Six dollars, and the woman behind the counter is kind.

“What’s that?” Yoongi asks when you place the coffee and donut on his makeshift desk. The headphones are looped around his neck.

You click your tongue, all sugar. “What does it look like?”

“This looks like a donut and an Americano. What’s in the bag, though?”

“I went to the grocery store.”

“For what?” he pouts. “I was just there!”

That pout fades when you press a kiss to the top of his head. “Don’t pout. I picked up stuff for your birthday cake.”

“My birth—” he begins, seemingly offended by the mere thought of his birthday and that it might be soon, and then he looks at the date on his computer and mumbles an, oh shit. “You’re baking me a cake?”

“Yeah, I thought it’d be nice.”

He tries to peer into the bag. “What kind?” You swat him away.

“It’s a surprise,” you deadpan.

“But I saw strawberries in there.”

“No you didn’t. Now, eat your donut and get back to work.”

Yoongi pouts again. Really exaggerates it. “I’m really stuck on this bit. I might need a kiss for good luck.”

As you press a kiss to his lips, you think you might give him whatever he wants.

—

Yoongi spends the morning of his birthday tucked in bed.

You spend the morning of Yoongi’s birthday beneath the duvet, hands roaming every inch of your husband’s body. Thumbs digging into the muscles of his calves, sore from the overuse they’ve suffered the last few days. Nails grazing the sensitive skin of his biceps, his stomach, the insides of his thighs. Lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to his forehead, his temple, his neck, down his chest, the jut of both hip bones. And then, once he’s whining and writhing and just on the verge of begging, you spend the morning of Yoongi’s birthday making him come with your mouth.

He spends the early afternoon in his makeshift studio with a cup of coffee. Answers a couple emails. Calls his parents. Messes around on Cubase. Fixes the two of you a quick lunch and says he might want to wander around town for a little bit. Check out the antique store down the street, maybe spend a few hours in the park with his guitar, get some fresh air. Thirty feels weird, he says, and you’re anchored to your laptop at the small dining room table, so you just say okay, I’ll see you later for dinner. There’s a crooked smile on Yoongi’s face as he hikes the gig bag over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

You: He just left. Coast is clear.

Seokjin: Thank fuck, I’ve been sitting at this Starbucks for 500 hours

You: No you haven’t

Seokjin: 499 hours*

When he arrives, Seokjin blows right by you and locks himself in the bathroom. You know I refuse to use public restrooms, he says after, slinging his arm around your shoulders. He’s not a hugger, so it’s the closest you’re going to get to one.

“My car reeks of kimchi and soup,” he says, dropping a bag of groceries in front of the refrigerator. “Won’t be able to get that smell out for weeks, probably.”

“Thank you for your sacrifice,” you intone. “You’re a god amongst men, Kim Seokjin.”

It’d been your idea. Wanted Yoongi to ring in his thirtieth birthday surrounded by as much love as possible, and a cabin-bungalow nearly five hours away from home wasn’t especially opulent. Not to mention Yoongi had been on tour the last two years—spent twenty-eight and nine in grimy venues in Texas and Birmingham, respectively—and the less said about 2020 the better.

So Seokjin had fucked off from his cushy job for the day and made the drive from San Francisco. Made the miyeokguk and myeongnan-jeot himself, and had whined when you told him you already bought the ingredients for a cake because I was gonna pick up mujigae-tteok, to which you replied, pick it up anyway.

Now he’s standing in the small kitchen of his own small bungalow, and you’ve got a one-thirty meeting so you can’t help, but he’s determined to make gyeran mari anyway, even if it inconveniences you. “Maybe I should make it closer to when he’ll be back?”

“Up to you,” you shrug. “You could also stand on the side of the road and resell all those eggs for ten times the price.”

He just sends you A Look.

—

You watch through the small window above the kitchen sink as Yoongi returns just after six, cheeks pink from the wind, arms full of goodies.

“Hey,” he says, kicking his boots off on the porch, “is that—”

“SURPRISE!”

Seokjin’s scream is so shrill you think you black out for a second. Nearly topple over from your spot in front of the island, frosting knife poised to strike. Yoongi’s still out on the porch, and there’s a terrible crash that can only be him startling and knocking into one of the rocking chairs. He’ll appear any second now, brows pinched, and go is that Seokjin? and once he confirms it is, in fact, Seokjin, he’ll start yell—

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, appearing in the doorway. Brows pinched. “I was gonna ask if that’s Seokjin’s car outside, but now I don’t fucking need to.”

Seokjin tuts, ladles another bowl full of miyeokguk. “Is that any way to speak to your elders? Now, get in here and sit down. It’s not breakfast, but it’ll have to do.”

Yoongi grumbles the entire time, but you see the way the flush deepens on his cheeks. The way he’s pleased to be fussed over, to have you and Seokjin in the same room as him. Pleased to be celebrating thirty surrounded by people who love him, people he loves in turn.

“Did you call your mother?” Seokjin asks, setting the bowl in front of him. He jokingly tucks a napkin into the front of Yoongi’s shirt.

“Of course I called my mother.” Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Are you stupid? It’s not my first day being Korean.”

“That’s correct! It’s your 10,950th day being Korean.”

“How did you—”

“I knew you would say that so I looked up how many days are in thirty years. Now, is your lovely wife done with the cake?”

You are, just about. Just a few more slices of strawberry to place on top, and you take a step back once you do so. Admire your hard work. Send up a quick thanks that the cream hadn’t split this time. Seokjin and Yoongi are still bickering—

(“Did you make the miyeokguk last night?”

“I’m offended, Yoongi. Of course I made it last night, the broth needs time to develop! It’s not my first day being Korean, either!”

“No, it’s your ten billionth, you decrepit bitch.”)

—and your heart feels full. Content. You see Yoongi laughing, all gums, and feel untethered. Like any second now your ribs are going to crack apart and give way, let your heart tumble right out of your body. Because it belongs next to Yoongi, always. Because it wants to be next to Yoongi.

So you finish the cake and set it aside. Sit down at the place Seokjin set for you, right next to your husband, whose hand immediately goes to your knee; who immediately turns and smiles at you, even though Seokjin is still squawking in the background. Yah, Yoongi, compliment the soup! Tell me how good it is! Yoongi doesn’t, because he’s still smiling, can’t look away from you, and you swear you can hear a fissure forming, except this one doesn’t hurt.

This one doesn’t hurt at all.

—

Yoongi is sufficiently drunk by nine.

That traitorous combination of alcohol and sugar. A shot of soju, a bite of cake, some mujigae-tteok. Seokjin’s endless chatter as background noise. Yoongi’s hand still on your knee, warm warm warm. Liquor loosens him up a little, has him bashful, chin tucked to his chest, when he offhandedly mentions Namjoon and Seokjin says who’s this Namjoon, and Yoongi says he’s our marriage counselor. Seokjin looks to you, then. Connects some dots.

Says, “Ah, Yoongi, did you eat your tteokguk on Seollal? No? See, this is why things are hard right now, because you didn’t eat your tteokguk. It’s good luck, that’s why you eat it,” because it’s easiest to get through to Yoongi, to let him know he’s okay, when you’re scolding him a little. When you treat it kind of like a joke. No big deal.

And Seokjin follows that up with, “How are you settling in here?” when what he really wants to know is are things better, are the two of you doing okay. Yoongi grumbles again, barely coherent at his current level of inebriation, and Seokjin says, “Ah, I bet not well, huh? There’s just the one Starbucks, can’t find your bougie pour-over, LA coffee here, can you? Do they even have oat milk? Are you—”

“It’s still California,” Yoongi argues, “there’s fucking oat milk everywhere. Hey, hyung, did you—did you know there’s, like, the tree nut milk orchard near here? Not far. Close by. I could drive to see the al-almonds.”

“Tree nut milk,” Seokjin deadpans. “You know, Yoongi, I did not know that. Why don’t you tell me all about it.”

—

By eleven, Seokjin is passed out on the couch.

By eleven-ten, Yoongi has convinced you to lay in the grass with him. A minute later he’s staring up at the sky, making wishes on superstitions. His breath vaporizes in the cold, and he’s not wearing a jacket, but he’s still flushed from the alcohol, feels invincible.

“Think the edible’s hitting me.” He laughs, short and raspy, and he doesn’t seem to care that the grass is wet with dew. Doesn’t care that it’s in his hair, seeping through his clothes. “What’s your favorite one of those?”

He’s pointing at the stars, wants to know your favorite constellation. All of them, you want to say, following his line of sight. Because they’re all different. All meaningful in different ways. All have their own story. Instead, you roll your head to the side, take in Yoongi’s profile. Say, “You’re my favorite,” and laugh at how flustered he gets, laugh at his gravelly protests.

“Yah, you can-can’t say that,” he whines. “That’s so greasy, you can’t say that, it doesn’t count. Give me a real ans—”

“Then why are you smiling?” You laugh as he grows even more thunderstruck, completely caught-out, and it’s nearing midnight but it does nothing to hide the blush creeping down his neck, tingeing the tips of his ears. “You’re so red. That’s exactly what you wanted me to say, you absolute—”

“Real answer, please.”

You decide to take pity on him. Poor thing, can barely look you in the eye because of one terrible pick-up line. “Fine. Pisces.”

His responding groan is so loud you have to slap your hand over his mouth. The grass is so cold but Yoongi’s laughter, the way his shoulders shake with it, makes you warm. “You’re just saying that,” he says once you remove your hand.

“Am not. Ask me why.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Because you’re a Pisces, first of all—”

“Oh my god, here we fuckin’ go—”

“—but I just like the myth. Aphrodite and Eros transformed themselves into fish to escape Typhon, and tied themselves together with rope so they wouldn’t lose one another.” You sigh, watch your breath dissipate into the dark. “I don’t know. I like to think… I don’t believe in soulmates, but I like to think some people are meant to tie themselves together. Some people aren’t meant to be apart.”

There’s a quiet little oh, and then there’s silence. Just the distant sounds of the highway, a dog howling, and, if you listen closely enough, Seokjin’s snoring from inside. Yoongi finds your hand, brings it to his mouth to press a kiss to the back of it, and he’s oddly quiet. Contemplative, maybe. Usually gets a couple drinks in him and starts talking your ear off, but this is nice, too. It’s nice to just exist in the silence alongside someone else.

“Do you know the myth about Eurydice and Orpheus?” he finally asks, and you nod, suddenly understanding why Yoongi doesn’t care that his hair is wet. So inconsequential to this moment where you can exist in the silence alongside someone else. “I was thinking about it today.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think… I think I’d fuck it up. I think I’d look back. And I think you wouldn’t.” He sighs, and the weight of the world expels alongside it. “What you said about Aphrodite and Eros, that some people are meant to be tied together—if I couldn’t hear you, or touch you… That’s what you are for me, you know? An anchor. The first time I read it, it made me so fuckin’ angry, like why can’t this guy just listen, if he loves her that much wouldn’t he listen, but… I dunno. I think I get it.

“I’m so scared all the time that one day I’m gonna look back and you won’t be there anymore. What would I even do? Baby, what would I do? Sometimes I’m fuckin’ terrified that I don’t think I could have that kind of faith in anything, and I’m finally gonna make it to the end of this cave and they’re gonna lay all my betrayals at my feet.”

Midnight finds you still staring up at the sky, hair wet, breath tangible, wondering how you can be both an anchor and an albatross.

—

(In the morning, Seokjin makes tteokguk and ladles extra into Yoongi’s bowl.)

i'm reaching for the phone to call at 7:03, and on your machine / i slur a plea for you to come home, but i know it's too late / and i should have given you a reason to stay.

The thing about grief is that it’s indiscriminate.

Because it has no context. Grief doesn’t know that things are better, doesn’t know that the two of you have stuck to your appointments with Namjoon and are able to talk honestly; doesn’t know that laughing feels lighter, easier; doesn’t know that guilt isn’t weighing you down as heavy. So it feels a lot like treading water, and sometimes you’re able to float and sometimes you slip beneath the waves, struggle to breathe.

And it’s stupid, you think, that you can disappear too far into your mind to the place where everything feels bad. Where progress is meaningless. Where there’s still you and Yoongi and a crumbling marriage. Where the only words ringing in your ears aren’t I love you, but you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me. Just like last time. Regression.

There are only so many distractions. Work helps, because you can’t focus on how shitty you feel—how scared you are—when your boss is on your ass about deadlines. The antique store in town helps, too, though you must’ve worn a pattern into the floors by now, but you can’t help it. It’s nice to hear the stones crunching under the tires when you pull into the parking lot; nice to laugh at the giant Sasquatch outside and greet them like a friend; nostalgic to breathe in the scent of old stuff—belongings that were once well-loved, now free to be loved by someone else.

Grief doesn’t care that you’re sad and Yoongi has that spark in his eyes.

But Yoongi is smart. Wickedly perceptive. Knows there’s something bothering you long before you gather the courage to say it, because it feels wrong to dim that spark, take it away, so he lets you sit with it. Lets you take your time, and that endless patience just makes you feel worse. Makes you think, he deserves better. Makes you think, what’s the point of any of this. Makes you angry, because things aren’t fixed but they’re better, and why can’t everything hurt all at once instead of incrementally.

And, just like always, you can only tread water for so long, stave off the inevitable.

Because Yoongi’s giving you time but when you feel like this, everything reads like an attack. Feels like disregard and indifference. What you want is unfair, and you know it, because you want Yoongi to be able to reach into your mind and see everything that’s turned necrotic. You want him to know how to fix it without having to talk about it, because talking about it makes you feel guilty. How many times can you press your fingers into the same wound and be shocked when they come out bloody?

So it isn’t fair and it’s also hard. Words bite at the back of your teeth, because this is your husband—if you can’t talk to him, what are you even doing? Namjoon would laugh. The one that’s equal parts patient and exasperated, like he can’t believe someone like you exists even though he’s seen some shit. Worse shit than you and Yoongi have, that’s for sure, so it should be reassuring.

(Everything reads like an attack.)

“Hey,” Yoongi says, hip resting against the counter, towel thrown over his shoulder. (These things always happen in a kitchen.) “You okay?”

How doubly unfair is it that your first instinct is to lie? To say yeah, I’m fine—not to be deceptive, but because you’re sure with enough time you can make it true, foolishly certain you can either bury it or delude yourself. But Yoongi is looking at you like a caged animal; like he, too, is foolishly certain of foolish things. Yoongi is looking at you like he knows this is it. Like this is where you say I’m sorry, this just isn’t working, we were stupid to think it would even though we’re trying. Like this is where you take off your wedding band and place it calmly in his hand. No dramatics, just resignation.

So you don’t lie. You can’t. Instead, you say, “Yeah, I think… I think it’s just been a little hard lately.”

Yoongi tries to lie, too. Tries to hide how relieved his exhale is, but the smile peeks through, the flush on his cheeks. Can’t hide that he’s pleased because all those nightmares he’d conjured in his head aren’t coming true.

“I should’ve said something earlier,” you say, because it’s something that’s true, “I’m sorry. I just—I don’t want you to feel bad, you know? I don’t want to keep rehashing things.”

He closes the distance. Wraps you in his arms, all warmth. Presses a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s okay. I know it’s hard to talk about these things sometimes. I just wanted to make sure we’re okay.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Yoongi, I think we will be.”

(Something that’s true.)

it felt just like falling in love again. and it felt just like falling in love again.

On Friday, the two of you go to the bar for karaoke night.

As he’s buttoning his shirt, Yoongi says do you think they’ll have Epik High? and you can’t help the ugly laugh that tumbles out of you even though it’s not really funny. Because no, this two stoplight town won’t have Epik High, but it’s the kind of thing you laugh at when you’re feeling terribly fond, horribly endeared—it’s the kind of thing you laugh at when you’re riding the high of going through hell and making it to the other side.

It’s the kind of thing you laugh at instead of detailing every reason you’re in love with him.

So you do your hair and makeup nice. Barely make it out the door, because Yoongi stumbles into the bathroom to fix his hair and put on cologne and stops dead in his tracks when he sees you. Mutters a goddamn under his breath before he’s all over you. Kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, hips pressing you against the counter. The right side of painful.

You manage to pry him off of you long enough to shove him out the door, thighs just a little bruised, Yoongi’s lips a little too red. He’s still all over you at the bar. Still rests a possessive hand at the small of your back, still presses a kiss to your cheek every time he gets up to order another round of drinks, still whines and pretends to drag his feet when the house music plays and you pull him onto the dancefloor.

Someone sings “Fly Me to the Moon” by Frank Sinatra. It’s off-key and a little grating and Yoongi’s got wing sauce smeared on his cheek, but he still mouths the words to you. You are all I long for. All I worship and adore. You know you look lovestruck, and you think it’s a shame there’s barely anyone in this bar to witness it. What you and Yoongi have—it should be seen. It should be screamed from rooftops.

When the two of you go back to the bungalow, you split a bottle of red wine and sit on the living room floor. Yoongi has his guitar in his lap, barely able to play the chords properly, but he serenades you anyway. Does a better rendition of Fly Me to the Moon than the guy at the bar just because it’s his, and he’s singing it for you. He sweeps the blankets from the back of the couch onto the floor and fucks you slow. Holds your hand and kisses you until you’re breathless. (You already were.)

The rest of the weekend is spent similarly. Yoongi can’t keep his hands to himself, fucks you in nearly every room of Seokjin’s little house in Oakhurst, and presses praise into your skin like a brand. Sits on the living room floor again as you cook dinner, back ramrod straight against the couch; has a spliff stuck between his lips as he jots down words into a notebook. Looks up and over at you every now and then, cheeks reddening each time you catch him staring. You, too, refuse to smile until you’ve turned back around.

On Sunday night, Yoongi ducks out to go to the drug store and returns with an armful of bath bombs. Looks like he looted a bank, but he asks do you want to use the lavender one in that soft, shy voice, and you wouldn’t be able to say no to him even if you wanted to, so you don’t. You sink into the warm water, let the lilac swirl around you, make you soft, and you feel safe here with your back pressed to Yoongi’s chest. With his legs caging you in. With his words in your ear and his lips pressed to the top of your head, fingers dancing along your ribs, clearing the cobwebs from in between.

Monday comes before you’re ready. Insistent, inevitable—the sunlight streams in, wakes you slowly. Yoongi’s arm is thrown over your middle, both of you still lavender-soft, and he groans when you stir, buries his face in your neck. Everything is warm. A blissful little cocoon, made even more so when Yoongi pulls himself out of bed, makes a pot of coffee, returns with your mug steaming hot. He sets it on your nightstand, doesn’t want to risk burning you by handing it off, and tilts your chin up to press a quick kiss to your lips.

You’ve got a nine-thirty meeting, so you tangle your legs together and drink it as fast you can. Shameless, Yoongi watches as you undress—watches as the sun paints you in golden light, watches as you pull his t-shirt up and over your head, watches as your shoulder blades move beneath your skin. It’s the t-shirt that fucks him up the most, has him a little hard in his briefs. One of his tour shirts, the last one he’d gone on before the two of you got married. Says, a little awed, “I’d follow you anywhere,” and he doesn’t elaborate but somehow you know exactly what he means.

And he stays in the bedroom when you log on for your meeting. Listens to you talk to your team, your laugh soft and bright, and feels entirely dumbstruck. Feels overwhelmed, wonders how his body can possibly contain so much affection. Wonders, briefly, where it goes when everything hurts. If it’s just in a reserve, because Yoongi has loved you as long as he’s known you, and he’s not sure it’s ever felt like this; ever hit him this hard.

So, he locks himself in the second bedroom until the late afternoon. Pours over his notebooks, strums every chord he knows until he finds the right one. Jots down words he scribbles over and jots down more. Writes until the calluses on his fingers turn to blisters, writes until the words all blend together, until there’s something singular instead of tendrils. Yoongi writes until there’s something he can feel proud of; something that might feel a lot like redemption.

[interlude: monday morning]

(You listen to it far later. Back in your home that isn’t the apartment in Silver Lake but contains just as much love—perhaps more now than before you left; certainly more patience, more hope, more resilience. And as you take in Yoongi’s words, wrapped in their metaphors and their honesty, you cry again, but this time it’s quiet rather than heaving.

This time Yoongi is singing love, keep your arms around me.)

looking upwards, i strain my eyes and try / to tell the difference between shooting stars and satellites from the passenger seat as you are driving me home.

“Should we go home soon?”

It’s a Saturday morning, and you and Yoongi are on the porch. The air is crisp and cool, makes your coffee a tolerable temperature, and it’s early enough that the world is largely still asleep. There’s no polluted noise, just the rustling of the grass that’s now a little overgrown and the one neighbor from down the road who always wakes up early to run. He must hear your muted voices, because he waves as he passes by.

Home. Back to Los Angeles. Back to your two-storey home with the awful neighbor who doesn’t wake up early to run and never waves to you. Back to the chaos you know. Back to a home that hasn’t felt much like one lately, but one that can be repaired, just like everything else. A home that’s got enough love stored between its walls that you aren’t worried.

But it’s still daunting, somehow. Things feel solid here, like a houseplant sprouting new life—resilient, but a little fragile, too. So you’re scared to burst the bubble and doubly scared of what that hesitation means. “I don’t know,” you say. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know, either,” Yoongi answers. Takes another sip of his coffee, rocks a little in the chair. He’s got his knees pulled up to his chest. Looks impossibly small, especially in his oversized pajamas and the even larger hoodie he’d thrown over them. “It’s nice here.”

It is, in more ways than one. “Yeah, I’m gonna miss it.”

Yoongi hums. “Maybe I’ll just buy it from Seokjin.” Words muffled by the rim of his mug, like he’s trying to hide them from you.

Doesn’t work. Instead, you turn to him, eyebrow quirked. “Oh, really?”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Gotta do something with all this money, hm?” Then he sighs, picks at imaginary lint on his pants. “You like it here, though, right? Not saying I am, but—”

“Oh no,” you interject, voice at least fifty decibels higher. “I know you, Yoongi! You wouldn’t be asking me any of this unless you already had some half-baked plan in the works—”

“Yah! It’s at least seventy-five percent baked!”

You laugh, the sound the loudest thing for miles. “Yeah, okay. How much did you offer him for it? You spend all my money?”

“Your—that’s not funny.” He pouts. “I didn’t spend all of it.”

“Just seventy-five percent?”

“I’ll have you know I am a very successful musician. I could buy you ten of these cabins if I wanted to.”

You drop your mouth open in mock-affront. “And yet I have zero cabins, so what does that say about the state of your priorities?”

“Not this shit again—”

“I think it’s more of a bungalow, anyway.”

“Yeah, Seokjin said the same thing. Was really offended that I offered to buy his cabin.” A pause. A small lift at the corners of his mouth. “Still offered to sell it to me, though.”

You can’t help the smile that splits your face. “And I’m sure you said yes, of course.”

“I’ve grown very attached to those blueberry donuts.”

“Uh-huh.”

“...And it’s been good for us. We’re happy here. Happier.”

“Yeah, we are. You just needed some fresh air.”

Yoongi’s cheeks tinge pink. “Yah, knock it off! You’re making me sound like a tuberculosis patient. Like I just needed a trip to the seaside to heal.”

“I’m just stating facts, Yoongi. You’re a little studio hermit, barely witnessing the light of day. I bet you got one lungful of this mountain air and almost keeled over.”

“You’re a pain in my ass,” he accuses, “I’m revoking my offer.”

“That you extended with my money.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

—

Saying goodbye is hard.

As you load the last of your belongings into the car, it feels like you’re leaving behind a friend. You know you’ll be back (because Yoongi actually did offer to buy the cabin-bungalow and Seokjin seems keen, but whether that’s because he actually wants to offload it into the two of you or because he wants to salvage your marriage any way he can, you can’t be sure), but tears prick at the corners of your eyes anyway. Because you were desperate when you arrived, and now you aren’t. You were scared and lacking direction, and now you have another place to rest when you get tired.

Yoongi joins you at the car, his guitar bag slung over his shoulder. Just stares at the little blue bungalow with the pink door and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Whatever he’s thinking, you know he’s saying it in his head in that fond tone of his. The one that’s bordering on thankful, and you are, too.

On the way home, Yoongi drives and treats you to (read: makes you suffer through) John Denver karaoke. Sings “Take Me Home, Country Roads” the way he used to sing girl group songs at the noraebang. Holds your hand the entire way, and the two of you stop at some hole in the wall for lunch, still a few hours from the city. He orders a beer—some disgusting IPA you know he only drinks to seem distinguished, even though this is the same guy you watched do keg stands in college for free Natty Light—to get out of driving the rest of the way and it’s your turn to call him a pain in the ass.

But he’s quiet in the passenger seat, and it’s not from the alcohol. He’s typing intermittently on his phone, pink tongue darting out from between his lips when he gets especially focused. “I think I got something,” he says eventually. “If I read it to you, will you tell me if it sounds alright?”

“I majored in economics,” you say, because you always do. It’s been your go-to since the first time he asked, all the way back in your junior year.

He laughs anyway. “Perfect, then you can tell me if this shit is gonna make me any money,” he answers with a wry smile, because he always does. “I’ve had this stuck in my head for days.”

You nod. You listen.

“And if you feel just like a tourist in the city you were born, then it’s time to go. And you find your destination with so many different places to call home.”

You wonder how Yoongi is always able to put to paper all the feelings you’ve got locked up tight. You wonder how Yoongi always makes Los Angeles seem less daunting.

there'd be no distance that could hold us back. so this is the new year.

It’s the thirtieth of December.

Your shithead, capitalist shill of a neighbor doesn’t wave when you and Yoongi pack up the car this time, either, just watches from his front porch. You can feel his brooding; worse ever since Yoongi had offhandedly mentioned buying a place up near Yosemite. Got a really good deal from a friend, he’d said, just when we need to get away, you know how it is, and that had your neighbor’s jaw clenching, nodding in faux politeness. Even illuminated by the golden ambiance of icicle lights, he still manages to look like a dickhead.

Good riddance.

“Ready?” Yoongi asks, catching the keys with one hand when you toss them to him.

You nod. Then you fold yourself into the passenger seat and reach for his hand.

—

Oakhurst is still small, but it’s made room for you, now.

There’s still only two traffic lights before you reach the road your cabin is on—a sharp right turn off the main highway, an acute angle, a steep decline. It doesn’t matter what time of year you make the trip, because the uneven, precipitous little road always makes your stomach drop, but it’s home now. Another physical one, because you and Yoongi have worked hard over the last year to make as many as possible.

(And, even still, the strongest home you’ve made is Us. What the two of you have is something still standing long after the storm. Something that has persevered and stood tall, even when the foundation was shaking. Even when you wanted to tear it down. Even when it seemed beyond repair.)

“Home sweet home,” Yoongi jokes as he kills the engine, and you laugh because his tone is flat and dry. Belies his excitement, his insistence on digging out an old box of Christmas lights from the attic and bringing it with you. That he has this whole plan to spend New Year’s Eve decorating, bringing life to this little blue bungalow with the pink door.

“It is pretty sweet,” you agree, and just like before, you neatly unpack your stuff and thread your clothes through velvet hangers and Yoongi abandons his suitcase in a corner of his studio.

—

There’s a woman on the television with rosy cheeks and a drink in hand. She isn’t trying to sell you anything.

She’s lovely and very drunk and even more beautiful when she laughs, teeth perfectly straight and blindingly white. She’s prattling off questions to some celebrity, rapid fire, and they’re trying their best to keep up but it’s hopeless. Eventually they, too, just smile into the camera.

Yoongi’s in the kitchen fixing drinks. Expensive champagne flutes filled with inexpensive champagne, a pair of raspberries tossed into each one as a garnish. Your husband doesn’t even like raspberries, but he’d wanted to feel fancy, so you don’t bother questioning it. You know what it means—wants a do-over of last year. Wants this year to be what the last should’ve been, because this year the two of you will be sitting on the same side of the couch, drinking cheap champagne from Vons out of expensive glassware.

A gift from Seokjin, because he’s a bastard. A housewarming gift for a house you’d bought from him.

There’s still an hour before the countdown. There’s still an empty pot on the stove that used to be full of tteokguk. It’s a different New Year, not Seollal, but Yoongi had wanted to make it anyway. Cracked a joke about not wanting to risk it, so he’s going to eat as much tteokguk as possible, that he might need the luck, you never know. I didn’t eat any last year and still bought a second house, he’d said. Imagine how powerful I’ll be if I eat ten bowls of this.

Your husband is always powerful, but you hadn’t pointed that out. Hadn’t pointed out that the only reason the two of you could afford a second house was because Seokjin gave you a steep pity discount, either. Sometimes it’s just nice to believe in luck, on top of all the other things you already have to believe in.

(Like each other.)

There’s still an hour, and Yoongi hands over a flute of champagne and sinks into the couch beside you. You forget about the woman on TV, but you don’t forget about—“You know, I distinctly remember you making me a promise before we came up here last year.”

Yoongi quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah? Did I make good on it?”

“For the most part,” you answer. “Like, eighty percent.”

Yoongi snorts. “Refresh my memory.”

You set your glass on the coffee table. Angle yourself so you can swing a thigh over Yoongi’s lap to straddle him, earning you another quirked eyebrow. “I distinctly remember you promising to fuck me in every room of this house.”

His own glass abandoned, Yoongi settles one hand on your hip, the other on your thigh. “Surely I already did,” he answers, words spoken into the crook of your neck, goosebumps rising along your skin. “No way I would’ve been able to keep my hands off you.”

Warm lips press against your neck. Kiss their way to your jawline to the corner of your mouth. “Do you remember me fucking you on this couch? On the floor? You remember how hard you came that time?”

Your hips start to grind, seeking friction. This time, the cool metal of Yoongi’s wedding band against your flushed skin doesn’t shock you. Just feels like another home. His hands slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt feel like home. His tongue licking into your mouth tastes like home. When he pulls away to say, “I know you remember the time in the kitchen, the way I fucked your mouth,” you lose all concept of home entirely.

Home is just Yoongi. Everything is Yoongi.

“I fucked you in that bed so many times. Against the bathroom sink. Always so good for me.” He’s thumbing over a nipple, embarrassingly hardened from the husk of his voice, the way his cock is filling out in his joggers. “Where’d we miss, baby?”

You swallow. Know it’s audible even over the sound of the television. People are cheering, but you aren’t turning around to look, because what could they possibly have to cheer for when they don’t have Yoongi? When Yoongi only looks at you like this—like he’s already a little crazed, a little fucked up?

“The st-studio,” you choke out. Dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. Not a drop of champagne made it past your lips and still the world spins.

You can feel Yoongi’s smirk against the column of your throat. Hate what it does to you, because Yoongi could talk you off a ledge when he’s like this. “Ah, you’re right.” Fingers trail along the hem of your pants, toying with you. “Is that what you want? You wanna ride me in my chair? You want it fucking dirty like that, my sweats barely pulled down, like you’re fucking desperate for it?”

You are, and you do.

So that’s how Yoongi fucks you. Gives you exactly what you want: sits in his oversized chair, pulls you into his lap. Sweats pushed down only as far as he needs to fish his cock out, slick it up, and then he’s pushing inside of you. Groans loud, tells you how tight you are, how wet and warm. And it’s stupid, because your husband is fucking your brains out, but there’s a little window in his studio, just above his desk.

Through it, you can see the Christmas lights the two of you spent the afternoon putting up.

You can hear Yoongi’s grumbling in your head, all his shouting when he thought he was going to fall off the ladder even though you were holding it steady. Cursed about not having enough zip ties. Cursed about one lightbulb being burnt out. Cursed when the extension cord wasn’t long enough. Only stopped cursing when you shut him up with a kiss.

You come hard. Yoongi makes good on his promise.

Another home.

—

(From the living room, the muted sounds of a countdown. Palpable excitement you’re finally able to feel, last year’s numbness long gone and replaced with endless warmth. Yoongi only leaves to grab a warm washcloth from the bathroom, and then he’s cleaning you up and pressing his lips back to your kiss-reddened mouth. There’s a supercut playing in your head, all the past celebrations. All the parties the two of you have gone to, the years spent alone but together. All the people you’ve kissed in front of. All the quiet, private ways Yoongi used to tell you he loved you. When was the last time? Just minutes ago. There’s seven seconds until the new year and Yoongi is right beside you.

Fireworks explode outside. You cry this year, too, but they’re happy tears. They’re tears that serve as proof you survived, that you went through hell and made it to the other side. Yoongi sheds a few of his own. Laughs, almost disbelieving, as he tells you he loves you. Smiles, certainly disbelieving, when you repeat it.

You’re going to miss this place when you leave, but there’s a ring on your finger and a man beside you that tells you home can be anywhere, be anything. Tells you that sometimes you’ll have to fight for it, but it’ll always be there so long as you choose to.)

if you've made it this far, i'd like to say thank you again for reading this. as i said, this fic is deeply personal to me, and i hope you find something relatable in it as well.

i know people don't always love to read the members in westernized settings, and i completely understand. i chose oakhurst/yosemite because it's where i went for my own honeymoon, and, well, personal.

i'd love to hear your thoughts! feedback and reblogs are always appreciated. ♡

[loverlocket]

november 5, 2023

today’s song of the day is caroline by briston maroney <3

briston maroney is a very talented artist who i love a lot; you might know him from freakin’ out on the interstate or fool’s gold, two songs that i have been obsessed with for years.

caroline is a very special song to me. i first heard it about two years ago, when i was a freshman in college and going through one of the worst depressive episodes of my life. i was feeling incredibly lonely and isolated at the time, and music was one of the only things that made me feel better about everything. there are certain songs that you can listen to and instantly be transported back to a specific time and place in your life; caroline does that for me, but in a good way — this was one of the songs that helped the most in getting me through that time.

the lyrics are beautifully simple and relatable, and briston’s soft yet passionate singing voice complements them perfectly. even if you don’t connect with the song on the same emotional level as i do, it’s still just an overall great song. for me, though, it’s always been a comfort song — one of my favorites, in fact.

i’m feeling very soft and emotional today, so i won’t go on for too long, but just know that caroline is an amazing song and it really brings me a lot of peace when i’m going through a hard time. if you’re going through something, too, maybe give it a listen <3

[airborndesigns]

Happy Bi Visibility Day!

Animal Pictures, founded by Maya Rudolph and Natasha Lyonne, produced a film last year called Crush, now streaming on Hulu. It’s an entertaining coming of age comedy I wish was around when I was growing up. It’s writing speaks to the sublime spectrum of sexuality while emphasizing how we’re here to express ourselves and find our people along the way.

There is a wonderful bi character in the film who is an artist and is somewhat private about both. AJ Campos played by Auli’i Cravalho is smart and perceptive. She feels real and more fully formed than your typical teen movie character. Honestly, I wanted her to be the protagonist or for us to have a starring spin-off to look forward to! Crush delivers on a lot of levels. Paige, it’s main character sets out to write an essay about her “happiest moment” to get into the Cal Arts summer program. While dealing with common themes from lots of movies, Crush solves this and other problems in completely new ways and is a total blast to watch! It’s the queer rom-com I didn’t know I needed!

I haven’t seen a high school queer comedy that provided this many laughs since But I’m A Cheerleader, starring Natasha Lyonne. That being said, I love that she chose to produce this one! This time the themes aren’t heavy like that 1999 satire about conversion therapy. In fact, it’s cool to be queer at the high school in Crush and the main character’s mom, played by Megan Mullally, is incredibly supportive. She even borders on too supportive, providing awkward comic relief. I love that this is a direction rom-coms are going in. It’s a genre I love to enjoy!

Yellowjackets, on Showtime, is one of my favorite shows on TV. The creators do a wonderful job of transporting the viewer to high school in the 90’s, and since I graduated in 1999, I was instantly on board. These characters are unique and nuanced in their attractions and I was thrilled to see the show’s cast includes at least four queer characters. “Van” or Vanessa Palmer is played by Lauren Ambrose and really won me over from the start. When we visit her in modern day, she owns a video store somewhere in PA. This show features some of my favorite music and movie references from the 90’s and really channels how media can bring us back to a very specific time and place.

I remember watching the mesmerizing Angelina Jolie in Gia (1998) on HBO and subsequently discovering Foxfire at the video store (1996) starring her, Jenny Shimizu, and Jenny Lewis. These films led me to find All Over Me (1997) starring Leisha Hailey before she was cast in The L Word. I still love listening to the soundtrack from Velvet Goldmine (1998). It transports me right back to seeing it’s colorful musical montages and costume changes for the first time! The world was different then, but we are still dealing with a lot of the same inequities today.

Most of my favorite queer films from the 90’s get progressively bleak as they play, and for good reason, times were tough. I do have a dark sense of humor, and maybe the repetitive nature with which I watched these films is partly why. Yellowjackets definitely translates some of the melancholy of the times, which is just as relevant now. But despite it’s heart-breaking subject matter, I really appreciate it’s celebration of female friendships and all of the women the show employs in front of and behind the camera.

I’m not afraid to admit that I’m more sensitive to watching the queer movies I mentioned from the 90’s now. Maybe it’s because times are still tough and possibly getting tougher. When rewatching, I’ve been known to stop or fast forward them to create the queer joy I need to see today.

That’s why finding a current film like Crush is so affirming and uplifting! I had to share it’s name with you, no matter what your age, because it shows queer women being dynamic and unique individuals! It shows us creating art, finding love, experiencing success like wonderfully complicated and creative human beings. Crush shows queer women supported by their friends and family. And above all, this movie really makes me laugh! Our stories can be fun and fulfilling to watch, over and over again through to the end! That's what I want for us…to see bi+ characters experiencing joy in wonderful ways at any age because that is the reality I want to live in!

#bivisibilityday #happybivisibilityday #queerjoy #animalpictures #animalpicturescrush #crushthemovie #90squeerfilms #butimacheerleader #yelllowjackets #gia #foxfire #alloverme #thelword #velvetgoldmine

[knowledgefoundry]

The Power of Music Lyrics

The words that we sing along to in our favorite songs often hold a great deal of meaning and power. The lyrics of a song can be personal to the artist who wrote them, or they can be inspired by someone or something else entirely. Either way, the way that these words are put together can have a significant impact on the listener.

Music lyrics can be incredibly moving, inspiring, and even life-changing. They can offer comfort in tough times, or a voice to those who feel like they don’t have one. In moments of joy, they can be a way to express our happiness and share it with others. Put simply, the power of music lyrics is vast and far-reaching.

Everyone has a favorite song with lyrics that resonate with them on a personal level. 

There's something about music that can just speak to us on a personal level. It can be a song that we've heard a million times, or one that's only been in our lives for a short while. But when the right music lyrics come together with the perfect melody, it can just hit us right in the feels.

For me, there are two songs that always come to mind when I think about lyrics that resonate with me on a personal level. The first is "Home" by Phillip Phillips. The lyrics are all about finding your way back home, no matter how far you've strayed. And for me, that's always been an important message. No matter what happens in life, or how lost I might feel, I know that there's always a way back to the people and things that matter most to me.

The second song is "100 Years" by Five for Fighting. It's a song about living life to the fullest and not taking a single moment for granted. And that's something that I've always tried to keep in mind. Life is precious and unpredictable, so we should always make the most of the time that we have.

These are just two examples of the many songs out there with lyrics that resonate with me on a personal level. Everyone has their own favorite songs with lyrics that mean something special to them. And that's what makes music so powerful. It can connect with us on a deep, personal level and help us to get through even the hardest times in life.

The words to these songs can transport us back to specific times and place in our lives. 

Musical lyrics have a way of resonating with us long after the song is over. They can take us back to specific times and places in our lives, triggering memories both happy and sad. In fact, sometimes a song can become so associated with a certain time or place that hearing it again can transport us back to that moment almost immediately.

Think about a song that brings back memories of your first love. Chances are, hearing that song again will instantly take you back to the time when you first fell in love. The same can be said of songs that remind us of happier times, like a childhood friend's birthday party, or a beloved family vacation. Even songs with more bittersweet memories can have this effect; a song that was playing when you received news of a loved one's death, for example.

In a way, musical lyrics are like time capsules. They can take us back to a specific moment in our lives and help us to remember how we felt at that time. And while some memories may be better left in the past, others are worth revisiting again and again. So the next time you hear a song that transports you back to another time, close your eyes and enjoy the ride.

Music lyrics can be incredibly powerful, often serving as a source of motivation or inspiration. 

Music lyrics can be incredibly powerful, often serving as a source of motivation or inspiration. In many cases, the lyrics of a song can provide a much-needed boost of confidence or hope. For example, the song "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor is often cited as a motivating force by athletes of all levels. Likewise, the lyrics of "unity" songs like "We Are the World" can remind people of the importance of coming together in times of difficulty.

 In other cases, music lyrics can be a source of comfort, providing a relatable voice to those who are going through tough times. Songs like "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen and "Whenever I Call You Friend" by Kenny Loggins have been known to provide a sense of peace and calm to listeners who are going through tough times. In this way, music lyrics can serve as a source of strength and hope for many people.

In many cases, the lyrics to a song can be more impactful than the melody or even the overall message of the song. 

In many cases, the lyrics to a song can be more impactful than the melody or even the overall message of the song. This is because lyrics are often more personal and relatable than other aspects of a song.

People often connect with lyrics because they can relate to the emotions and experiences being conveyed. This is why many people find solace in songs with sad lyrics, even if the overall message of the song is not necessarily a happy one.

Lyrics also have the power to be incredibly uplifting and empowering. Songs with positive and inspiring lyrics can give people the strength to keep going, even when things are tough. This is one of the many reasons why music is such a powerful force in the world.

So, next time you're listening to your favorite song, pay attention to the lyrics. See if they speak to you in a personal way. You might be surprised at how impactful they can be.

There are certain songs that can instantly boost our mood or provide comfort during difficult times. 

When we’re feeling down, there’s nothing like a good song to lift our spirits. Music has the power to change our mood, give us energy and motivation, and even provide comfort during difficult times. There are certain songs that seem to have the ability to instantly boost our mood or provide comfort, and we all have our own “go-to” songs when we need a pick-me-up.

For some, it might be a feel-good song with an upbeat tempo and positive lyrics. Maybe it’s a song that reminds us of happy times or good memories. Or it could be a slow, sentimental ballad that helps us toprocess our feelings and allows us to release our emotions. Whatever the case may be, there are certain songs that can help us get through tough times, and that’s why music is such a powerful tool.

If you’re feeling down, try putting on one of your favorite songs and see if it doesn’t make you feel better. It might just be the boost you need to get through the day.

Music lyrics can be a form of self-expression, helping us to communicate our thoughts and feelings when we can’t find the words ourselves. 

There are few things in life more personal than the music we listen to. The tunes that get us through tough times, make us feel happy and nostalgic, or help us to relax after a long day. But for some of us, music is more than just a soundtrack to our lives – the lyrics can be a form of self-expression, helping us to communicate our thoughts and feelings when we can’t find the words ourselves.

For anyone who has ever felt like they don’t quite fit in, or like they’re struggling to find their place in the world, music can be a powerful tool. By listening to songs with lyrics that resonate with our own experiences, we can feel less alone and more understood. And when we’re able to express our innermost thoughts and feelings through music, we can often find a sense of peace and calm.

Of course, not all music is created equal, and there will be some songs that just don’t speak to us on a personal level. But when we find those rare gems that seem to have been written just for us, it can be a truly magical experience. So if you’re ever feeling lost, or like you can’t express yourself, try turning to music – you might just find the perfect way to communicate your thoughts and feelings.

Conclusion

There's no question that music lyrics have the power to touch our hearts and souls. They can make us laugh, cry, or simply reminisce about good times. But what is it about music lyrics that have the ability to resonant so deeply within us?

 Firstly, music lyrics usually contain strong emotions. They might be happy, sad, angry, or romantic. But regardless of the emotion, the lyrics usually make us feel something. And sometimes, it's those emotions that we can't always put into words ourselves that make the lyrics so special. They can act as a release, or a way to finally express what we're feeling inside.

Secondly, music lyrics often tell a story. They might be personal stories about the artist's life, or more general stories that we can all relate to. But either way, they usually contain some sort of message or moral. And it's this message that can often resonate deeply within us. It might be something that we needed to hear at that particular moment in our lives, or maybe it's something that we can relate to on a personal level.

Lastly, music lyrics have a way of connecting with us on a deep, emotional level. They can make us feel seen and understood, even if no one else in the world seems to get us. They can be a source of comfort in times of trouble, or a reminder that we're not alone. And ultimately, that's what the power of music lyrics lies in. They have the ability to connect with us on a level that few other things can.

In conclusion, the power of music lyrics is profound. They can change our moods, our thoughts, and even our behavior. They can inspire us to be our best selves, or help us through a tough time. When we listen to music, we are letting the artist into our innermost thoughts and feelings, and they can have a profound impact on us. So the next time you're feeling down, or need a little motivation, put on your favorite song and let the lyrics work their magic.

[crumbledcastle28]

Leo Valdez: Destined

Pairing: Leo Valdez x fem!reader

Summary: After completing a particularly difficult quest, you are surprised when the Gods actually take time out of their “busy schedules” to congratulate you and Leo. What was more surprising, however, is the attention you get from a specific Goddess of Love…

Warnings: two love sick idiots. Aphrodite being supportive. Mentions of past violence? Leo’s pretty injured in the beginning. Zeus is an ass. I also think I went a bit off canon for Mount Olympus and how the Gods act with their powers.

A/N: the support on my last Din fic has been incredible!! I am so happy people are actually enjoying my writing. The comments make my day. Thank you all so much :)

The last thing you expected after completing one of the most difficult quests you can remember, was to be instantly transported to an elevator going up to the top of the Empire State Building.

You landed with a thud, all your weapons falling out of your hands and your breath being knocked from your lungs. You landed flat on your stomach, of course, and there was a faint sound of classic elevator instrumental music behind all the ringing in your ears.

After a second or two of just lying on your stomach and trying to catch your breath, you hear a groan from beside you.

You turn your head and see Leo next to you, lying on his back, and clutching his ribcage.

“Oh my gods, Leo!” you say and use all your strength in your sore muscles to stand up.

“I’m alright. I’m good,” he says in a strained voice. He is definitely not good.

“You are not,” you say and kneel down next to him to examine his ribs. His hands are covering where he seems to be in the most pain, so you place your hands lovingly over his.

His breaths are quick and strained. He eyes are squished shut in pain and he is squirming slightly. Sweat is dripping down his forehead, along with flecks of dried blood.

Even just a month ago, you would have been a panicking crying mess at the state of Leo like this. But after being more experienced with quests and injuries, you’ve leaned to stay calm. More importantly, you’ve learned that patients only get better when they’re calm as well.

Luckily, with Leo, you knew exactly how to do that.

“Hey,” you say to him, and he manages to open his eyes.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper softly to him, and his breathing starts to slow down. His golden brown eyes meet yours and he manages a weak smile.

“I know,” he says, love and understanding shining in his eyes, and he moves his hands slowly from under yours.

At the sight of his bruised ribs that were definitely broken, your forehead creases in worry. Leo let’s out a breathy laugh at your concerned face, one he has gotten to know all too well.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s better me then you,” he says jokingly. The fact that he can still laugh in these moments never ceases to surprise you.

“What are you talking about? Your ribs are broken!” you exclaim, and he only continues giggling.

“I’m fine. I’ve got yo-“ he starts, but an intense coughing fit cuts him off. His body rocks back and forth with his coughs and it sounds painful. His rib cage has to be throbbing at this point. Even Leo can’t hide this type of pain.

“Shh..” you whisper, moving one hand to brush his sweaty hair from his forehead. His coughs start dying down slowly, and you place your hand on his cheek.

“I’ve got you, don’t I?” he says with a grin. You smile back, caressing his cheekbone with your thumb.

“Mhmm” you say, and he brings your palm to his mouth to press a light kiss there.

This love filled moment is, once again, interrupted by the elevator coming to a sudden halt. Both you and Leo jump a little when the door opens, and a booming voice fills your ears.

“Rise, demigods!” it yells, so loud the elevator vibrates slightly.

You look at Leo confused, and he gives you the same expression.

“Come forward,” the voice says once again, and you look at Leo in pity.

There was no way he could walk.

“I’m gonna need some help baby,” Leo whispers, already trying to stand on his own.

You wrap his arm around the back of your neck to keep him upright, lifting him onto his feet. You then slowly walk forward, giving him time to get used to his short steps. He smells like smoke and fire, which isn’t that unusual, But he also smells like blood and metal. You can feel his sweat covered back against your forearm and his body tense in pain from every step.

You watch his face every time he puts pressure on his legs, looking for signs of apprehension or a pleading to stop, but he just keeps going. Like always.

The room you were walking into was huge. Clouds, pillars, gold, marble, everything one would imagine when entering Mount Olympus. It smelled of orchids and honey with a touch of vanilla. It looked and felt like heaven.

Except, of course, the two bruised demigods coated in mud, slowly making their way to the throne.

The walk was slow, but once you and Leo finally got there, you took your eyes off of him to look at who was calling you forward.

Zeus, the father of the gods, was front and center with all his glory. His seat was pure gold and his body was huge. He was in his godly form for sure.

To his left was his wife, Queen Hera, and his children, Artemis and Apollo. To his right, sat Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, Ares, God of war, and Hermès. All in their godly forms, emulating wealth and power. The glow of their eyes was placed directly on you and Leo, and the both of you looked nothing less than a wreck.

So yeah, not intimidating at all.

“Do you know why I brought you here, Demigods?” Zeus asked, and you try your best to swallow down your anxiety.

“N-no, sir” you say, looking down at your feet, trying your best to be respectful.

Did Zeus deserve respect? No, not at all. But in this moment he was surrounded by not only his family, but some of the most powerful beings ever created who were most definitely on his side. The time for activism and frustration was not now.

“I brought you here because of your work on my quest,” he says, and you look at Leo in confusion. He could barely lift his head.

“Your quest?” Leo wheezes, and Zeus nods.

“Yes. I sent this quest to Chiron for you and Y/N specifically. I wanted the best for the job, and it looks like I chose right,” he says, and stands up from his chair.

He walks down the throne stairs slowly, becoming smaller and smaller on every step. By the time he makes it to your eye level, he is a “normal” sized man. Normal, meaning still very much above average height.

“You have done wonderfully,” he says, looking into your eyes. You smile a little before looking down, still greatly intimidated by the man. You couldn’t shake the feeling that, even though he was in his “human” form, he was still looking down on you.

He turns his head to look at Leo, still breathing hard and barely able to stand in your arms, and grips his shoulder lightly.

“As did you, my boy,” he says, and Leo doesn’t even crack a smile. Leo just stares at Zeus, holding his ribs with his free hand. You hadn’t seen him in this much pain in a while.

“All in a days work,” he says, before his knees completely give out and he collapses.

He takes you down with him, since you were supporting most of his weight anyway, and you both land on your knees.

You gasp in surprise, before guiding him down onto his back so you can rest his head in your lap.

“Shh it’s okay. It’s almost over,” you whisper to Leo, massaging his sweaty scalp.

Zeus watches this happen, before calling for his son.

“Apollo! Get this boy healed!” he shouts, and Apollo is kneeling next to you in seconds.

“I’ve got him. Just let me take him,” he says, and you shake your head.

“No. No no please let me stay,” you say to him, before you feel a squeeze on your forearm.

“It’s alright Y/N” Leo says to you, still having specks of love and admiration for you in his eyes, behind all the pain.

“I promise I will take care of him. Just not here,” Apollo says, and you look to Leo one more time.

“Are you sure?” you ask, and Leo nods.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he says, before another coughing fit rakes through his body. You take a deep breath, kiss him on the cheek, before nodding to Apollo.

Apollo lifts up the still coughing Leo in his arms and disappears into thin air.

You didn’t feel the tears on your cheeks until Leo left you.

“Well, that was unexpected,” you hear from behind you, and you turn around to find the face of Aphrodite. Goddess of Love. Some would say she is the most beautiful woman who has ever existed.

Her radiant skin, flowing hair, and slightly husky voice made you pretty prone to agree with that statement.

“H-hi. Hello. I’m y/n,” you say, reaching out your hand to shake hers. There are no books on how to interact with gods. Let alone one of the oldest and most powerful. Your gut told you to act normal, but your beating heart and anxious brain thought otherwise.

“Aphrodite,” she says, shaking your hand. She looked you in the eyes as she shook your hand. Her hands were soft. The perfect feeling of love.

“Thank you for your work on this quest. It may seem like we don’t care, and we don’t do a really good job of showing it, but we do,” she says. You smile, hoping she meant her words, before wiping your eyes and sniffling.

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” you say with an awkward laugh. You try to keep your attention on her, but Leo has disappeared with Apollo for too long already. You don’t mean to be rude, but you continue scanning the room around her. Looking for any sign of Apollo’s glow or the laugh of your lover.

“You’re looking for him, aren’t you?” she asks, and your eyes snap back to meet hers. She looks amused, thankfully, but you still feel bad. You nod, defeated.

“I get it,” she says with a laugh. “Love is powerful. I know more than anyone,” she says, and you laugh back. It felt good.

“Very true,” you respond, and she stares at you intensely all of a sudden. She looks deeply into your eyes, like she’s looking into your soul. Like she can see every crack and secret inside of you. You keep her stare for a few seconds, trying to understand what she’s doing, before your curiosity got the better of you.

“Hello? You okay?” you ask her. She continues staring for a second more, before her eyes fluttered back to normal. She clutches her chest with her hand and gasps a bit, like she just returned back into her body.

“Yes. Yes I’m alright,” she says, and looks into your eyes once more. “Just looking.”

She says this with a smile, a huge smile. One so big her eyes close slightly and her cheeks turn rosey.

“Oh,” you say. “Hopefully at good things,” you say with an awkward laugh yet again.

“Better than even I could imagine,” she says, grabbing a glass of champagne a waitor handed to her off his tray.

Where this waiter came from, you have no idea. To be honest, you didn’t care. What you did care about, however, was what in Zeus’ name Aphrodite just saw in your head.

“What do you mean?” you ask, and she sips her drink.

“You and Leo, of course,” she says.

You and Leo.

Of course she was looking at that. Your heart was only Leo and had only ever been Leo. What else would the Goddess of Love see inside your heart? Inside your future. You wanted to spend your lifetime and beyond with him. He knew that. Why would she not?

“Well what…what did you see?” you ask her.

You couldn’t help your heart racing in anticipation for her answer. You knew Leo wouldn’t leave you. You knew he wanted to be with you just as much as you wanted to be with him, if not more. But to hear from the Goddess of Love if you were destined for each other? That’s a temptation even the holiest of saints would take.

“Nothing you don’t already know,” she says with a wink, taking another sip of her drink.

How does one react to that? How does one react to the fact that the actual Goddess of Love told you that you and the man you love most were meant to be together? Cry? Scream? Dance?

You stare, flabbergasted, mouth open, before she laughs slightly.

“Yes, my dear. You two are destined. Congratulations. Forever won’t seem like enough time,” she says. She chugs her champagne, wipes her mouth, and then walks back to where the Gods were having a discussion in a circle.

A tear escapes your eye, but not from sadness or grief this time. This time, it’s happiness.

You try to take a moment to process this information, really soak in the fact that Leo is your future, but it’s not as shocking as you expected. You knew he was your destiny from the moment you met him. Aphrodite just added the cherry on top of your cake.

You laugh a little, in complete euphoria, before you hear the sound of running come behind you.

Before you can react, strong arms are wrapped around your waist and you are twirled around in a circle.

Speak of the devil.

“Told you I’d be fine,” Leo says into your ear. You laugh, hard and thoroughly, before he sets you back down onto the floor.

You turn around to face him, and your heart warms at his clean face and clothes. No cuts or bruises in sight.

You place your hands on his chest, just looking at him. Scanning all his features you had grown so accustomed to. His dimples, his curls, his golden eyes. Nothing you had ever seen could compare.

“You’re ok too, right? Cause I can call Apollo back here. He fixed me up pretty quick and I could barely walk so I’m sure he could-” Leo says, before your lips press to his.

He’s initially a bit shocked, since he was in the middle of a sentence, but his eyes flutter shut nonetheless and he holds your face in his hands. He can feel all the unspoken words you are putting into the kiss.

I love you. I’m glad you’re ok. I’m fine. We’re fine. I love you.

The Gods praising him and congratulating him was nothing compared to this feeling.

You finally pull away, look into his eyes for a second, and then press your nose to his neck. He pulls you in for a hug, encompassing his arms around you, and you do the same.

After a few seconds of the embrace, Leo broke the silence.

“I saw you chatting with Aphrodite,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

You giggle, nodding into his neck.

“How did that go? Learn anything?” he asks. He says it in a joking tone, but there was seriousness in there as well.

Leo was no stranger to how Aphrodite crushed relationships like a grape. Even the slightest hint at a breakup from her sent couples spiraling down the drain.

He hoped and prayed the kiss you gave him proved his anxious thoughts wrong.

“Nothing I didn’t already know,” you mumble into his neck before pressing a firm kiss to his pulse point.

You feel Leo relax around you. So much so he almost goes limp.

He understands.

You pull away, seeing the happy tears of relief dribble down his cheek, and you wipe them away.

“I love you,” he says with his voice cracking.

“I love you too,” you say, kissing him once more. He smiles into the kiss, as do you.

Destiny had never felt so good.

Tag list:

@leahkenobi @acciocriativity

[iamthenightcolormeblack]

Pride and Prejudice 1940: "When Pretty Girls T-E-A-S-E-D Men Into Marriage"

Made during the Great Depression, this classic black and white film is loosely based on Austen's novel and is set in what is likely the 1830s rather than the Regency Era (late 18th century to early 19th century). It is an escapist piece which capitalizes on nostalgia for a simpler time by transporting its viewers to a chocolate-box vision of the past, while paying homage to Austen's social satire by delivering plenty of laughs along the way.

Overall Thoughts on the Film:

The first time I watched this movie, I was confused because the plot as well as the setting was revised significantly (the events after Darcy's first proposal are changed to hasten the happy ending; Darcy's letter and Elizabeth's visit to Pemberley are not included in this movie). This changing of plot points makes the 2005 movie a much more faithful adaptation in comparison with this version, in spite of the creative liberties both take with the novel.

Production Design:

The movie is a typical example of Golden Age Hollywood productions, with beautiful actresses and melodramatic flourishes added to increase the drama. Some of the lines are delivered very quickly, in keeping with the comedic style of the time.

The music: definitely not historically accurate. A lot of sentimental, "ye olde timey" string arrangements that emphasize emotions or fast-paced waltz music for balls/parties.

The 1830s costumes are beautiful; it seems as if no expense (or quantity of fabric) was spared in making them. The bonnets are way taller and have more decorations than typical 1830s bonnets. Some of the patterns/fabric choices are very 1930s, and the costumes are exaggerated in such as way as to make the wearers look like fancy turkeys.

Hair and Makeup: very 1930s, with finger/sausage curls, plucked eyebrows, lipstick/lip makeup, and long lashes.

The sets: the dollhouse-like interiors are lavishly gilded and made to look as opulent as possible. Outdoors scenes are lush, with lots of flowers and bushes; the garden in which the second proposal takes place is gorgeous. The set design transports the viewer into an idyllic vision of the bucolic English countryside.

The Lead Actors:

With the exception of Laurence Olivier, the majority of the actors are American, since this is a Hollywood production. Many of the characters in the film's imaginary vision of pastoral Britain speak American or make clumsy attempts to imitate British English.

Greer Garson: while she is definitely too old for the part, she perfectly conveys Elizabeth's intelligence, outspokenness, and sarcasm. Her facial expressions are killer as well; with the arch of an eyebrow along with a snarky side eye, she captivates us all. All in all, Garson effectively shows off Elizabeth's impertinence through her nonverbal acting (this reminds me strongly of Jennifer Ehle's Elizabeth Bennet).

Laurence Olivier: he effectively conveys Darcy's pride while hinting at his deeper feelings beneath the surface (I can see why Colin Firth spoke so highly of Olivier's portrayal of Darcy). Most importantly, the film emphasizes Darcy's intelligence; he is certainly Elizabeth's intellectual equal. While this portrayal of Darcy is very accurate to the book, Darcy's pride does go away pretty quickly (he and Elizabeth form a tentative friendship early on) and his social awkwardness isn't immediately obvious thanks to his charm. Also the unflattering hairstyle with the greasy hair and painted on sideburns makes me sad.

Key Scenes:

Opening scene: The title card appeals directly to the audience's nostalgia for a sentimental, romanticized past: “It happened in OLD ENGLAND (this was actually capitalized), in the village of Meryton…” The Bennet women are at a fabric shop, where they gossip with aunt Phillips about the rich people moving into Netherfield Park.

The carriage race: this scene, which isn’t in the original novel, represents the rivalry between the Bennets and Lucases. The mothers both want their daughters to be the first to snag the rich bachelors.

The first ball: There is a historical anachronism as the music is a waltz by Strauss, who became popular in late 19th century, specifically the Gilded Age; far too early for the Regency Era or 1830s England. Other changes from the original novel include Elizabeth meeting Wickham before Darcy; other events from Aunt Phillips’ ball (which isn’t included in this movie) and Wickham and Darcy’s confrontation are included in this scene.

Elizabeth’s impression of Darcy at the ball: she puts on airs and mocks his casual dismissal of her as tolerable (definitely a parallel with the 1995 version, where Jennifer Ehle does the same, but privately with Jane).

Great comedic change: Darcy introduces himself to Elizabeth after calling her tolerable and asks if she will dance with him (this originally takes place at Mr. Lucas' ball). Right after rejecting Darcy, she instantly agrees to dance with Wickham; in a humorous moment, Darcy evacuates to a corner of the room to sulk while seeing Wickham dance with Elizabeth.

The “Accomplished woman” scene: the dialogue lifted directly from the book for the most part. Darcy, in a departure from his trademark seriousness, shows off his playful side when reacting to Caroline Bingley's "turn about the room." I particularly like this added repartee from Elizabeth Bennet to Darcy, which is clever but also foreshadows her prejudice: “If my departure is any punishment, you are quite right. My character reading is not too brilliant.”

Elizabeth can't stand Mr. Collins: After twirling about his monocle, he pronounces that: “It might interest you to know my taste was formed by lady Catherine de Bourgh.” The best part of this scene is when Elizabeth plucks a wrong note on her harp when Collins gets really annoying.

The Netherfield ball (which is now a garden party):

Elizabeth running away from Mr. Collins: She looks rather ridiculous, almost like an overdressed turkey, in a white dress with puffy sleeves as she runs away from an overeager Collins. Then she hides in the bushes while Darcy helps her to hide, telling Collins he doesn't know where she is. It's fun but most likely not something a proper lady and gentleman would do (two people of the opposite gender out alone, shock!).

The archery scene: Darcy attempts to teach Elizabeth how to shoot a bow and arrow, even though he doesn’t hit the bullseye. She goes on to impress him by perfectly hitting the bullseye every time; Darcy learns his lesson: "Next time I talk to a young lady about archery I won't be so patronizing." Caroline Bingley, very passive aggressive as usual, shows up for her archery lesson right after and it's absolutely perfect.

Mr. Collins attempts to introduce himself to Mr. Darcy: Laurence Olivier captures Darcy so perfectly in this scene (really set the precedent for Colin Firth). When Mr. Collins starts talking (inviting Elizabeth to dance with him) Darcy tries to keep himself well-composed but has a pained expression on his face as if he’s about to pass out. Olivier masters the way Darcy can look so miserable but also disgusted and proud at the same time.

Mr. Collin's proposal to Elizabeth: I like the added touch of Mrs. Bennet pulling Elizabeth back by her skirt when she tries to run out of the room. The dialogue is taken directly from the book, and the scene is made even funnier when Collins holds on to Elizabeth's hand desperately and doesn’t let her get away. My only quibble is that Elizabeth isn’t indignant enough when Mr. Collins doesn't take no for an answer.

Elizabeth and Darcy at Rosings: I like that Olivier subtly indicates that Darcy is clearly affected upon seeing Elizabeth at Rosing, hinting at deeper feelings beneath the surface. I also like how the scriptwriter emphasizes that Darcy indirectly praises Elizabeth and enjoys their conversations, while she remains convinced that he hates her. Sadly, the original dialogue of the piano scene is not included, which is unfortunate as it allows Darcy to reveal his introvert tendencies, calling into question Elizabeth's assertion that he is unpardonably proud.

First proposal: The famous opening lines are mutilated with awkward punctuation: “It’s no use. I’ve struggled in vain. I must tell you how much I admire and love you." While the rest of the dialogue matches up closely with what happens in Austen's novel, both of the actors aren’t emotional enough; instead Elizabeth cries very daintily, and Darcy remains serene, which conflicts with the book's description of both of them being very angry and defensive at each other.

THE SCRIPT:

The first half of the film up to Darcy's first proposal follows the events of the original book closely, though certain blocks of dialogue are moved elsewhere and other events such as Mrs. Phillips' party are skipped over. The most significant changes, besides updating the setting to the 1830s, are made to the second half of the book to squeeze the key events of the story into the movie before delivering the inevitable happy ending.

Brilliant Quotes:

Mr. Bennet's reaction to Mrs. Bennet's despair over the situation of their 5 unmarried daughters: “Perhaps we should have drowned some of them at birth.”

Darcy insists Elizabeth cannot tempt him: “Ugh. Provincial young lady with a lively wit. And there’s that mother of hers.”

Darcy is an arrogant snob: “I’m in no humor tonight to give consequence to the middle classes at play.” (Technically the Bennets are part of the gentry; they just are less wealthy than Darcy).

Elizabeth's reaction to Darcy pronouncing her to be tolerable at best: “What a charming man!”

Elizabeth rebuffs Darcy's offer to dance after overhearing his insult: “I am afraid that the honor of standing up with you is more than I can bear, Mr Darcy.”

Elizabeth favors Wickham after witnessing the bad blood between him and Darcy: “Without knowing anything about it I am on your side.”

Mrs. Bennet's comment after she sends Jane to Netherfield under stormy skies: “There isn’t anything like wet weather for engagements. Your dear father and I became engaged in a thunderstorm.”

Mr. Bennet's reaction to Jane's fever: “Jane must have all the credit for having caught the cold…we’re hoping Elizabeth will catch a cold and stay long enough to get engaged to Mr. Darcy. And if a good snowstorm could be arranged we’d send Kitty over!”

The sisters' description of Mr. Collins: “Oh heavens! what a pudding face.”

Caroline Bingley at the Netherfield garden party: “Entertaining the rustics is not as difficult as I feared. Any simple childish game seems to amuse them excessively.”

Darcy reassuring Elizabeth after helping her escape Mr. Collins: “If the dragon returns St. George will know how to deal with it.”

Darcy learns his lesson after Elizabeth beats him at archery: “The next time I talk to a young lady about archery I won’t be so patronizing.”

Elizabeth comments about a curtain: “Oh that’s pretty. It’s a pity you didn’t make it bigger. You could have put it around Mr. Collins when he becomes a bore.”

Elizabeth on Kitty and Lydia: “2 daughters out of 5, that represents 40% of the noise.”

Elizabeth sees Lady Catherine for the first time: “So that’s the great lady Catherine. Now I see where he learned his manners.”

Lady Catherine's attitude towards philanthropy: “You must learn to draw a firm line between the deserving poor and the undeserving poor.”

Darcy takes Elizabeth's advice: “I’ve thought a great deal about what you said at Netherfield, about laughing more...but it only makes me feel worse."

Elizabeth and Darcy have a conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam: “He likes the landscape well enough, but the natives, the natives, what boors, what savages … Isn’t that what you think, Mr. Darcy?” With a smile: “It evidently amuses you to think so, Miss Bennet."

CHANGES FROM THE BOOK:

The first half of the film up to Darcy's first proposal follow the events of the original book closely, though certain blocks of dialogue are moved elsewhere and other events such as Mrs. Phillips' party are skipped over. The most significant changes, besides updating the setting to the 1830s, are made to the second half of the book to squeeze the key events of the story into the movie before delivering the inevitable happy ending.

With the exception of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, the portrayals of the characters are (generally) true to the book.

As I said earlier, the film neglects any sort of historical accuracy when setting the story in romanticized "Old England," where genteel people pass simple lives that revolve around dresses, tea parties, social gossip, and marriages. A lot of Austen adaptations present an idealized vision of Regency life, where people are dressed immaculately, flawlessly adhere to "chivalry," and find love in the ballroom. This contributes to the misconception that Austen's novels are shallow chick-lit books with flat characters who live for lavish parties and hot men, instead of stories of unique, complicated women who happen to be well-off but aspire towards love, respect, or independence instead of being content to make economically advantageous marriages. Austen's novels are character novels and she doesn't waste time writing about dresses or tea parties; balls, while exciting, are just another part of daily life for her characters rather than some Extremely Big Special Once In a Blue Moon Event.

Austen's multifaceted view on marriage turns into a game of matchmaking. She recognizes it as necessary for women to survive in the patriarchy, since they cannot provide for themselves unless they marry well, but at the same time, presents marriage as a means for freedom if it is a loving partnership between two people that respect each other. In contrast, marriage is a game of manipulating the partners into wanting to marry (ex. Lady Catherine and Darcy's trickery). Also, it seems to be a given that Elizabeth will marry for love, unlike in the book where it is uncertain whether she will achieve this.

Kitty and Lydia's antics are viewed much more sympathetically as those of young people having fun; in the book, their behavior harms the family's social reputation, reducing the chances the Bennet daughters have of making good marriages.

Louisa Hurst, Georgiana Darcy, and Aunt and Uncle Gardiner are not in the movie.

Wickham is introduced much earlier than in the book; he is friends with Lydia from the very beginning. Interestingly, he doesn't begin to trash-talk Darcy until Bingley leaves; in the book he does so much earlier, before the Netherfield ball.

Darcy is more considerate towards Elizabeth at the Netherfield party (ex. rescuing her from Collins), until he overhears Mrs. Bennet scheming to get the daughters married. Elizabeth forms a tentative friendship with him until finding out that he separated Jane from Bingley.

Jane is more obviously heartbroken over Bingley's departure than in the book, where she keeps her pain to herself. In the movie, she runs away to cry, which is uncharacteristic of her.

Collins is a librarian instead of a clergyman. I dislike this change because some Austen scholars/fans think that Collins being a clergyman is a deliberate choice as part of Austen's social criticism. Collins is representative of how hypocritical the Church is, since he worships Lady Catherine's wealth instead of God, and preaches moral lessons instead of actually using religion to help people. My theory is that the change was made because of the Hays Code, which led to the censorship of movies for "unwholesome" or "indecent" things; the religious criticism could have been offensive.

Elizabeth reacts rather too kindly to Charlotte marrying Collins by showing concern for the loveless marriage. While she does worry about the lack of love in the marriage, initially she is extremely surprised, outright shocked, and confused.

The scene where Darcy tries and fails to talk to Elizabeth (the "charming house" scene in the 2005 movie) just before the proposal is removed.

Darcy's letter is skipped over and Elizabeth overcomes her prejudice of Darcy very quickly, as shown when she tells Jane she regrets rejecting his proposal. This is contrary to the book, where overcoming her prejudice is an emotionally exhausting and slow process that continues all the way up until the second proposal.

The Pemberley visit is removed; instead, Elizabeth returns home to the news that Lydia has eloped. Visiting Pemberley is very important as part of Elizabeth's re-evaluation of Darcy's character and provides an opportunity for Darcy to show Elizabeth that he has changed for her. The visit is key in increasing Elizabeth's love for Darcy, and removing it means that the characters have less personal growth (also wouldn't it have been great for the audience to be treated to another gorgeous estate of "Old England?"). Instead, Darcy visits Longbourn on his own and offers his help in finding Lydia. When the news comes that Wickham accepts very little money in exchange for marrying Lydia, it isn't as shocking as it is in the book because Darcy had already expressed his intentions of helping Elizabeth earlier.

Here's the change that bugs me the most: Lady Catherine becomes good; though she is a busybody, her main priority is Darcy's happiness. Her confrontation of Elizabeth is a scheme hatched between her and Darcy as a test to be certain of Elizabeth's love. This does not make sense on so many levels: first, Darcy insists that "disguise of every sort is my abhorrence," so why would he resort to trickery, however well-intentioned, to find out if Elizabeth still loves him? Second, Lady Catherine is a social snob and objects to Elizabeth's low connections; also she has an arranged marriage planned for Darcy. Third, in the book, because Elizabeth likes Pemberley and gets along really well with his sister Georgiana, Darcy would have had some evidence that Elizabeth, in the very least, cared for him. And the added claim that Lady Catherine approves of Elizabeth because she likes rudeness and thinks Darcy needs a humorous wife irritates me further because the marriage of Elizabeth and Darcy is revolutionary since it was made in defiance of societal rules!!! Why, why, why in the name of comedy did they have to do this?!

Darcy kisses Elizabeth (in a stagey and melodramatic way) after she accepts his second proposal. Seems a bit uncharacteristic of him.

All the sisters get married at the end. Happily ever after.

CONCLUSION

This movie certainly was not aiming for faithfulness to Austen's novel; it ignores her detailed portrait of Regency era society and its attitudes and focuses on the "light, bright, and sparkling" aspect of Pride and Prejudice that gives the story its timeless appeal.

All in all, this comedy of manners is definitely a classic thanks to the clever dialogue and jokes within the script, along with some great acting.

@appleinducedsleep @dahlia-coccinea @princesssarisa @colonelfitzwilliams @austengivesmeserotonin

[ladyeliot]

“Your stupid spider”

Superhero vs Villain!Reader Prompts

Request: Anonymous: Hello there! Could you write a Superhero vs Villain, where the reader is Peter Parker's best friend but also his enemy? You can use #3 if you want. By the way I love your stories and your writing. Lots of love.

Prompt #3: Truce? 

Pairing: Superhero!Peter Parker x Villain!Fem!Reader

Summary: Peter Parker is your best friend, and Spider-man is your enemy. You finally discover that they are the same person.

Warnings: Violence. 

Word count: 2446

A/N: Sorry for my spelling and grammatical mistakes, English is not my native language, I am learning.

"If you are really interested in how I discovered the identity of my greatest enemy, please read on."

You. An ordinary girl, born in Brooklyn to a single parent family who had moved into a small flat in the Queens area with her mother. No drugs, no alcohol, no tobacco, your obsession was pancakes and syrup. You didn't do any chores, and you didn't sneak out of the housework. After school you went home with your friends to do your homework. You liked reading, and you listened to music with headphones so as not to disturb the neighbours. In short, a teenager that many parents wish they had.

However, your persona wasn't all rosy, just because Y/N was like that, didn't mean your alter ego was too. You had a secret, everyone has secrets, you might think, but it wasn't just any secret, it was "The Secret", and no one knew it. That's why you could say it was the best kept secret in Queens, or at least that's what you thought until he came along. Spider-man.

Everything went smoothly, it took you a while to assume your powers, your teleportation, but when you got it you enjoyed your solitude in your night outings. You discovered the reality of New York City, the nocturnal and dark atmosphere of being hidden in the shadows, that is to say, you had fun as only you knew how to do. Nevertheless, since the arrival of that Spider-man, your fun was over. That man had in mind to destroy the true essence of the city and that was something you could not allow.

Your first meeting was at the top of Rockefeller Center, a night like any other after the end of one of the most intrepid police chases in Midtown West. There you were, watching the chase unfold, and there he arrived. Remarkably, due to the concealment of your costumes, neither of you could figure out who the other was, and your voice-impersonation skills helped you never get caught. All in all, that was one of many encounters you would have in the wake of Spider-Man's popularity. But still, your life went on.

"Are you telling me you're going to stand me up this afternoon for helping your aunt bake a cake?" you asked Peter between complaints. "You know we have to study for the chemistry test on Friday. And that I'm nothing without you in chemistry."

Although you tried to show him the most apologetic face in the whole world, Peter was not immune to it. 

"Sorry Y/N," he closed his locker after grabbing his books. "I promised May last week, it's very important for her to give a good welcome to the new neighbours."

You rolled your eyes but finally came to terms with your defeat.

"Okay Parker," you gave him a little push. "But you've been letting me down in the afternoons for three days now. You'll make it up to me."

You winked and Peter's cheeks quickly turned pink, he gave you a shy smile and nodded goodbye. He was adorable. It was actually good to be free in the afternoons, since Spider-Man had gotten in your way, you had a complex relationship, playing cat and mouse, trying to hinder each other's actions, and it was interesting that week.

Like the previous days, after finishing your chores at home, you put on your black suit and disappeared. Your power was complex, you didn't fully understand it yet and you knew it would take a while, but you weren't scared. You could teleport to a specific place, teleport to another person or object, and even open portals to other places. But these superpowers had played tricks on you, sometimes you appeared in places you didn't recognise and then didn't know how to get back, or you had to return home by taking public transport. Everything has its drawbacks.

Dusk was falling over the island of Manhattan, it was a busy spring evening in New York, big businessmen were leaving their offices, dog walkers were wandering into Central Park and a group of elementary school students were leaving the Museum of Arts and Design. You caught your gaze on the broad clock of a prominent building and instantly there he was, coming from 8th Avenue.

You smiled, you were in the mood for fun and what better way than to open a portal right in front of him to get rid of Spider-man and send him a few blocks further south.

"Woah!" he exclaimed, stepping into the portal and disappearing, not for long.

You started laughing, he always fell into your trap and yet he was still funny to you.

"Hello Miss Holes!"

Within two minutes it landed next to you throwing a spider web which you dodged opening a new portal.

"Too slow, stupid spider," you said with a grin hidden under your mask.  "And too predictable to be the mascot of the Avengers.

The two of you began a small battle on top of that building, as if choreographed.

"Hey!" he exclaimed somewhat offended, dodging a new portal. "I'm not the Avengers' mascot."

"Then why is it your turn to do the dirty work?" you ran off, shaking off his cobwebs.

"What...?" began Spider-man somewhat confusedly pausing over the rooftop antenna. "What dirty work?"

You let out a small laugh and in an instant you teleported to his side.

"You know," you began to lower your tone."Robbing old ladies, selling drugs in the neighbourhood - oh, you even helped a woman yesterday who didn't know where to find the underground," you squinted. "Spidey, you're so bored that the most exciting thing in your life is meeting me."

You were so lost for words that you didn't see it coming. In that instant a spider web, a bit slimy for your taste, wrapped around your mouth like a gag silencing your every word. You quickly tried to get rid of it with little luck.

"Thank goodness!" exclaimed your opponent alejándose de ti. "Much better. Sorry about that, but we'll be doing us both a favour."

You touched solid ground again, and raised your hands in the direction of the satellite dish, teleporting it in the direction of Spider-man, who quickly dodged it. From that moment on, your rage intensified, increasing the tension of the fight, which usually ended without a clear winner, only exhaustion won out.

"Woah! That was a close one!" he exclaimed, leaping ten metres above you.

Your throat squeaked, but no sound escaped because of the gag. You tried to get rid of it by teleporting it away, but it wasn't possible. At that moment you would have made it disappear forever if you could, but finally you stopped throwing objects at it, to disappear from there yourself.

It wasn't being a good day for you, maybe it also had to do with the fact that you were sure that your best friend didn't have to make any cake with his aunt May, nor did he have to accompany her to dance classes or anything like that, they were all excuses and you didn't know why he was making them.

In milliseconds you were back in your room, rummaging through your things to get rid of that gag and remove the mask from your costume. Nothing was any good. You had no idea what that spider's web was made of, but nothing could break it.

In desperation you tried again to teleport it, but you were unable to concentrate all your attention on it. You had only one hope left, Peter, he would surely know how to get rid of her, although you would owe him a lot more explanations. You closed your eyes, instantly you were inside his room, luckily he wasn't there, nor was he inside the house, everything was silent. So you assumed that he was not baking a cake with his aunt.

A couple of hours passed, just enough time to come up with a plan before Peter arrived.You had taken a handful of sheets of paper, you knew that when he came in he would be scared and might scream, so you summarised your story as best you could on those sheets of paper.

You heard the front door close, Peter was talking to May and heading towards his room. You took the sheets of paper and positioned yourself in the middle of the room, waiting for him to come in, as if it was the movie "love actually". It was an embarrassing situation.  You watched as the doorknob turned and there he appeared.

It took a few moments for his eyes to settle on you, but at that very moment both of them widened like saucers.

"How the hell...!"

You quickly raised your hand, trying not to make your friend squeal or panic, and pointed hurriedly to the sheets of paper you were holding.

Peter closed the door behind him with a stunned look on his face.

"Please don't shout," he began, reading the posters in a trembling voice. "I'm not going to hurt you."

You dropped a sheet of paper on the floor.

"It's me, Y/N," Peter's voice dimmed, and it took him a while to react. "WHAT?!!!!"

You quickly raised your arms again in a way to stop him from screaming.

" Whoa, whoa, whoa!" exclaimed Peter again. "What are you saying?!"

Dejaste que los carteles se cayeran al suelo y saltaste sobre él intentando cubrir su boca con tus manos. En aquellos momentos estabas segura de que su tía May entraría en la habitación en segundos debido al ruido. Peter seguía gritando cosas inentendibles bajo tus manos, con sus ojos castaños abiertos como platos mirándote. Decidiste destaparle la boca, ya que no servía para nada y volviste a por los folios para ponérselos nuevamente frente a él.

“¡Esto es una locura!” se llevó las manos a la cara, pero continuó leyendo los folios. “Spider-man me ha lanzado una de sus telarañas,” cambiaste de folio. “Y no puedo deshacerme de ella, tienes que ayudarme.”

Peter stood still watching you, his eyes were red with nervousness and his nostrils flared every time he took in and released air from his lungs. You knew it was going to be a shock to your friend, but you didn't understand how it was affecting him so much. You raised your arms, quickly pointed to the spider web gagging your mouth, you needed to get rid of it and then you would give him all the explanations he needed.

A blushing Peter slowly approached you, stepped around you and in an instant you felt no more pressure. At last you could rest, your jaw and mouth were sore, but it was no surprise to you, what was surprising was that your friend had got rid of the restraint in a second.

Puzzled, you turned to him, who was still in shock and looked a little frightened. He carefully brought his hands to the top of your mask and slowly lifted it, exposing your face.

"I can explain," you said calmly. "I..."

"Oh my god," Peter interrupted you, sitting up in his bed.

"Listen," you shook your head and sat down next to him. "I understand your reaction, it's crazy, I should have explained it to you a lot sooner, but- Wait, how did you get that obnoxious fabric off me so fast?"

Peter put his hands to his head and sighed.

"It's synthetic spider silk," he explained without looking at you. "It's got the gigapascals augmented, with its web you can hold even a car in the air, but-"

"Wait," you stared at him.

Your mind worked fast enough to grasp enough information and connect it in a couple of seconds. You slowly rose slowly from his side and looked at him with a frown.

"What?!" you exclaimed this time. "That's impossible!"

"Yes!" exclaimed Peter getting up and holding his hands to his head. "That's what I was thinking! It's impossible!"

At that instant the door to the room opened revealing a smiling May.

"Peter yo - Hey Y/N!" she greeted with a frown.  "I didn't know you were here. Are you staying for dinner?"

"Hi, May. No, no," you said quickly in a bit of a daze. "Thank you very much, but my mother's expecting me for dinner."

"Okay," she smiled looking you up and down. "Nice suit!" your cheeks took on a ruddy colour. "Peter, dinner in half an hour."

"Thank you May," Peter replied a little shyly.

His aunt closed the door again.

"That's why you were always making excuses for me in the evenings!" you reproached him."And the Stark scholarship! How could I have been so blind?" "And the Stark scholarship! How could I have been so blind?"

"I know, I know," said Peter, as he paced around his room next to you. "By the way, your powers - they're awesome!"

You motioned for him to lower his voice again. This situation was crazy, you didn't know whether to be relieved, to teleport, or to teleport him to a place far away. You leaned your back against the wall, closing your eyes so you could think clearly.He was your best friend, had you been hating your best friend all this time?He was your best friend, had you been hating your best friend all this time? He was your best friend, had you been hating your best friend all this time?  Peter stood in front of you.

"Hey..." he whispered caressing your cheek, the place where your spider web had passed. "If I'd known... If you'd stayed a little longer I'd have taken it off."

You crossed your arms over your chest and looked up at him arching an eyebrow. "This is too much."

You looked straight into those brown eyes, they had been a weakness for you since fifth grade. Besides, his gaze accompanied with the caress of his fingers on your cheek lowered your defences.

"Please stay for dinner. If you want, we can study chemistry later," Peter said almost pleadingly.

"Really?" you asked in confusion. "You want to study chemistry after everything that just happened?"

"Truce?" Peter arched a somewhat hopeful eyebrow.

"You're one of a kind, you stupid spider," you said, unable to hide a grin.

"You stupid spider."

Requests/Taglist Open (DM)

MAIN MASTERLIST

Taglist:  @indigo123789​ @mycosmicparadise​ @imerdwarf​

[dancing-the-hellfire-rumba]

Seen ✓ - 1

REWRITE OF “Can You See The Stars”

Pairing: Sam x Fem!Reader Warnings: fear of being kidnapped Word Count: 2.4k Series Summary: On her way home, Y/n finds an abandoned, cracked phone on the sidewalk. Anxious about the well-being of its owner, she picks it up and texts the first contact she finds; Sam.  A/N:This is my second attempt at the story everyone loved, with an actual pllot in mind this time. So, attempt number two, better writing, better story. Have at it kids.

I have tagged the old taglist for this first part. Let me know if you wanna be removed/ added

Beta: The lovely @percywinchester27​ . Thank you so so much hon :) Masterlist

Chapter One: you sure know how to fuck me up on a friday night

Y/n   |  Sam

The road to independence is uphill, and Y/n knows this better than anyone. She’s done it all. She’s gone through jobs at a similar speed with which she goes through books, worked two or more of them, while also studying for college… She knows how it works, and it’s really fucking difficult to balance emotional baggage the size of a city, an underage sister and college, while also trying to keep, not only yourself, but another person, alive, under a safe roof with food in your stomachs.

Currently, she’s only working one job, at a dive bar owned by a friend of a friend as a waitress.

It’s a difficult job, and Y/n has struggled with it, but the hardest part is not the endless knowledge one needs to mix drinks –on the nights Joel takes time off and she has to take his spot behind the bar- or the carrying up to twenty pounds of glasses and drinks and delivering them at the right table without soaking herself or anyone else with copious amounts of alcohol. Any minimum wage worker will tell you the same thing- clients of any kind fucking suck. Especially if you’re a young woman at a dive bar after midnight.

Another thing she’s struggled with is not having too much money, which is why she’s needed multiple jobs in the past, so she has to use public transport- buses specifically, to go to and from work. And that is exactly where she finds herself, a couple hours after midnight, at her bus stop, five minutes from the bar, when she finds a phone which, unbeknownst to her, will flip her world upside down.

It sits on the pavement of the bus stop, limp and sad. The screen is cracked a significant amount, and for a second she figures someone got rid of it and was too much of an asshole to throw it in the trash. But the second that thought crosses her mind, the screen lights up with a concerning text.

dude where the fuck are you?!

The contact reads “Sam”, and Y/n stands over the phone staring at it. She’s concerned. What if the phone’s owner is in trouble? The device may have fallen from their pocket on the pavement and cracked because they were running from someone and never made it home, and now whoever is texting them is worried for their well-being. Anxiety grips her heart.

It’s instinct that brings her to kneel down and pick it up. She can’t possibly know when the owner lost it, or how long the phone has been sitting there, but there’s an overwhelming urge to contact this Sam person and let them know what’s going on. Of course, the voice in Y/n’s head tells her that this all could just be a product of her anxiety, but it beats leaving it there and having it be stolen by a passerby.

Whatever, right? Best case scenario, she contacts the owner, who is perfectly safe and sound, and they take their phone back. She’s not really planning to pocket it. It’s fairly damaged anyways. Her own three year old, beat-up, 100$ phone is in better condition.

The bus arrives, and Y/n picks up the phone and boards it.

As she sits in her usual seat in the back, alone in the bus apart from an elderly man asleep with his head on a window and a cap on his head near the front, she starts speculating, eyes glued to the black device in her hands. Who’s the owner? Who is Sam to them? Perhaps a partner? A friend? How did the owner lose their phone? Why would this Sam sound so concerned, and most importantly, is the owner okay?

The heavy weight of dread weighs her chest at the thought of the phone’s owner being in trouble and without a phone. She must contact Sam immediately.

Hey, is this Sam?

As she awaits for a response, her curiosity is killing her. The intrigued part of her, reasons that she should snoop, it’s alright, she’s only looking for more information about the owner. Like whether or not they’re a woman or a man- which, sadly, matters when you’re walking alone in dark streets like the ones around this area- and perhaps their age –because, again, it matters if they are a teenager or a forty-year old adult.

The lack of passcode indicates someone older, with nothing to hide, or perhaps someone less technologically savvy, again, someone who may not be very young. The lockscreen is the most popular Led Zeppelin icon, and she instantly respects their music taste, and the home screen is some generic western movie from the 90s with Clint Eastwood. The chances of this belonging to someone younger further decline.

There’s a grand total of four downloaded apps in the phone. There’s an email app, a scrabble app, a microphone recorder and a dating app, no other sign of social media. Someone over 18 years old, definitely.

Soon, she’s tapping on the dating app, and opening their profile page. Holy shit, she thinks.

A guy, the tall, dark and handsome kind. Spiky hair and a smolder-like smile, sharp edges everywhere on his face apart from his gentle, olive-shaped and colored eyes. His lips are full, his nose straight, and his eyelashes long, dark and thick. He’s a real-life dreamboat, the kind you see in movies and Cosmopolitan articles about sex. He’s sitting on a black muscle car, a Chevrolet, with his thick thighs barely contained in blue jeans.

Dean Winchester, the app writes. 28. Male. Likes: old cars, beer, hard rock, westerns, she figured that much, bacon burgers. Dislikes: pop music, modern horror movies, uncomfortable beds. Not looking for anything serious, just a night of fun ;), and wow, okay, he sounds a bit like a dick. The very Red-blooded American Male kind, that enjoys BBQs and winking at women from across the bar. She’s had enough of those during her line of work; she can recognize them from a mile away.

Whatever the case, her moral compass couldn’t allow her to pass up on the opportunity to possibly help someone in trouble. She ignores her urge to roll her eyes, and scrolls a little, finding other pictures of the same guy, when suddenly two separate notifications appear, the phone itself vibrating. One is from the app, which has now received a picture from this girl, Jamie, one which she certainly doesn’t plan on opening, seeing as it’s followed by a winky face. The second one is from Sam.

jesus dean how drunk are you

yes it’s sam. your brother? remember?

No, this isn’t Dean, uh.

My name is Y/n. Your brother lost his phone at a bus stop, near a bar.

i should’ve figured. dean rarely ever uses punctuation.

nice to meet you i guess

Nice to meet you, too.

So basically, uhm, I thought you might help me return his phone to him? I got worried, because this was dumped on the sidewalk, I thought he may be in trouble or something.

knowing him he probably dropped it while being too shitfaced to function.

gotta admit i’m impressed though. most people would’ve pocketed it by now.

I mean, it’s not much use to me with such a cracked screen haha.

yeah i guess.

i don’t know about getting it back to him though. i’m in kansas right now so i’m not close by. i don’t think i can help you.

he doesn’t use social media either.

Crap.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this phone then?

keep it probably.

You sure there’s no other way I can reach him?

i mean i can give you his email but i’m not sure he’ll respond.

I’ll take it. Thank you :)

no problem :)

As she looks up the bus stops, and she quickly realizes this is her stop. Throwing profanities loudly enough to wake the older man at the front of the bus, she scrambles for her things, haphazardly thrown in the seat next to her, and gets off the bus. She pats herself down, making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything as the doors of the bus shut, and starts down the road to her apartment complex.

She could probably navigate this road blind. There are many ways to reach the apartment she’s renting from the bus stop, but her favorite goes through the park. It’s a large area, full of big trees with thick foliage and leaves that brown in the fall. The paths are paved and winded, and the park benches are stained with dark wood stain and curve comfortably. She enjoys coming here in evenings she has off, watching the sun descend behind the top of the trees with a good book.

The air smells like oncoming rain now, and with headphones deep in her ears, she walks taking deep breaths and enjoying the clear atmosphere that seems so unlike the roads that surround the park. As soon as she spots the first raindrop falling from the sky, she pulls her hood over her head and smiles.

It’s minutes later, when single drops have picked up to a drizzle, that she gets a sinking feeling, her hair standing up on edge at the back of her neck, shoulders knotting closer to her ears. Someone is close to her.

With the wire pinched between her thumb and index, she pulls one earbud off and pays attention to the surrounding sounds. Sure enough there’s a second pair of footsteps behind her.

Fuck, if she gets kidnapped or attacked right now, she’s fucked. There are no witnesses, and at this time of night screaming for help would be futile. She checks her bag, but her paper spray is nowhere to be found.

Yeah. Definitely fucked.

Her hands go deep in her pockets, going for her phone, but as she hears the footsteps behind her picking up speed along with hers, she panics and grabs Dean’s instead. She doesn’t look for her own, there’s no time for that, so she does the first thing she thinks of.

She texts Sam.

I think I’m being followed.

what?

Yeah

wait what’s going on? are you okay? who’s following you?

I’m walking home from work. I can’t see who it is, but they’re definitely on my tail.

how are you even typing right now??

is there any buildings around?  somewhere public to get in?

It’s 3 am. Everything is shut and I’m in the middle of a fucking park, Sam.

Fuck, I’m fucked.

what are you doing at 3 am in the middle of a fucking park then?!

A hand falls on her shoulder and she goes to scream, before she’s quickly spun around. Her free hand is curled in a fist, ready to fall on the attacker’s nose, when they speak.

“Y/n! I thought it was you!”

“Connor?!” She squints and pushes her hair away from her forehead, heart just about ready to fail out of the fright she’s gotten. “Fuck’s sake, dude, what the fuck are you doing sneaking up on me in the middle of the night like this?!” Rain still falls on her, grounding her to the present, the fact she won’t have to fight for her life and corporeal integrity sinking in slowly.

Her neighbor smiles a crooked smile, watching her place a hand over her heart and taking a deep breath. His fluffy blonde hair is damp under the light rain, light green eyes glowing under the street lights. She’s so angry at him right now, she legitimately thought she was gonna die for a second there.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” he says, dropping his hand from her shoulder. “I didn’t think to call out to you.” A shrug.

“It’s okay,” it’s really not, but there’s no point in staying angry at him. Besides, she figures she’ll be a little safer with him walking next to her all the way back to their apartment complex.

On the way back, they catch up. Connor is back in town after a long week and a half at his sister’s wedding. He’s in a brand new relationship with the guy he’s been pining over for like 9 months now, and he got a job at the bookstore, close to their building, he’s starting next week. He was out for a drink, he offers as an explanation, and was returning home, when he bumped into her. The park is also his favorite route to take.

The key dangles from her hands and finds a home in the lock and twists, while Y/n waves at her neighbor.

“Have a good night, Connor.”

“You too, Y/n.” It’s delivered with a wink and a bright smile.

The motions of dropping her bag by the kitchen counter, dumping the keys in the small bowl and hanging her coat on the hanger are delivered on autopilot in quick succession. Shoes toed off, hair pulled out of her lazy bun, she falls unceremoniously on her thrifted couch, feet suspended on the hand rest. Emmy must be asleep, the only lights on in the house are the fairy lights over the couch, setting a soft glow over the furniture. Y/n sighs. What a day.

Seconds before she falls asleep on the couch, a phone vibrates and it’s definitely not her own. Her eyes snap wide open, and she curses, fumbling with Dean’s device.

The messages are seven, and they all share the same panicked tone. Upon reading them, Y/n facepalms and curses, guilt weighing her down. Poor guy.

y/n?

what’s going on?

are you okay?

y/n

what the hell is going on.

you’re not replying.

please text me if you’re safe.

My God, Sam, I’m so sorry.

It was a neighbor/friend, he sneaked up on me.

you sure know how to fuck me up on a friday night.

I’m genuinely so sorry, Sam, I had no idea it was him.

it’s okay

you were scared.

i am starting to question your choice in friends though.

Y/n grins for the first time that day. It’s wide and full. Sam sounds like a guy she’d hang out with.

Hahahah yeah.

I promise, Connor’s odd, but he means well.

well i have to go

but i’m glad you’re safe

Again, I’m really sorry to make you go through that.

it’s fine really.

Thank you.

Goodnight :)

Night :)

 ---

Part 2

A/N 2: Tell me how you’re liking the rewrite! 

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[bangtanblurbs]

blue side *special post*

song: blue side - full version, by j-hope

first experience: would we consider the release of blue side, the full version the first experience, or listening to the version from hope world? either way, with hope world, i know i was listening after returning back to DC from ATL following spring break of my first year in my phd program. i was feeling all kinds of heavy, and turning on hopeworld i felt both uplifted and seen at the same time. for an album to carry a track like blue side, along with piece of peace, and then bangers like hangsang and daydream was a lot for me to process but the album instantly became something i listened to all the time. that year was really hard for me - i’d moved away from home, i wasn’t fitting in, i was questioning my abilities, my intelligence, i was so insanely depressed. it was eating away at me, and hope world dropped, making me feel more peace than i’d felt since i had moved. i am still so thankful for that.

feelings: i have so many. obviously, that’s why i had to make a blog for these things. there’s no way i could talk this out with anyone in a normal conversation. also i’d forget everything in my head. hoseok is my comfort idol. i feel very close to him emotionally. maybe it’s because he left gwangju for the big city, he fought like hell and made his way. meanwhile i left a small town and fought like hell, and am trying to make my way. he’s my role model as much as he is my comfort. blue side though, there’s something about it that hits. the lyrics, the sound, it all is about a desire for what existed before - before complicating things with my dreams. leaving the comfort of the familiar, the easy, the known, and making my way in the unknown to chase what i think “home” is supposed to be. sure, things are easier on the *blue side* but without running away from it, would i really burn as bright as a blue flame? give off the warmth that the strongest flame (blue) does? it’s like a double meaning, blue is the innocence and simplicity of the known and the easy, perhaps youth, perhaps home... but also blue is the hottest flame, even if it comes just before a fire dies and burns out, it is still the most significant - the hottest, it’s worth the chase to have this high. 

like hoseok - i feel lonely - this song also deals with the loneliness of walking away from the known, the home. and i relate with it. but the color and the vibrancy of what’s knew, it’s not always so terrible. it’s funny, as i listen to blue side, i think of wildflowers by dolly parton. a song about how we all carry a nostalgia for whatever home is, whatever was simple and easy before we lost our innocence and moved on to adulthood... but the reality is, no matter how bad we want to go back - home doesn’t exist anymore in the way that we remember it. we’ve warped the idea of home and this earlier perfection in our heads. we’ve burned it. as we became strong blue flames, the past was also burnt up and changed. that’s how i feel when i visit home, it’s not what i romanticize when i’m away. and no matter what i always feel dejected, foreign, and alone. but even so, i’m burning bright. i’m *back to blue side* but not in the way of going back to a prior easiness and innocence, instead in the way of being bright and warm, offering others something new and improved. 

personal experience: since the full song just released and i’ve already played in hundreds of times, perhaps i’ll talk about the present and how i will certainly remember this release in the context of where i am now in my life. it’s now been a whole year of the COVID-19 pandemic, a year where i’d really hoped to *find* myself after two years of my phd program continuing to make me feel lost and completely inadequate. the crippling depression, anxiety, and doubt that i carried since moving the DC is still with me, but before COVID-19 hit i had finally - in many ways - made peace with my life. i’d found some energy for my studies and future. things had been looking up. but since the pandemic, i’ve felt much of those feelings creep back in. slowly but surely my demons returned. 

when i turned on blue side for the first time, the same emotions ran through me... a longing for simplicity, a longing for a time when my mind and heart weren’t constantly running, a time when i hadn’t complicated the future i wanted for myself. a longing not to be alone. immediately when i listened to the song i saw my painting of jo march’s monologue in the 2019 adaptation: “women have minds and souls as well as hearts, ambition and talent as well as beauty and i’m sick of being told that love is all a woman is fit for. but... i am so lonely.” while this has absolutely nothing to do with blue side - my mind went there. how life would be simple if i’d abided by the simple life that was destined for me growing up in a small town. i’d have fallen in love, taken a job without much thought, everything would have been easy, i’d never be lonely and the questions and complications of my dreams would be far away (or would they? this version of home is likely fabricated --- see above). as the quote says, she wants to have everything, but in pursuing her dreams she found tremendous loneliness. the blue side, that period of innocence though, perhaps it has it’s own demons as well. there’s the lonliness, the pressure, and the challenges of burning for your dreams as well though - and that’s where i am, that’s also what hoseok is speaking too. i’m not sure right now what exactly i’m longing for. perhaps it’s not the past, perhaps it’s a complete reimagining of my future as the uncertainty of the pandemic continues to play out... either way, there’s a blue side in my mind i *do* long for, a side of innocence and peace - where i can be content with myself and what i’m doing with my time, my thoughts, my energy. i truly hope i can go back to *that* blue side. 

although i’m not sure when that will be, listening to blue side makes me feel that i’m not alone. others relate to this song, it’s message, and obviously it came from hoseok’s very heart. we aren’t alone. those of us that leave all that we knew, leave our innocence and homes in the past - we can forge ahead and become bright and give off warmth to others. hopefully we can sustain the blue fine inside ourselves - much like hoseok. or hopefully there’s a blue side in our minds we can visit when we need respite. 

song breakdown

musically: blue side isn’t the type of track one would have ever anticipated from hoseok unless they’ve really listened to a lot of his interviews and content - where he shows his several dimensions and facets of his personality. hoseok is deeply emotional (not just a sunshine all the time) and his mind has a haunting edge of seriousness, loneliness, and longing to it. the tone of the song, the beat, it’s very soft. not sad, but relaxing, almost bringing in this numb feeling to it. there’s a lo-fi sound to it. as soon as it comes on the listener should feel a sense of calm. you cannot listen to blue side without just feeling mellow. it’s healing despite the darker lyrical content. 

vocally: jung honey vocals hoseok. a combination of singing and smooth rap dominate blue side. ARMY may be unfamiliar with hoseok’s gorgeous singing voice, but they won’t be now. hoseok displays his emotion up front in his whisper singing. it’s almost like he’s telling himself like “just calm down now, it’s okay to retreat to a place where you feel safe.” his rapping voice takes on the same calm demeanor, delivering almost a lullaby to the listener - perhaps hoseok knew that the message of blue side would be one that all of us could resonate deeply with and wanted to ensure that when we listened to it, it was like having a conversation with a friend about feeling nostalgic and yearning for a version of yourself that doesn’t exist anymore. 

lyrically: while we don’t know everything hoseok has gone through, we don’t know what exactly inspired blue side, we were lucky enough to receive a note with the extended version of blue side. hoseok states that when looks back at when he was writing hope world he feels he was a very innocent boy. he was coloring in the man he is today, and he stated that sometimes he truly misses who he was in the past, his innocence and the simplicity of that time. perhaps he’s speaking to the early days of BTS, or even before BTS, or perhaps just before he knew some of the hardships that come along with growing old (which growing old is something he also mentions in the note). hoseok also specifically references a growing homesickness that he’s felt as time has passed. a homesickness for who he used to be. before things picked up and pressure started. 

in the first verse of blue side we are confronted with just this narrative. hoseok states “everything changed between us, i shout alone” - he feels like he’s left who he was completely and now he’s alone, that younger version of his isn’t something he carries with him anymore. it’s something though that he’d like the return to. that “time when i didn’t know anything” a time of innocence and ignorance. a time without problems and stressors. unlike today. 

the chorus is very simple - in haunting and beautiful j-hope fashion - hoseok chants “back to blue side” and it’s almost like this is a return to simplicity. in simply saying what he wants and not complicating it, the juxtaposition with the choruses is quite profound. 

the next verse is more tricky, it’s like a daydream (something that hoseok seems to do often - he’s got a whole song about it). it’s almost like hoseok feels like he can transport himself to that previous state he rides “the wind in the sky to that place in this moment, blue” and he states that it’s “now comforting my heart, blue” then the meaning of blue seems to change as we move into the following verse... hoseok is clearly speaking of making music when he says he “spits out my pains in the dark” he’s sharing his pain, all that he’s carrying with him. he “wanted to walk the blue road, on the rainbow” at this point it seems like the blue side is almost shifting to be his dreams (perhaps the blue side is something he’s nostalgic about but also he’s nostalgic for the version of his dreams that he imagined back when he was innocent and conceived of fame differently than the reality). he’s “singing my blues, singing my bloom, back in my room” alluding to pain that he carries now and the pain that he carried then - while different - it was present in both... but he’d prefer the pain of the past because “i was blue with light breaths” he had some reprieve, whereas now he doesn’t feel like he has the same. 

the closure of the third verse is probably the most contentious lyric in the song. “but now i just want to burn blue and die.” likely because this is a dark lyric for someone with the public image that “j-hope” has. specifically i use j-hope here, as hoseok has been very candid in explaining that who he is on stage and in public isn’t entirely him and isn’t his whole being. while he is j-hope, j-hope is not completely him. part of me wants to go for the easy pickings and say that hoseok wishes sometimes that he could almost kill this persona, and return to simpler times when he got to be hoseok. or perhaps this is his way of saying he wants to share more of hoseok with us, rather than this polished image he’s created which is exhausting and feels alien next to the boy he was during the *blue side* of his life. but i don’t think this is all. i think it’s also got something to do with burning blue, hitting his peak, getting to the point he wants to get to and riding it to wherever it takes him next - to whatever his identity will change to, killing/burning the past and bringing about a new blue side. i think this line is also alluding to the desire to having time to just open up his entire being a truly feel all of the pain and emotions that he’s had over time as he had to grow up quickly and focus hard on his dreams. 

finally - we get to the bridge. this is hoseok’s comforting message for all of us listening. hoseok’s dream has always been to provide others healing and comfort through his music, being able to do that is extremely important for him. the bridge brings that forward. i almost feel like this bridge is him acknowledging that that boy from the blue side still exists. the lines almost allude to us being with him in his “blue dream” he’s taken us there to “carry” and  “hug” us. perhaps he’s felt further away from this dream as fame has taken over, and now he wants to reassure his fans and those that appreciate his art that he hasn’t lost his innocence or heart completely - he will carry us to that place of nostalgia, innocence and purity to offer us comfort as well. “you might say i cannot, but i’ll put you in my arms” he will defy those who discredit his depth and realness and take us into his mind and bring us the comfort he wanted to supply us. 

BUT i also think this message is for himself. he will find away to carry who he is today back to his blue side, back to his period of innocence and purity. he hasn’t turned his back on who he was, he longs for that person more than ever and he’s determined to continue to carry who he is and who he was at the same time. while that’s not exactly the same as being in the blue side - it’s like being in a “blue dream” which can be enough to suffice for some time. 

tl;dr: blue side is a masterpiece. it’s a highlight for hoseok’s career. the depth of emotion conveyed in this piece is insane. hoseok offers up a level of vulnerability not often found in the music industry. he serves it packaged in a unique sounding song that offers the listener nothing but comfort and nostalgia (especially given that it is a reboot of an album that many of us hold dearly to our hearts). what’s even more beautiful about it is that likely many of us have our own blue side from when hope world was released, and perhaps we too are longing for the innocence and purity of that time... this song offers us solace in that we aren’t alone in this feeling. 

[avaantares]

Imma rant for a minute. (This is me being critical of a thing, so if you’re eschewing negativity right now, feel free to scroll on past.) :)

Sooooo I took a break from replaying FFVII:R tonight (last night, by the time this posts) to watch the stream of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Love Never Dies, a show I already knew to be terrible (but hey, you can't argue with free musicals, right?). Long before the musical opened, I’d read The Phantom of Manhattan, the book it’s based on, and that was... like... Hmm. Think of a bad fanfiction you've read. I mean a really bad one, one that gets every single character wrong, has the stupidest of stupid fiction tropes, includes ridiculously contrived scenarios to kill off characters and weird medical "science" and historical inaccuracies and a totally implausible plot, all mashed together just to reinforce someone's OTP which was kind of an unhealthy relationship to begin with and got considerably more unhealthy in this story, AND it includes a lengthy author’s note in which the writer bashes the author of the original work his story is based on and explains everything that author did wrong and how it should have been written, using examples from the fic writer’s own work to demonstrate.*

Then picture that as a $24.99 hardback.

So I knew the general story already, and I'd seen a couple of clips from the stage show, and from what I remembered it was all pretty forgettable. But like I said, free to watch, right? Nothing to lose but a couple of hours.

Oh. My. Goodness. I was not prepared for the full experience. It's like Phantom of the Opera and Cats had a (secret) baby that got shoved in a blender with all of circa-2004 Fanfiction.net and then pasted back together by a YA fiction editor’s intern. Despite a truly exceptional cast and some strong visual and set design, it wavered between cringe-y and I’m-going-to-hurt-myself-laughing levels of bad.

Mind you, it’s still better than the book, in which (SPOILER ALERT if anyone cares, which you probably don’t because if you’re the type of fan who would, you’ve probably already seen the show) Christine’s son is not the byproduct of a willing affair she had with Erik after she became disillusioned with her marriage, but was conceived after he kidnapped her at the Opera House, and... let’s just say consent was dubious, at best. (IIRC she was “half swooning” and not entirely aware of what was happening.) Also there’s some nonsense about Raoul being impotent from a war wound and never having consummated their marriage... But broadly speaking, the story is the same as the musical -- by which I mean it completely negates everything good and symbolic and meaningful about ALW’s Phantom of the Opera, to which the book was as much a sequel as it was to the original Gaston Leroux novella.

Love Never Dies fails as a sequel for a number of reasons: Every character you liked in the original? Assassinated. Raoul, who was willing to sacrifice his life for Christine in POTO, is now an abusive, alcoholic wastrel who has gambled his family into crippling debt. Christine cheats on her husband with a guy who has made a habit of kidnapping and threatening her, and who has actually murdered a number of people. Meg, Christine’s dearest friend and confidante, is now a washed-up burlesque dancer who -- again, SPOILER ALERT -- tries to kill first Christine’s son, then herself, then finally succeeds in killing Christine. The broadest take-home message of POTO, that kindness and love can heal even the deepest wounds, is undercut by these dramatic character reversals. Even the show’s title anthem “Love Never Dies” is contradicted by the love triangle at the center of the plot. Maybe love never dies, but that doesn’t stop Christine from cheating on her husband, Raoul from walking out on his wife and son, Erik from threatening to kill Christine’s child if she doesn’t do what he wants, Meg from betraying and murdering her best friend... yeah, let’s not take relationship advice from this group. 

But beyond that, LND is just bad structurally. The Phantom’s opening number builds up to be a “Music of the Night”-style anthem -- a dubious choice, since it makes everything he sings for the next half an act feel flat by comparison. Then we go into a surreal Coney Island segment for a while, then a bunch of really awkward dialogue exposition gets crammed in, and then twenty minutes into the show we finally meet Christine and her family, which kicks off the actual plot. The pacing is uneven. The tone is all over the map, too, bouncing between Phantom-like operatic ballads and Jesus Christ Superstar-esque carnival rock numbers. (All of which, I have to say, the Melbourne cast knocked out of the park. The vocal performances were definitely not a weak spot in this production.)

While I really like a lot of Andrew Lloyd Webber's stuff -- I've seen a number of his shows on stage, some of them three or four times -- his titles seem to be hit-or-miss. For every Phantom, there's a Whistle Down the Wind. Some of that isn't his fault; a mediocre lyricist or book writer can do a lot of damage, even with good music. This musical had two lyricists and four writers, and it shows. But IMO, this is also not Lloyd Webber’s best work. Apart from the title song, which I’ve heard often enough to know it outside of the show, I can recall the melodies of... two songs? The score isn’t bad, it’s just not as instantly memorable as Sunset Boulevard or Joseph or Phantom. And a weak story plus average music doesn’t equal a great show.

I’m sure I’ve complained more than anyone cares to read, but I have one final rant about something that caused me to startle my dog by making some very screechy noises: When Christine arrives by ship, the Phantom sends a horseless carriage to pick her up at the pier. Mind you, this scene is specifically stated to take place in New York in 1905. The crowd of onlookers is utterly SHOCKED by a vehicle that moves by itself. “There are no horses!” someone exclaims. "How does it work?"

Apparently all four of the credited writers slept through history class, and also couldn’t be bothered to Google a photo of New York at the turn of the century. Automobiles have been around since the 1880s, and by 1905, New York had so many cars on the streets that the New York Supreme Court had to hand down a ruling guaranteeing that horse-drawn transportation still had the same right-of-way as motorized vehicles, because the motorists didn’t want to share the road. Heck, my own great-grandfather owned a car by 1895! Glaring, easily-avoided errors like this jar me so far out of the story -- even good stories, which this one wasn’t -- that they actually bother me more than other, more significant failings. At least do your basic research, people. Use Google. Grrr.

Anyway, I’m just rambling now because I can’t sleep and I'm on prescription narcotics for pain and my dog is tired of listening to me grumble. Don’t mind me; I’m not actually this negative in real life. 😅

----------------------------------------------------

* I am not exaggerating. In the foreword, author Frederick Forsyth bashes Gaston Leroux and gives examples from his own works to explain how Le Fantôme de l'Opéra could have been written better. Like. DUDE. NO.

That book went straight into the donation box the moment I was done reading it. When Love Never Dies came out, I briefly regretted getting rid of it, but then I remembered how bad the story was and stopped feeling bad.

[callmeunstable]

Angels & Demons - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Characters: Reader, Godling, Healer

Summary: She finds herself in the middle of a unknown forest after falling asleep. It seems like a normal forest until she gets to meet a mystical creature that welcomes her in a different world.

Warnings: Monsters, Cursing, Blood

Words: 2.000+

A/N: Hey! This is the second part of my The Witcher Fic. I accidentally deleted this part so I had to reupload ot. Yes I cried, but thankfully I still had the draft saved on my laptop.

Disclaimer: GIF’s and PNG’s are taken from Tumblr and are not mine! Credits to the creators!

Tags: @marvelbrat @charliestuff

Song: I couldn’t find the original one sooo

Absently, Alva wondered if most of the monsters were meant to be as beautiful and kind as James, or if this one was an exception to the rule, her mind struggled to hold on to one thought, with a whole new world opening in front of her.

“I know the healer of the village on the other side of the forest. She’s nice. She brings fruits to me from time to time. She will help you.” James hopped in front of her leading the way out of the woods.

She couldn’t believe anything her eyes captured. There are bad creatures. According to the Godling, there are a lot of them. The boy explained to her, that “Drowners” inhabit both natural and artificial bodies of water, from rivers and lakes to mill ponds and city sewers. It is commonly thought that these creatures are drowned men, somehow arisen from the dead to prey on the living. This opinion is as widespread as it is false, for the beasts are another post-Conjunction relict.

She couldn’t believe that this Godling just was a boy but knowing such crucial things about this life. She remembered James talking about the powers he has, that’s how he was able to save her.

“Hey, play some more of your music, please? I love the sound of it and we have to walk some time.” The Godling begged and gave his best puppy face.

She grabbed her phone and she had an idea. Maybe she was able to call or text her dad? Letting him know she’s okay. She wasn’t sure if this was the best idea she ever had, but still better than making him believe she was dead.

No signal. Of course.

“Music, please.”

She pressed the icons on her phone monotonously and a random song started playing.

 “Oh dear, oh dear, I’m sorry

That you grew up so soon

A cold year and no high school parties

I’ve been drinking alone

Oh, I’ve been drinking alone”

 “A blessing to my ears. What's the name of this bard?” The Godling started dancing along while walking in front of the girl.

“What is a bard?” These questions came automatically out of her mouth, wanting to know everything about this world.

Knowledge is power. Even in a world like this. If she knows what she has to be careful about, she can start to protect herself.

“You know the man and women writing songs and these lovely texts of legends, stories of their personal experiences, or their imaginations. I don’t care what they are about. I care about the melodies. I love the tunes.” James seemed to drift off in a state where he was admiring the artists and musicians at this time the whole way out of the woods.

He specifically talked about a Bard called Priscilla. A young woman famous for her poetry.

 “So, don't fear, don’t fear their warnings

They’re bitterer than most

4 years of driving across the country

For empty seats at their shows

And they’ve been drinking alone.”

 Less and fewer trees came along their way and after some more minutes, a village became visible. Still far away but the girl decided to turn off the music which was rewarded with an angry look of the Godling.

“Her cottage isn’t in the village. It's right here!”

He took a sharp turn between some trees and as told, a small cabin was revealed in front of them. It was old. Looked like a typical middle-aged, self-made cottage. Random kinds of stones were piled upon each other, connected by something that seemed to be a kind of cement. A small chimney was built on top and was busy blowing smoke out of it.

“Savilla! I want to show you, my new friend.” The boy shouted and Alva begged it was quiet enough so no one around could hear them. She wasn’t ready to meet anyone in this world, at least for now.

The old wooden door of the cottage opened and a middle-aged woman stepped out of the house. She was beautiful. Her Long black hair was braided down to the small waist of hers. Her long dress was colored with a dark wood green tone. A small V-neck covered her chest mostly and the butterfly sleeves made her look like a princess. A less fancy princess but a gorgeous one.

“Hello, my lovely James. How can I help you today?” Savilla had a warm smile on her face and holding her arms out for e hug.

The Godling happily jumped into her arms, to just leave them a couple of seconds later to point hysterically at Alva.

“This is my friend Alva. She got lost in my forest and a Drowner hit her. I think shes not from hear so she needs your help.”

Savilla laid her eyes on the small girl for the first time. Silently analyzing every single part of her. At this moment Alva realized that she was a unicorn in this world. Her clothes looked completely different from Safillas and James’. She was wearing a red lumberjacket that revealed her sports bra. Some pair of sporty leggings rested on her legs and short sneakers tied on her feet. Her favorite outfit for hiking. At least her fake leather bag seemed to fit the surroundings.

It wasn’t hard to tell that if the person in front of her wasn’t a cosplayer of Lord of the Rings, she had to be stuck in some kind of middle age century.

“Yes, she's not from here. I can tell.” The firm look of the women changed into a friendly smile. “Come in, I think it’s the best if no one sees you like this.”

Both Alva and James entered the cabin. Inside it was beautiful. Flower and herbs were growing every in countless pottery. An out of stone made kitchen area filled the rest of the room with a cozy fireplace at the opposite wall. Different kinds of fabric and papers stuck to the wall. It was filled with colors and smells that made you feel instantly relaxed, at least if you’re a person like Alva.

“You don’t seem to be in a lot of pain.”, stated Safilla while grabbing a wooden chair and placing it in front of her, guiding her to sit down.

“It’s pretty numb right now. It was worse about an hour ago.” Alva tried to give off a normal impression. But what is normal in this world.

er “That what I was inferred already. You seem to be in shock. Your body numbed itself to protect you from the pain.” While investigating the big scratch she explaining typical injuries caused by Drowners.

“You’re lucky that you had James by your side. He’s a loyal soul.” The healer tossed an apple to the boy who caught it happily.

Savilla mixed some unfamiliar herbs and bandaged it up with a clean cloth.

“It should heal fast, it's not a deep cut. You are lucky.”

The women put everything back in place and then grabbed a stool herself.

“Where are you from?”, she asked.

Where was she from actually? Maybe similar countries still exist?

“Originally my family comes from Sweden but I live in the USA at the moment.” The girl explained but ended up not receiving the reaction she wanted.

“I never heard of a place like that. I traveled a lot through Cintra, Temeria, and Lyria. How did you end up here?”

The girl got quiet. She didn’t want to cause any trouble. She was a stranger to this world. How much corruption was she able to cause?

Alva felt a hand on her shoulder. Savilla gently pat her and gave her a motherly smile.

“Look dear, I’m not here to hurt you. I can see you disturbed, even traumatized. You have no idea how you got access to this world, have you?”

The girl started to tear up and found herself in a warm hug of the healer. She couldn’t help herself but at this moment everything that was built up throughout the day suddenly burst out of her.

Every breath felt like acid burning heart throat, inflaming her lungs. Her heart felt like somebody was squeezing out every single emotion trapped in there. Like a sharp blade that is cutting straight through her chest.

“Mark my words, one day will come when you finally realize that fate is inevitable. One day you will get passed all this pain and realize it was a lesson learned for a better future, for a better you. You believe that this was an accident. But in our world, everything happens for a reason.” Savilla didn’t break the contact because she knew that this girl needed it. This wasn’t the first time something like this happened. The same happened decades ago. When the monsters first got into this dimension.

“I can teach you if you let me.”

Alva lifted her head and looked at the healer.

“I can teach you how to survive in this world until we figure it a way how to get you back. You just need to let me help you.”

“How do you know?” The girl was confused, more confused than she was, to begin with. How much does this woman know?

“This is not the first time a portal opened on accident. What we need to figure out is, if this indeed was an accident or if you have a mission you have to fulfill. I will help you. That’s my duty. Let me explain. I’m a mage.”

Savilla explained to Alva that mages are basically what she knows as a witch. Only rare individuals have the potential to become mages and many of those with this potential are doomed to madness. Unless the individual in question - known as a source - learns to control their power quickly, he or she may end up a half-insane, slobbering oracle. That is why schools of sorcery were created, where talented children study for many years, acquiring knowledge and mastering magical skills. Because of their powers, mages age more slowly than ordinary people. Savilla herself attended a school called Aretuza. But she didn’t believe in their morals so she left and lives on her own.

Mages can extract magical energy from the four elements, transport themselves long distances and heal, as well as kill, in the blink of an eye. They have extensive scientific and political knowledge; in the latter respect, many mages are the equals of rulers.

A witch that is connected so some kind of rule book.

“Know you know about me, but for now we need to get you out of your clothes. They reveal your true identity. There are people out there who will view you as dangerous and they’ll get scared. We need to give you a new persona. But for now, let’s start easy. No one will look for you because James took care of that. New clothes will at least give you the appearance of our dimension.”

Savilla walked in a different room and you could her searching sounds. Fabrics got thrown around after her steps came closer again.

As she walked into the room she showed off a dress similar to hers. The dress was white and it had some floral symbols embroidered in the fabric. Her sleeves were also long and wide, almost touching the ground. The White of the dress was mostly protected by a moss green light coat that had a corset on the front. The white dress was strapless but unseen due to the green coat. On top of that Savilla brought her some flat sandals.

“I can give you some pants to wear underneath the dress if you’d like. Is more efficient when you have to move quickly.” The mage was happy she could assist that young girl. She finally had a purpose to assist to.

Alva only nodded along, speechless by the kindness the woman was offering her.

Savilla walked up to her with a hairbrush and put her hair into different styles. “And maybe we can do something with your hair, putting it up or braid-“, she hesitated the moment when she was putting her hair up. “I think it looks fitting already.”

Quickly brushing Alva's hair down again.