#but i am recounting my previous and recent experiences

[junkie-virus]

i ahet periods like why am i literally crying and shaking on ghe avhool bathrpom floor. amd them also having to deal with ppl that dont ebelieve im in teal pain.

[saintmeghanmarkle]

🍵 This story about our Saint was just shared with me by 🍵 u/ContentPineapple3330

This story about our Saint was just shared with me Hi! It’s me. The person who started the thread asking people to share their own experiences with our victimized saint (or, more likely, your friends/connections experiences). Oh, did you deliver! And I'm so tickled you appreciated my pre-Harry story of her Toronto days.

Anyways, after that post, someone with a much better tea than me DM’d me (with pictures for proof). They want to remain anonyomous, which is why I am sharing on their behalf and taking out all identifiable details, because as we know — the sugars are legitimately insane and no one needs them in their lives.

That said: It is SO IMPORTANT we share these stories, because this is how the truth comes out. Critical mass is hit, and no PR can change it.

The story, paraphrased by me.

I've been waiting for the moment to tell this story. I'm a long-time lurker of this sub, but I don't usually comment or post. However, I have some really interesting tea that I got from a friend during a work trip.

Last year, at the Invictus Games in Germany, a photo of Prince Harry, his wife, and a colleague of mine went viral. In fact, imagine my surprise when I first saw it here in this sub! Much later, during a work trip, I met up with my colleague for dinner, and I couldn't resist asking her about Invictus. I thought she was pro-H&M; however, her experience revealed quite the opposite.

First the picture. She recounted that Meghan Markle spotted her and a friend, saying, "This would make a great photo opportunity," then practically manhandled them into taking a photo. Although Meghan was nice during the photo op (and Prince Harry was much nicer, and carried the actual conversation), my friend described her as "evil" and mentioned that Invictus is used primarily for PR. The organizers and volunteers had code names for the couple and could predict their arrivals because entire sections would be blocked off for staged events, and Getty photographers were ushered in.

In Harry's opening speech, he mentioned recently discovering his wife's Nigerian heritage. My friend said there was "tumbleweeds" of awkward silence, except for some cheers from about a dozen Nigerians who had been "rounded up" for this announcement. It struck many as disrespectful, diverting attention from an event dedicated to injured soldiers to focus on Meghan's heritage.

She was also at the event where Harry danced down the stairs to meet the Nigerian team. Organizers had gathered Nigerian women into a section, and H&M were then escorted down among them. Meghan walked right by my friend without acknowledging her, despite having forced a photo with her the previous day. It was clear that the Nigerian connection is obviously about PR. They stayed for only 10 minutes, and people were planted for photo ops. It all felt very contrived, with Getty photographers capturing them "posing for photos in the crowd" before they were quickly ushered out.

In fact, my friend revealed that supportive cardboard banners are handed out to people gathered in sectioned-off areas. [Editor's note: this is where my mouth dropped open. THEY'RE HANDING OUT BANNERS OF SUPPORT!]

She said Harry seemed to hate the attention but is besotted with Meghan. He disliked it when the crowd sang "Happy Birthday," whereas Meghan appeared to revel in the attention, enjoying people pulling at her and touching her hair.

Funny anecdote, Harry was heard saying: “Keep those fucking English away from me," clearly referring to English journalists.

I believe that every Invictus Games will have volunteers who witness similar things, and it's only a matter of time before more details like this leak.

post link author: ContentPineapple3330 submitted: July 13, 2024 at 03:49PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

[spiritmander13]

I wrote this in a Discord message, so now y'all get the suffer.

"June 9th, 2024, a day which will live in infamy as I recall the words of the message from Chapman, Justin.

It was a wonderful sunny day. I slowly woke up at around 1 PM (what a mood!) and decided to head over to my favorite messageboard, known by the many people of the web as Tumblr.

There I see many funny posts on my little messageboard, and I always chuckled to myself before spreading them around. About 10 minutes along, I came across a fairly interesting post and I had to do a double take as I read the words.

'I Would Like To Announce', the message began, 'That I will not be responding to the Silver Pregnancy ask.' I took a double take but soon continued on. 'I know I said that I wanted to reply to the first ask I received after the previous post, and that first response is the Silver Pregnancy ask, but it is very important that I admit that this will not be happening, despite my best efforts. I apologize, deeply. Especially to the question asker. The Silver Pregnancy ask will go unresponded-to, perpetually.' I had to reread it again before, at first, brushing it off my shoulders. Clearly, this was just someone in the fandom who was misinformed? I know pregnancy is a controversial topic that can cause uncomfortability; besides, that's MY joke! I formed a whole story around it and me and a few pals have been joking about it since!

... And then I checked who posted it. Chapman, Justin. The puppet master because Silver. The one who received the ask.

I was amazed. Shocked, even. Who would even send him such a Ludacris joke to someone so respected in my community? I had to check the reviews, the replies, the comments, ANY SAY on this situation. Some came out and told the truth, that 'somebody' had written fanfic about Silver having offspring. Most, however, just seemed shocked, either because of the nature of the joke or simply that Justin had returned to posting, at least for a little while. But there was one thing I had to check. The barracks.

My pals were not apart of this not-so-secret place, but I just had to place my participation within these barracks before checking on my allies. So I bolted to the barracks and quickly saw everyone freaking out.

Many were online just to discuss the ask. I even saw most of the generals there. There was Oliver, the founder of the barracks and a huge fan of another one of Mr. Chapman's characters, MePad. Baxter and Cilantro were also there, trying to contain the chaos. Of course, Sky couldn't join; something about medical stuff.

I dropped into the discussion almost immediately, trying to figure out who sent the ask but also keeping my reactions down. I wanted to blame Ivory, previously known within the barracks as the one who substantially hurt Connor, which was the whole reason the verification system was implemented, but I couldn't go off past experience. Besides, it could've been an anon, and nobody knows who was behind those masks! Well... maybe not, if I could manage to figure out who.

Either way, I kept my head high and my blaming low. Eventually, the generals came to the conclusion to permanently ban not just my joke, but the entire topic of male pregnancy. And I could understand why. I later got into touch with someone who defended my case, and they were wondering if I was okay, now that the inside joke I created with my buds was now public. I was.

I am recounting this story of June 9th, 2024, because recently Justin has been informed of the fic's existence. One of my pals who went on the ride known as this joke went to a location Mr. Chapman was at and told him about the fanfic. He seemed fairly positive and might read it, which I see as a win, but I understand if he won't. I fear that the next time me and Justin cross paths, whether on a stream or in person, the awkward tension will drive us away."

[ratcatcher0325]

When Alexander is underwater does he get wet? Or does the water get him instead?

Greetings Anon!

What is this? Am I some sort of joke to you? What sort of an ask is this?

I'm almost instantaneously feeling a sharp pain in my temples just having to deal with this question. Ugh. Really?

Is this just a follow up to the "is water wet" question? I already answered that, here:

https://www.tumblr.com/ratcatcher0325/714439849786195968/alexander-is-water-wet-we-had-a-debate-on-it?source=share

Or, are you trying to coax my rage by reminding me of my not-altogether-pleasant experiences with water lately? There was that disgusting pond where I slipped and fell and was nearly obliterated underfoot of that insufferably loud golfer. There was the most humiliating bath of my life, which ended in me being dressed in that damned unicorn shirt. Then, of course, we had the time I was sick with fever and infection and had to, most pathetically, cling to a certain human's finger just to stay afloat, while fighting to stay conscious. And, lastly, we had our most recent traumatizing experience featuring some particularly frigid water and one horrendously loud alarm blaring in my sensitive ear drums.

Is this what you wanted Anon? A recounting of my infuriating water-related trials and tribulations?

Are you implying through these that the water has "gotten me"?

Of course, just like every other living, sensorial being on the planet, I experience the 'wetness' that my nervous system has developed me to feel. That's basic science. Again, please refer to the previous ask, I so loathe to repeat myself.

However, and let me be extremely clear on this, I have not, nor will I ever be bested by anyone or anything, ever, in my life: the element of water, included.

So thanks for your little joke, it was quite hilarious. Ha ha ha. Can you hear me laughing through this text?

I hope you step in a puddle today and ruin your shoes.

Yours not Wetly,

Alexander

[sofuckingfine]

I believe in emotions manifesting themselves in the form of the physical. Here I am, trying to google a word for this. Struggling but it’s not important enough. Picture this, a summery Saturday, my friend and I are riding our bicycles through the park. Prior to this we had been bombing it through the city - dancing with close-calls. “Straight on this path and left ahead for the shortcut.” We are going to Harington for a beer. I put my earphones back in. Coming around a bend on some dirt with that sprinkle of gravel; my friend warns me, but I don’t hear him. The bicycle gives in, it’s not here for off-road. I feel my centre of gravity begin to change direction. Things move fast and I stick out my left arm. I was unable to hold myself up on a concrete post. My arm turning anti-clockwise, stretching my left shoulder beyond comfort. Then some more. I come to rest and almost immediately, hop up to grasp my situation. Like an afternoon session skating at the park, I hope to walk off this most recent wipe out. It is obvious to me that something is not right here. I have something new added to my character stats. However, the bicycle was fine so that meant, “carry-on.” 

Licking my new wound, I was curious what this experience was about. A quick google search, a great place for spiritual advice (are you going to ask your parents?), about injuring the left shoulder.  Apparently, is associated with heart break. I had to take a moment for myself to recount what had actually been happening in my life - this was end of 2022. That last bite of the year caught me nappin’. At this time, I was upset over a previous fling that I was all too passionate about. And before that, a broken heart of eight months lay in my wake. I had some personal growth that would have my attention.

“Crash and burn,” relight the fire and crash again.

[smeller-b]

PLEASE HELP A DISABLED TRANS WOMAN STAY ALIVE

Hello, I am making a new post because that seems to result in more notes/reaction and I would really like more people to see/respond to this.

Basically my friend Charlotte, a disabled trans woman, urgently needs help to survive, stay housed, and stay safe in a very fucked up world. She has been homeless for the past 16 years, and has lived through numerous traumatic experiences, any one of which would be horrifying to recount. I made an initial post about Charlotte, with a link to GoFundMe. That post also has updates about urgent support she needs to fight abuse by the criminal legal system, which you can read about with the link above. In previous posts I had avoided going into explicit detail about Charlotte’s disability. With her permission, I wanted to make a post sharing those details, with the hope that this information would spur more people to donate.

Charlotte has extremely serious heart problems, cPTSD, and has had multiple debilitating heart attacks in recent years, due to physically and emotionally traumatic and stressful experiences. Doctors have let her know that it is IMPERATIVE for her to get on SSDI (Social Security Disability Insurance) because she could die from having to work a full time job. The GoFundMe is set up in the hopes that she can ride out a few months without having to worry about how bills will be paid, so she can focus on what she really needs- navigating the disgustingly complicated SSDI application process. Right now she is working a part time job at FedEx that is physically unsustainable, and damaging her body, just so she can try to stay on top of expenses. Every day she worries if she will have another heart attack. She shouldn’t have to risk her life and well being in order to not be homeless. I’m reaching out for help, because I don’t want her to die, and I hope the serious urgency will convince more people to help out.

[IMAGE ID: A text message conversation that reads:

“Are you ok if I share some screenshots from your texts with me where you go into detail? (Personal info redacted ofc) I won’t if you don’t want me to, but sometimes a clear anecdote is helpful. I can also just summarize.”

“Yes you can, I’m just worried about having another one. I’m actually not supposed to do work according to the doctor I had in Colorado, but I’m so worried about surviving that I will risk it versus being homeless again because that will kill me too.”  /END IMAGE ID]

[IMAGE ID: A text message conversation that reads:

“The 40 hour work week is monstrous for people’s bodies. 1200 boxes an hour?? That is bananas wtf.”

“I only work 25 hours a week with a bonus for being on time for all of my shifts. It’s a box every three seconds.”

“That is fucking cruel Jesus Christ”

“Yeah, I’m going to have another heart attack lol”

“ [sad face emoji] “

“I got to pay my bills so I’m going to suck it up and endure it.”

/END IMAGE ID]

[IMAGE ID: a text conversation that reads:

“ Are you ok if I share more details about the fact that you have had chronic heart problems! I don’t want to violate your privacy but I want more people to donate if they can, and I hope that more people will if they realize how urgent and important it is. IDK you just deserve a little bit of a break!”

“Yes that would help it’s why I wanted to go on SSDI after I got off last night I had chest pains and had to rest before I biked home.”

/END IMAGE ID]

I know the combined maelstrom of the pandemic, climate disasters, and white supremacist violence has catastrophically wrecked many peoples’ lives, and no one should feel like they have to send more than they can or compromise their own situation. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading this far. But if you can spare it, or have some rich cousin who can (lol but really), Charlotte really needs it. Her life is at stake.

CHARLOTTE’S GOFUNDME

CHARLOTTE’S CASHAPP: $charlotterose86

VENMO ME with the subject “for Charlotte” : @/ruby_arnone

[isitgintimeyet]

Just A Friend

The response to this story has been lovely, so thank you all for reading. liking, reblogging and commenting on this piece of fluff. Hope you continue to enjoy.

Thanks to @wickedgoodbooks for the beta

AO3

Previous

Chapter 6: From Irritation to Interrogation

And just like that, we’re friends, Jamie and I. It’s strange how quickly you can go from strangers to acquaintances to friends. After that walk in the park, something seems to have clicked with us, there’s an ease in our friendship that doesn’t happen too often. Despite our vastly different upbringings, we have many things in common: a shared love of irreverent comedy, a fondness for very good quality chocolate and wine and a determination to succeed in our chosen careers.

Of course, it helps that we don’t have the whole fancying-sexual-tension-romantic thing lurking in the background. As I’ve said before, Jamie is not my type and, judging by the pictures on his Facebook timeline, I am definitely not his, which appears to be doe-eyed, tanned, petite blondes— their pneumatic breasts frequently struggling to break free from their restraints. No tall, wild-haired brunettes with only-slightly-above-average breasts usually firmly encased in sensible lingerie.

I may even invite him to Geillis’ wedding as my plus one. We’ll see. I don’t think I’ll be dating by then, I quite fancy a few months without any of those complications.

********

One of life’s pleasures, for me, when I’m not on-call, is to walk to the local newsagents on a Sunday morning for the newspaper. If it’s fine, it’s another opportunity to sit on my balcony and read it at my leisure. A mug of freshly brewed coffee and a cinnamon bun enhances this experience.

Today, it’s not so fine, but sitting on my sofa while listening to the rain pounding against the window is pretty good too. I’m just about to start the crossword when my phone rings. I quickly swallow my mouthful of bun and glance at the screen—private number. I offer up a silent prayer that it’s not the hospital as I answer it.

“Claire Beauchamp?” The female voice sounds familiar.

“Yes.” I answer cautiously.

“Jes’ a wee word of warning. Karma can be a bitch, ye ken.” The voice grows louder and angrier. I recognise that tone, last heard berating Jamie. “Ye’ll get what ye deserve. Ye canna trust James Fraser, but ye’ll find out soon enough—the hard way, like I did… thanks tae ye.”

“Look, I—“ I begin, but before I can finish my sentence, she’s gone.

My initial reaction is irritation. Laoghaire, no doubt looking around for someone to blame for her recent break up, has cast me in the role of home wrecker, clearly using my carefully honed feminine wiles to lure Mr. Fraser from her clutches. Like Frank, she can’t quite believe that anyone could break up with her, without there being another waiting in the wings, ready and willing to take her place.

My irritation dissipates as I begin to see the funny side of this. She’s obviously thought long and hard about this—checking his Facebook friends, keeping records of his phone calls when they were together. Perhaps she sees herself as Jennifer Aniston against my Angelina. I hope Jamie can see this for what it is and laugh. Besides, in this scenario, that makes Jamie what? Brad Pitt?

*****************

Two days later, Jamie and I have arranged to have a quick drink after work in a mutually convenient bar. Summer has not yet returned to the city. Whilst not actually raining, the air is damp and there’s a definite nip in the air. I do a cursory check of the outdoor seating, just to see whether Jamie is heroically braving the elements, but there’s no sign of him.

I make my way into the bar and have a quick walk around before snagging a corner table. The seats are comfortable and it’s in a prime position for me to keep an eye out for his arrival. This bar has always been one of my favourites in the city. It feels grounded, like it’s been here forever. The stone walls and dark oak beams are unchanging and watching the inebriated trying to negotiate the uneven wooden floor on their way to the toilets always makes for good entertainment. In fact, people come from miles around to marvel at its very crookedness.

I check my phone for any messages. There’s one from Geillis, accepting my invitation for girls’ night on Friday at my flat. I reply and put the phone down just in time to see Jamie heading toward me. He’s obviously come straight from work as he’s still in his navy blue suit and white shirt. I’ve come straight from work too but am not nearly so smartly dressed. Having worn my blue scrubs all day, I’m now clad in jeans and a wrap around top which used to be orange, but has faded to a light amber colour. I feel somewhat underdressed next to him.

“Drink?” He asks, before even sitting down.

I nod. “I’m parched. Think I’ll have a shandy, please.”

“Lager shandy? Half pint?”

“Bitter,” I clarify, not being a great believer in girlie drinks. “And pint.”

He returns a couple of minutes later with a pint and a packet of crisps in each hand.

He takes a huge slug of beer. “Sae, what do ye ken? What’s new wi’ ye?”

And so, I recount my day of surgery to him. And, bless him, he looks interested all the way through my narration. He does turn a bit pale as I begin to explain my use of the bone mallet and chisel, and his crisps remain untouched, but he soldiers through.

“In other news,” I change the subject as his colour returns and he rips the crisps open. “I had an anonymous phone call from your ex, warning me about you and blaming me for your break up. But, never fear, I’ll get what’s coming to me when you do the same to me—“

A bout of coughing from Jamie breaks into my conversation.  I get up and thump his back a couple of times. The coughing stops as he takes a swig of beer.

“Sorry,” he clears his throat and continues. “Crisp stuck in ma throat. She did what? How does she ken who ye are?”

“Presumably she kept a record of your phone calls and is monitoring your Facebook friends. Maybe you need to check your phone, see if she’s set up any other little apps so she can track where you are or what you’re doing.”

He shakes his head. “Aye, I’ll do that. I canna believe she would go tae such lengths. Although…” he pauses for a moment. “... mebbe I can. She was always the, er, suspicious type—asking me about women at work, convinced they were ready tae pounce on me. Perhaps I’m not the best judge of character, Claire. Ye need tae advise me.”

I laugh. “Ok. I’ll be your wingman, if you like. Or vet all your potential girlfriends. How about that?”

Jamie joins in with the laughter. His eyes twinkle and it’s funny the way he wrinkles his nose as he laughs.

“How about you? How’re the Spanish influenced dinners going? What are you up to?” I ask him.

“The plans are going grand. We’ve three dinner options planned out.” As usual, his face lights up as he explains the various menus to me.

“They all sound delicious. I’m looking forward to trying them.” And that's the truth.

“Weel, funny ye should mention that. We are looking fer people willing tae test them. How about it? Fancy trying one out? This week, mebbe? Free, of course.”

My weekend plans are getting better and better. Girls’ night at my flat could be turning into a bit of a Spanish fiesta, a mini replay of our Barcelona trip.

“I’d love that. Thanks. I’m having Geillis, Mary and Anna ‘round on Friday for a catch up. I could give you their opinion on the meal too.”

Jamie types something into his phone. “Great, I’ll sort it. So, good weekend plans then?”

“Oh yes, what about you?”

“Oh, I’ve got a sort of date type thing,” he mumbles into his pint and, to my surprise he goes a little bit red. Is he worried about telling me? Does he think that I will mind?

“That’s nice...isn’t it?”

“I dinna ken, really. I… I suppose so. It’s ma sister, Jenny’s, idea.  A friend of hers from university. Ma sister canna quite believe that I’m no’ yet married and she keeps trying tae make it happen. And Jenny, weel, let’s jes’ say that she’s a force of nature. Ye dinna want tae mess wi’ her.”

***************

I’m not exactly the most gifted cook, but I think it would be hard to go wrong with the box of food and wine that Jamie has delivered. The asparagus is waiting to be cooked, the mouth-watering smell from the simmering  chicken and chorizo fills my flat and bowls of juicy Spanish olives— some plain and some with garlic and chilli are dotted about the dinner table. Feeling inspired, I root out a large jug and begin to cut up fruit for sangria.

Like alcohol-seeking missiles, I’ve no sooner prepared the sangria when the doorbell rings. With many hugs, Geillis, Mary, Anna and I greet each other. I accept their gifts of wine, chocolate and flowers as we head into the flat.

As usual, everyone gravitates to the kitchen as I pass the drinks around, complimenting me on the wonderful aromas. Geillis’ stomach rumbles in eager anticipation.

When the four of us are together, the conversation flows as freely as the wine. Honestly, you would swear that we had not seen each other for months, when, in fact, I saw Anna on Tuesday in theatre, and squeezed in a coffee catch-up with Mary and Geillis only two days ago. The topics we cover are wide-ranging and random. Sangria and olives are accompanied by Anna’s search for a new flat, then the conversation turns to the destructive tendencies of Mary’s kitten as I serve the asparagus and Serrano ham starter.

For the main course, we have the tale of Geillis’ father refusing to wear a kilt for her wedding—he is prepared to don tartan trews but, according to Geillis, that will spoil the whole symmetry of the wedding photos. Neither, at the moment, seem willing to back down but, having known Geillis for so many years, it’s obvious to me who will win.

By the time I bring out the selection of Spanish biscuits and turrón, the conversation has moved on to men, more specifically Mary’s crush on a locum doctor newly arrived in the department. There’s a lot of good natured teasing about this—Mary seems to develop a new crush every couple of weeks, and why not?

Geillis drains her wine and turns to me. “Fantastic meal, Claire. Better than yer usual offerings.”

She pulls me close to her as she says this, and squeezes my arm to show she’s joking.

“Well, I have to confess. I did have a bit of assistance. I mean, I did the cooking, apart from the cookies, but everything came from FraserFood.”

“In that case, give me those chocolates back. I’m no’ sure ye’ve earned them.”

“But I have,” I moan. “I did all the cooking…and made sangria.” I reach across Geillis and help myself to another biscuit. They are melt-in-the-mouth delicious.

“It’s part of a new range they’re launching,” I try to explain as Anna and Mary start to squabble over the last biscuit. “Three course dinner party boxes. Everything you need. Jamie asked if I would test one of them out—“

Immediately Anna and Mary shut up, the last biscuit now abandoned on the plate.

“Woo-hoo,” Anna grins at me.

Geillis nudges me in the ribs. “Jamie, is it? And what else has Jamie given ye, eh?”

“Nothing, we’re friends, that’s it.”

“But we’ve seen pictures of him. Don’t ye want there tae be more tae it? I mean, c’mon look at him.” Now Mary joins in the questioning.

I sigh. “We can just be friends, you know.”

“Friends with benefits, mebbe?” Geillis isn’t giving up.

“No, just friends. Although…” my friends lean forward expectantly, perhaps awaiting some heartfelt confession from me, as if I’d suddenly realised my undying love, or, at least, a good bit of lust for Mr. Fraser. They’re going to be disappointed.

“...Although, I suppose you could say this free food and drink is a benefit. So,yes, I guess that makes us friends with benefits.”

Anna and Geillis look as if they don’t believe me, but say nothing. Mary isn’t prepared to drop the subject.

“So,” she starts. “So, suppose I meet yer—“

“Not mine,” I mutter under my breath.

Mary shrugs her shoulders and continues, “—yer Jamie Fraser. And suppose he asks me out and one thing leads tae another… ye’re telling us that ye wouldna mind?”

“No, I wouldn’t mind. Might be a bit awkward if you break up. I mean, can I still be friends with both of you?”

Geillis, laughing, joins in now. “Suppose our Mary marries Jamie Fraser and asks ye tae be a bridesmaid. Would ye mind then?”

I pretend to give this some thought. “Ah, now that does depend. Just how awful will the bridesmaid dress be, Mary?”

“Och, just hideous. We’ll be having a Disney themed wedding.”

All talking and laughing at once, we try to decide which would be the worst Disney outfit for a bridesmaid and finally settle on Moana.

I get up from the table to go and make coffee, but not before making one final statement on the whole platonic situation with Jamie.

“Look, I know it’s hard to believe, but I have no romantic interest in Jamie and neither does he. In fact, he told me that he’s got a date this weekend and that’s totally fine with me.”

Geillis grabs my hand in passing. “Ok, as long as ye’re fine. We jes’ dinna want ye getting hurt, Claire. We love ye too much fer that.”

I smile at my closest friends gathered around my table and feel a rush of warmth and love for them too. They’re my family, these girls, and, for all the joking and teasing, they have my best interests at heart.

“I know. Thank you for looking out for me. But, Jamie and I are friends, nothing more.”

And with that I head into the kitchen, giving Anna, Mary and Geillis, no doubt, the opportunity to continue to speculate about Jamie’s and my friendship. But really I don’t mind, they’ll get fed up soon enough when they see I’ve been telling the truth all along.

[sunshine-shitposts]

Here I am, after more than a week! 👀 whups～

(Part 1)

tw: mentions of past spousal abuse

Dust in the Wind—Part 2

Ignoring the lack of windows to the outside, it looked like a normal living room. There was a sitting area, with a large, low coffee table surrounded by a spacious L-shaped sectional on one side and two matching arm chairs on the other. It was minimally decorated, though signs of occupancy existed—scatterings of books on the coffee table with papers and notes, a few pairs of Sunnie-sized shoes next to the entrance, a sticky note on the mirror next to the door ("don't stare at yourself TOO much" it said, in rather messy handwriting), and some blankets bunched up here and there. A quiet yet efficient ceiling fan moved air slowly through the underground room, the hardwood floor was dark in color, and a large area rug made the sitting area comfortable, but other than that, it was relatively plain.

The second Sunnie opened the door and walked through, however, Jotaro heard a voice he had planned on never hearing again.

"My darling Sunshine, you've returned to me!" Came a deep exclamation from beyond a corner as a muscular blonde man emerged and rushed over.

"Oh my fucking god-OOF–" was the only thing Sunnie could get out before she was swept up in Dio's arms, her backpack jingling and feet dangling uselessly as he twirled her around. "Put me down, asshole!! We have company!"

"Can you blame me, dearest? I haven't seen you in several days, and it gets oh so terribly lonely down here," the blonde man chuckled, still holding her tight.

"Catherine talks to you daily!! You're fine!!" She complained, wiggling in his unrelenting grasp.

At the mention of her name, the COO huffed a sigh and shut the door behind her.

"Oh, my sweet, she's delightful company, but she's not you," the man cooed, taking and squishing Sunnie's cheeks in his talons adoringly.

Jotaro's jaw and fists clenched so hard they hurt, and Mrs. Gupta put her hand on his shoulder to try to steady him, but Star Platinum had already leapt out, ready to fight.

"Ora!" The Stand shouted, the roar-like battlecry causing Dio to stop twirling Sunnie around and look at the Joestar, expression nearly catlike in its smugness. Sunnie caught her first glimpse of Jotaro's Stand and her eyes widened almost comically.

"Oooooh… big boy…" she whispered in awe.

"You must be this dimension's Jotaro," Dio hummed, amber eyes surveying both the Joestar and his Stand, "Where I come from, your Star Platinum is green."

"Bastard," Jotaro hissed.

"You're not wrong," the man smirked as he set Sunnie down, playfully removing her hat–which he tossed off somewhere–and ruffling her hair as she slid her backpack off and chucked it on the L-shaped portion of the large sectional sofa.

"How the hell did you get here," Jotaro growled, eyes burning with wrath as his entire body tensed, "I killed you."

"Ah, see, there's your problem," Dio grinned, wagging a sharply-manicured claw, "You killed a me. Not me-me."

In an instant, Jotaro's hand was inches from Dio's neck, and a glimmering turquoise and silver hand separated them, slightly tapered fingers spread as if to catch something as the wing shape on the wrist flared wildly.

Jotaro looked to the side to see Dust in the Wind staring at him with narrowed yellow eyes, the sound of distant windchimes clinking as it focused on him with a sharpness that was strange from a relatively featureless face. Sunnie was standing in between the two taller men, green eyes seemingly on fire as they caught his own.

"I will do it, Jotaro," she said, voice low and monotone as she stared at him, unblinking, with an intensity he didn't expect from her. With all the friendliness and casual demeanor he'd seen from her in the short time they'd known each other, this piercingly focused glare was downright out of character, "This is my job."

Jotaro looked back up and saw Dio staring down at Sunnie with a strange look in his eyes, his lips pulled back in a nearly manic grin. It seemed like sheer delight.

"Jotaro, relax," Mrs. Gupta huffed, unphased by the possible violence brewing in front of her as she sat down in a wingback chair opposite a main sofa, "Please, I've had enough headaches dealing with the board today." When there was no movement between the others in the room, she patted her thigh sharply. "Sunnie, call Windy off."

She hesitated, but Dust in the Wind shrank back into Sunnie, glaring at Jotaro the entire time.

"Thank you, Sunnie," Mrs. Gupta said softly, which made Jotaro's brows furrow in realization. He turned, taking his attention off of Dio and turning it to the COO instead.

"You have a Stand as well," he stated, voice soft, and she nodded.

"That I do," she responded, and a massive, lithe, dark, armor-clad figure flashed behind her for a split second, plate armor shining iridescent like the wings of a grackle for the briefest of moments. Jotaro caught a glimpse of a long neck and a helmeted face, veiled on the sides by a long flowing cloth, before the Stand disappeared, "But that is neither here nor there. Dio is not under any circumstances going to hurt you or your family. Should he try, he will be summarily turned into dust."

"You speak of my possible demise so inelegantly, Catherine," Dio sighed, pulling Sunnie gingerly down on the sofa close to him as she made a strange squawking noise in surprise, "It's kind of depressing."

"It is what it is," she replied, leveling him with a bored look.

Jotaro never thought he'd see it, but Dio pouted. It didn't look right to him. It made him uncomfortable to see that monster acting so normal. "So. My question stands," Jotaro demanded, voice sharp. Mrs. Gupta shifted, giving him a tired glance.

"About half a year ago, we received communication from a Speedwagon office near a dig site in northern Norway that a man claiming to be Dio had appeared and wanted to strike a deal with the Foundation. He made his way, in secured vehicles and with appropriate escort, here, to Dallas, where we had an appropriate facility to house him as we ascertained his goal," the COO said, voice level and nearly clinical as she recounted the events, "Once he was deemed a relative non-threat, we began negotiations and arrived at an appropriate arrangement."

Jotaro's eyes immediately locked onto her. "Arrangement?" he practically hissed.

"He offered his body and service in exchange for a safe haven," Mrs. Gupta stated, not even phased by the anger rolling off the Joestar.

"Why the hell did the Foundation agree?" Jotaro growled, "What the fuck could this asshole have that anyone needs?"

"Are you kidding??" Sunnie suddenly yelped, eyes going wide as she leaned forward on the sofa, her demeanor completely changing, "There's so much we can learn from him! His regenerative capabilities in particular are fascinating, so much faster than in other creatures, like planarians!! The scientific applications are not only wide-reaching, but could help so many people in the future. Severed limbs, damaged organs, you name it. Like, holy shit, there's so much potential to help people in his big stupid body!!" Dio chuckled as Sunnie had gotten increasingly animated, green eyes sparkling as she whacked his arm three times to emphasize the 'big stupid body' bit.

"I have a relative who can heal people," Jotaro snapped, "Why not study him?"

"It's not the same and you know it," Sunnie shot back, "Stand abilities can't be bottled and sold as medicine or gene therapies; at least, none we've seen. Not like this. Dio's abilities are entirely biological. When he used the mask on himself, it altered his body. Probably rewrote large swaths of genetic code. These are advances we can actually implement, Jotaro. Don't let your previous experiences cloud your vision."

"And why are you here?" Jotaro asked, glaring at her, "From what I can tell, you were a mere civilian until recently. How much do you know about the mask, or my family's past?"

The second the full weight of his simmering rage seemed to settle with her, Sunnie's eyes widened and her fists tightened. She clammed up, shaking slightly. Dio looked at her and immediately snaked his hand into her hair, rubbing a thumb against her scalp.

"I personally requested her as my companion," he said, voice low, before looking back at Jotaro, "The circumstances were discussed with her and she accepted, knowing full well what she was getting into."

"And, like… I know the basics of what happened. What you went through to save your mom," Sunnie's eyes caught Jotaro's, her gaze sincere, "I'd destroy the world to keep my mom safe. I get it. But him?" She pointed at Dio, "He's not the same one you fought. That man is dead. So your beef isn't with this one."

Mrs. Gupta leaned against one side of her chair. "If it makes you feel any better, Jotaro, we have… ways of determining points of origin. You'd have to ask Ellison about it, but while most of Dio's markers do line up with ours, there are a few that are different enough to prove that he didn't come from here."

"Besides, you can't feel it, can you?" Dio grinned.

"Feel what?" Jotaro snarled, turning his attention to the vampire.

"The inherent connection that we who bear the birthmark have. The connection that I should have to you, and any other members of the Joestar family," he gestured with an elegantly clawed finger to the man in front of him, "because I am in possession of Jonathan Joestar's body."

Jotaro's gaze narrowed.

"I may still be Dio," the vampire continued, crossing one leg over the other, "but I am not your Dio. And there is enough of a difference between us for the bloodline connection to not be there at all. You didn't even notice when I came to this world, did you?"

Jotaro hated to admit that Dio had a point. He had no idea until he was contacted by the Foundation. There had been no indication whatsoever.

Having not received an answer, Dio smirked. "That's what I thought," his eyes narrowed as well, glinting unnaturally as he seemingly read Jotaro's mind, "You truly had no idea."

"Don't gloat, asshole," Sunnie grunted, punching Dio lightly with a small fist, "He gets it."

There was a quiet in the room as Jotaro took everything in. Of course the Foundation would have ways to figure out dimensional points of origin or whatever the hell it was… And this Dio did seem slightly different. Jotaro didn't spend that much time with the one he killed, but he had a feeling that that Dio wouldn't be tolerating Sunnie's casual demeanor towards him. Jotaro sat in the chair next to Mrs. Gupta's, sighing quietly as he mulled over the facts.

"Now, my dear," Dio said out of nowhere, turning to Sunnie, "Let me see them. Are they any better?"

Sunnie stiffened, shrinking inward. "Dio, not now. We have a guest here," she muttered, eyes darting to Jotaro for a split second.

"Come on. Show me," the vampire goaded as Mrs. Gupta sat forward in her seat, an arm propping itself on her leg so she could lean her chin on her hand.

"I'd like to see how they're doing as well, Sunnie," she said, "I have more work to attend to soon, so now is as good a time as any."

"Ugh, fine," Sunnie sighed dramatically, reaching her arms out as one hand reached over to the base of one sleeve. She slowly slid it upwards, revealing lightly freckled pale skin dotted with ugly yellowing bruises in various sizes. She then raised the other sleeve, showing the same there. Jotaro immediately gripped the arm of the chair hard enough to crunch it slightly.

"What the fuck did you do, Dio??"

"No, no, you got it wrong," Sunnie said quickly as Dio's clawed hands ran over her skin, his sharp brows furrowed. "He didn't… these aren't from him."

There was a tense silence as Dio inspected the injuries, and Mrs. Gupta looked at Jotaro with cold steel in her dark eyes.

"Her husband," she whispered, unable to conceal the disgust in her voice.

Oh.

…Oh.

"You know I can heal these, Sunshine," Dio murmured, "I healed Enrico, I can heal you–"

"The lawyer said we need to document how long it takes for them to heal," Catherine  said sternly, "It would be suspicious if they suddenly vanished."

"How are the ones on your back? Your legs?" Dio pressed.

She had them there, too? Jotaro's brows drew down over his eyes. No wonder she was wearing long clothes in the Texan heat. He had no idea this entire time, from the moment he saw her in Dallas til the moment that Dio had brought it up, that she was walking around with all of that on her body.

"I mean, still there? It'll take time," she grunted.

"May I see, darling?"

Sunnie scoffed. "I'm not taking my shorts and leggings off, asshole."

"Just the back, then?"

Sunnie heaved another sigh, and Jotaro heard her suck in a breath as she fully shrugged off her cardigan, revealing more skin covered in bruises and a few still-healing cuts on her upper left arm, splotches of reddish yellow littered around the slashed skin. She turned to face away from Dio and he slid the back of her loose sleeveless shirt up.

"Your hand is fucking cold," she said loudly, yelling the last word, but he just clicked his tongue.

"I still think you should have killed him," Dio growled, not paying any mind to her complaint. A snarl, one that Jotaro remembered from a long while ago, lifted the man's lip and he saw a glint of pronounced fang. "It would have been easy for you. Suffocate him, steal his breath, no one would know."

"You know I don't do that. I don't use Windy against people who can't defend themselves," the woman said quietly, but loud enough for Jotaro to hear.

"Even if she did, she'd have to have lived with that for the rest of her life," Mrs. Gupta added, leaning back against one arm of her chair, "She wasn't—isn't—in a mental state for that."

"She could have at least defended herself," Dio responded, the hard anger in his golden eyes fading to a strangely soft concern. It didn't look right on the man. This didn't seem like the Dio Jotaro had killed. The vampire's large, pale hand ran up the apparently very much injured expanse of Sunnie's back, causing her to hiss a little. "You didn't need to endure so much pain."

Jotaro never thought he'd agree with Dio. Dio was evil. Dio was a curse on his family. Dio tried to have him and his friends killed. Dio was a monster.

But seeing these bruises, some still dotted with purples and sickly reds, he couldn't help but agree.

Dio was right.

"I couldn't do that, Dio," she whispered, "He said I deserved it."

Jotaro felt his heart clench. She sounded broken. She had been so calm and composed and casual in all the short time that he'd known her. He'd seen her relative physical strength when she had lifted her mother's heavy school supplies with ease. She was a sturdy woman, and her smile seemed so natural, her laughter so easy.

But there she was: drawn in on herself, battered, and so, so small.

"And he was wrong," Catherine stood from her seat and walked to Sunnie's side, crouching down in front of her spot on the sofa and delicately placing a hand on her knee to comfort her. "And we'll keep drilling that into your head as much as you need, alright?"

Dio moved the hand on her back to her side, sliding up the shirt there, revealing a large, sharp splotched line that wrapped around her waist, like she had been thrown onto or pressed against a sharp-edged corner. Jotaro, at this point, had to duck his gaze behind the brim of his hat. That was too much for him, for some reason. It felt like he was invading her privacy, though she was being rather casual about her skin being on display.

"So, all of that…?" Jotaro muttered, not wanting to meet her eyes.

"Yeah," Sunnie said, glancing at him, "This is from… that asshole." She paused, before gesturing with her head towards Dio, "Not this asshole, though."

"How sweet of you," Dio chuckled, lowering the shirt and giving her good shoulder a soft pat. She quickly pulled the cardigan back on, drawing her legs toward her chest and averting her eyes.

"The Foundation is providing her with legal counsel and a therapist," Catherine said plainly, standing back to her full height and walking to the raised arm of the sofa, leaning against it, "As well as medical assistance when necessary. We're making sure she's well taken care of here."

"…And 'well taken care of' means she stays down here with him?" Jotaro asked, shooting an acidic glance towards Dio.

And Dio reacted with his first open display of displeasure with the Joestar: another snarl, and an incredibly insulted expression. "There is no safer place on this planet for her to be than with me," he growled, "On the off chance that the piece of shit decides to seek out and associate with unsavory types with Stand abilities to track her down, I am the best equipped to protect her."

"And why would I believe anything you say?" Jotaro stood suddenly, advancing on Dio.

To Jotaro's surprise, when Dio stood, he stepped in front of the woman on the sofa, as if he was trying to protect her. "You act like you know me, Jojo. Let me assure you that you don't."

"Alllllright, that's enough!" Sunnie exclaimed, jumping up and standing on the sofa, still not as tall as either Jotaro or Dio, "I'm done with the bullshit!!!! You!!!!" She pointed at Jotaro, "Getting angry at the situation changes nothing. Deal with it. And you!!!!" She smacked the back of Dio's head, "Quit being a shitgibbon. Calm down." She reached out and bunched the stretchy fabric of his skin-tight top in her small fist, and softly added, "...Please."

Dio looked back at her and once again, something about him seemed to soften.

"Of course, Sunshine," he said, his voice low and strangely kind as he sat back down on the sofa with her.

"Just tell me one thing," Jotaro said, voice level and low. Dio's amber eyes settled on him in a calculating gaze that would unnerve most people as Jotaro tried to find the right words. "The… me from where you're from. What happened to his mother?"

They stared at each other for what seemed like forever, both of their faces unreadable, before Dio spoke. "…After I managed to escape the fight in Cairo, he received news of his mother's death."

The clenching of Jotaro's fist was audible in the otherwise nearly dead-quiet room.

"I spent years on the run from the remaining Joestar group, those they added to their ranks, and the Foundation," Dio continued, "All I wanted to do was survive. Jotaro did not make it easy."

"Good," was all Jotaro could say, feeling a roiling mix of emotions in his chest. He stood, looking at Mrs. Gupta. "I'm done here."

"Alright then," she said, standing as well, "Sunnie?" The woman stared at her boss, eyes wide and blinking. "See us out?"

Sunnie nodded and got off the sofa, wincing as she flexed and stretched a little bit. Dio pouted again, tapping her calf with his foot, and she huffed. "I won't be long, dude. Chill."

Seemingly pleased with her answer, the man grinned smugly to himself before picking a book up off the table and settling against the arm of the sofa, flipping to some page midway through. He did, however, spare one last wary glance at Jotaro, who could have sworn he saw Dio's eyes flash a very vivid and untrusting crimson for a split second before he left the room with the two women.

"Sunnie," Jotaro said as soon as he was sure the door was fully closed, eyes and voice soft, "I need you to be wary around him."

"Yeah, I know," she laughed, but Jotaro shook his head firmly.

"I don't know if you understand, though," the Joestar muttered, "He has a way of… his words alone can sway a heart. He can capture minds and twist them."

Her wide grin dropped, and she gave him a strangely stoic and bitter look. "...Yeah. Trust me, I get it."

Mrs. Gupta placed her hand, long and elegant, on Sunnie's right shoulder, and she pulled her close in a light side hug. Jotaro sighed quietly—he couldn't imagine what Sunnie had been through, nor for how long, but figured that she, with the Foundation at her back, could handle herself.

"Sunnie?" The COO asked softly, offering her hand to the short woman. Sunnie quickly pulled out a pen from her pocket and began writing something on the lighter skin of Mrs. Gupta's palm, glancing at Jotaro a couple of times. Confused, but not wanting to intrude, Jotaro waited. When Sunnie was done, Mrs. Gupta looked at her hand and stifled a laugh, and Sunnie sent a mischievous little smirk Jotaro's way.

"Be seeing you, Jotaro," she said. He nodded to her, following Mrs. Gupta out of the first set of sliding doors. When the doors closed, she let out another little laugh.

"Sometimes she writes things on my hand that she doesn't want to say out loud, like if she wants a certain kind of food or another blanket," she said, showing him her palm.

It was a caricature of Jotaro's face, glowering, with the words 'grumpy mcgrumperson' underneath.

Well. Hm.

"She hid it well, didn't she?" Mrs. Gupta asked as soon as the second sliding door closed, voice light and strangely conversational, "All that pain she's in—mentally and physically."

"Too well," Jotaro muttered, and Mrs. Gupta nodded, sighing.

"We actually wouldn't have known about it if Dio hadn't smelled the blood from her shoulder, you know." Jotaro looked at her confusedly, and she continued, "She was hoping she'd just hide from her husband by sleeping in her car, but Dio insisted that she stay with him here. Now she splits time between the Foundation and her parents' house."

"And you just let that happen?"

They arrived in front of the elevator at the end of the hall, and Mrs. Gupta held her hand up to the scanner. When it beeped in acceptance, she pressed a couple of buttons and they waited for the door to open. "I understand that you don't trust him, as you've made so abundantly clear. But I have a reason for giving the go ahead for this. You're going to have to trust us."

The elevator opened and she stepped inside, Jotaro following before the door shut once more.

"...How are you sure that he's going to keep his word?"Jotaro asked, and Mrs. Gupta glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes for a moment before looking back ahead of them.

"Before I became COO, I worked in… outreach," she said, "I was tasked with finding other Stand users, both natural and unnatural. I've met quite a few people and… others with useful abilities that way."

Jotaro's eyes narrowed. "Is that how you rose in the ranks so quickly?"

She crossed her arms, a small but sly smile on her full lips. "I have goals, Dr. Kujo. I would be a fool if I didn't take the opportunity to use the resources available to me to achieve them. I'm sure you understand." The elevator door opened to a short hallway with softly glowing wall sconces, and she stepped out, motioning for him to follow. "Now, we can discuss more in my office. Come."

Jotaro felt himself deflate slightly—he was getting tired, his limit for dealing with people nearly reached for the day, but he did want to speak with her for a while without Dio around. So he followed, and shut the door behind himself.

To Be Continued...

[justasparkwritings]

Merry & Bright {24}: Happy Anniversary

Previous: I Promise 

Pairing: Min Yoongi & BFF Jung Hoseok

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Rating: PG13

Warnings: Swearing!

Summary: Yoongi and Hoseok celebrate a particularly special friendiversary. 

           December 24th, Christmas Eve, is an anniversary that Min Yoongi holds dear to his heart. In a decade, he’s never missed it, never missed acknowledging it, or sending a small present to the person with whom he shares the holiday. Every year, without fail, despite schedules and obligations, family and performances, Yoongi found the time to take his best friend to dinner.  

           This year, shoulder tethered to his body, Yoongi was staring at Ho-Seok through his computer screen.

           “This is the first Christmas eve we haven’t spent together,” Ho-Seok says.

           “I know, it makes me almost, sad?” Yoongi offers.

           “You’ve been missing a lot, could be sadness from other things,” Ho-Seok tries to comfort him, though he knows his words are futile.

           “Yeah, a combination of all the sadness and then spending Christmas, here, and New Years, here,” Yoongi sips his water.

           “You came by after our Grammy nomination,” Ho-Seok sips his drink, Yoongi clocks the bubbles, it’s most likely Sprite.

           “But with the utmost care, and then I wasn’t allowed out for another two weeks,” Yoongi grumbles.

           “You had a mini quarantine?” Ho-Seok smiles.

           “This whole experience is quarantine. The only person I see besides my family is the physical therapist,” Yoongi tells him.

           “But you still made time for me,” Ho-Seok laughs.

           “Of course I did,” Yoongi answers him, smile pulling over his gums. “Have I ever forgotten?”

           “No, you haven’t, not in what, nearly ten years?” Ho-Seok asks.

           “Yeah, something like that.” Yoongi nods.

           “Do you remember when we first met?” Ho-Seok inquires.

           “You ask that every year,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, a light smile on his lips.

           “And?” Ho-Seok presses.

           “And every year I tell you the same thing,” Yoongi responds, taking a sip of his water.

           “You were dazzled by my personality,” Hobi laughs.

           “Mm, something like that,” Yoongi’s embarrassed, just like every year. No matter how many times Ho-Seok poses the question, no matter how many years he asks, Yoongi is always flushed when recounting their first meeting. “We were babies.”

           “I was so naïve,” Ho-Seok chuckles.

           “You still are,” Yoongi counters.

           “You aren’t much better, you are a little softer,” Ho-Seok laughs.

           “Leave my cheeks out of this!” Yoongi laughs, his shoulders shuffling as he reacts to his friend.

           “Your cheeks are looking pretty cute,” Ho-Seok admits.

           “They’re puffy, I ate too much before surgery,” Yoongi shakes his head, a tad embarrassed.

           “You’re growing, right?” Hobi offers.

           “I’m almost two years older than you, I’m nearly thirty. I am not still growing,” Yoongi corrects him.

           “If Jiminie can grow a few centimeters, so can you,” Ho-Seok’s inspired, why can’t Yoongi stretch and gain a little height? Jimin did it.

           “Not sitting on my ass for three months, anyway, I’m on a diet,” Yoongi reminds him.

           “You mentioned it in your VLive,” Ho-Seok nods, “You still on it?”          

           “Well apparently I need to be if my cheeks are still puffy,” His smirk is apparent as he watches Hobi react.

           “You’re cute as is,” The maknae says.

           “When will I stop being cute?” The hyung wonders aloud.

           “You’d rather I call you sexy?” Ho-Seok looks surprised, eying Yoongi through the screen.  

           “I guess not,” Yoongi says, he’s rarely uncomfortable around the members, but something about discussing his appearance with Ho-Seok was starting to push him in that direction.

           “It’s okay to be sexy,” Ho-Seok says in response to Yoongi’s scrunched nose, “I think we’re all sexy at times.”

           “What are you doing for Christmas?” Yoongi asks, nose still scrunched.

           “Da Won’s coming home, we’ll have dinner I’m sure,” Ho-Seok shrugs. “Then back to for the Big Hit performance,”

           “I wish I could be there,” Yoongi sighs.

           “We all wish you could be there,” Hobi tells him.

           “I hate missing performances,” Yoongi tries not to let his frustration get the best of him.

           “They’re not that great,” Ho-Seok tries to soften the obvious pain in Yoongi’s voice.

           “Don’t lie,” Yoongi is becoming annoyed.

           “There’s no ARMY, you’re not there, we’ve performed Dynamite a thousand times,”

           “But the dance break! Incheon, Seoul World Cup, you have been performing in dream places,” Yoongi lists their recent stages, jealous he’s missed out on such milestones.

           “It’s not the same, the energy is different, the drive isn’t there,” Ho-Seok tells him.

           “You got a new dance break,” Yoongi smiles.

           “Yes, that was fun, but it’s still not the same,” Ho-Seok’s eyes are firm and soft, encouraging Yoongi to take his word. “You’ve missed interviews too.”

           “I feel bad for Namjoonie, having to answer everything,”

           “We miss your snide comments,” Ho-Seok laughs, “You know BTS? Billboard singer?”

           Yoongi loses it, laughing too hard to quickly, moving his shoulders too sharply, his sling aggressively holding it in place. He grunts softly, straightening up, watching Hobi stare, unsure what to do. He continues staring until Yoongi pulls him back to their conversation.

           “I will never understand why you came back,” Ho-Seok says, voice low. Yoongi’s surprised by his question, not that he hasn’t asked before, but it’s been years.

           “I’m sure I’ve told you before,” Yoongi replies.

           “I’m sure you have,” Ho-Seok nods, “Tell me again,”

           “I called you, to check in,” He retells.

           “After I had texted you,” Hobi fills in.

           “Yes, I could tell what mood you were in,” Yoongi nods his head, “Still can.”

           “At that point, we hadn’t spent much time together,” Hobi offers as an answer.

           “No, barely knew each other, but I could just, tell. So, I called,” Yoongi shakes his head, bangs readjusting and laying back in the same place.

           “Was it my voice?” Ho-Seok wonders.

           “It was just a feeling, a gut feeling that you weren’t okay,” Yoongi tells him.

           “I was, fine,” Hobi fibs.

           “Don’t lie to me Hobi-ah,” Yoongi shakes his head again. “I called you, and you said you were alone at the dorms, which weren’t much at that point.”

           “I was just sitting there, alone,” Ho-Seok remembers how sad he felt, how alone, how isolated and overwhelmed he was at the dorms.

           “Did they, they didn’t want,” Yoongi stares at him, unable to get the words out, unwilling to put the words in Ho-Seok’s mouth.  

           “We were in a fight, they didn’t invite me home,” Ho-Seok finishes for him. The shame is gone, it’s not just a statement, a statement about a moment in time that lived in both of their minds, and one they come back to less and less often.

           “I’m sorry,” Yoongi whispers, eyes low.

           “You don’t have to be, it’s passed,” Hobi’s voice is soft, reverent, inviting.

           “On my way to the dorms, I figured you’d be hungry, I was hungry, so I got chicken,” Yoongi picks the story back up.

           “I will be seventy-five thinking about that chicken,” Hobi laughs.

           “It was a good idea!” Yoongi defends himself, more gusto than he’s exerted the whole conversation.

           “It was thoughtful, but that’s where it ends,” Ho-Seok is still smiling and laughing at the memory.

           “To answer your question,” Yoongi sets his drink down, having finished it. “I came back because you were going to be my brother, and I knew, somewhere inside me, that if I was alone at the dorms, when everything was so overwhelming and scary, that you would’ve done the same for me.”

           “When you came back, I knew you were going to be important to me,” Hobi tells him, like he does every year.

           “I hope I’ve lived up to it,” Yoongi responds, the look in his eyes telling Ho-Seok that he felt the same thing.

           “In spades,” Ho-Seok says. “I love you, Yoongi-ah.”

           “I love you too, Hobi,” Yoongi smiles gently at his maknae.

           “Happy anniversary,” Ho-Seok tells him.

           “Happy anniversary.”

Next: A Newborn King

[renxamamiya]

Twin Stars

Late birthday present for @lenle-g! It’s been ages since I’ve properly written Thunderbirds fanfic and god it feels good.

A03 | 4.2k

“-and Gordon managed to catch it! You should have been there, John!”

Alan’s excited face as he recounted his recent mission shone brightly through the holovid. Earlier that day International Rescue had received a distress call in one of the National Parks in Thailand, where a couple accidentally collapsed into a previously unknown cave network unearthed by soft mud left from the recent monsoon rain.

John always liked to hear about Alan’s recent escapades down on Earth, the youngest Tracy’s enthusiasm infectious and delightful to hear that John couldn’t help but smile. He knew that for Alan, being part of a mission taking place on the blue, glowing planet below John’s feet was a rarity for Alan, the young boy having to always sit out just in case someone needed help within the reaches of their solar system - something that occurred more commonly as space travel continued to evolve rapidly. The young Tracy, unlike the majority of his brothers, had little opportunity to experience the different places around the World outside their Island home; and John pitied him.

“Well, that’s amazing, Alan,” John said, returning Alan's enthusiastic smile, while reaching for his coffee, taking a sip from his mug, thankful that artificial gravity was even a possibility on Thunderbird Five. Though he was in the rescuing ‘business’ alongside his brothers, he preferred to be out of the action, to be their watchful eye, their guardian angel.

“I mean, it’s better than having to perform system diagnostics on Thunderbird Five,” Alan said smugly, crossing his arms as he looked at John with some sort of smug superiority, “I know you gotta do it but it seems really boring, you sure you can’t let Brains take care of it?”

“I’m fine,” John assured Alan, taking another sip from his mug, “I’ve done this numerous times, and I don’t need to tear Brains from his work. Besides, I have EOS right here with me.”

“You mean your code baby?” Alan laughed, and John rolled his eyes, “I know you hate being around people but I mean, do you really hate people that much that you’d rather be around some computers?”

“I am not just a ‘computer’,” EOS piqued up, her childish voice sounding clear offence to Alan’s little nickname, “And John and I are progressing through the system diagnostic quite well, thank you very much. Ever since I became a member of International Rescue, there have been practically no flaws in the system’s code. Thunderbird Five is impenetrable.”

“For now,” John corrected the AI, “Remember, Havoc managed to install a virus in your software-”

“-Through an illegal and extremely painful form of brute-forcing my code!-”

“- and we need to ensure that our systems have as little vulnerabilities as possible. We can’t take that change. Ever.”

“Which is why I’m glad that I’m not doing any of that.” Alan laughed, trying to introduce humour to the rapidly tense atmosphere between creation and creator. It seemed to work, as John sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before remembering that Alan was still on the call.

“Sorry about that, Alan.” John apologised to the younger Tracy, “I didn’t mean for any interruptions during our call.”

“Aww it’s okay, John, I should be the one sorry. After all, I did anger the code baby,” Alan said, causing EOS to blow a raspberry (or play a sound clip of a raspberry) directed towards Alan.

“So, when are you coming down to Earth again?” Alan asks John, his eyes now staring at him with eagerness, “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“It has, but it’s normally busy for us this time of year, isn’t it?” John said, knowing that the change of weather and the encroaching holiday season meant more people being tired as most of the World is shrouded in dark and cold, meaning more opportunity for disaster. Alan’s face fell, disappointed that he would likely be seeing his elder space-loving brother way later than he wanted, and that John was right.

He groaned, crossing his arms on the table before nestling his head on top of them. He hated winter rescue missions, and silently begged for any divine being for there to be no disasters as the winter season encroached across the world. John cringed, suddenly realising what he had done.

“Sorry...” he mumbled.

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” Alan reassured his brother, swinging his head up from the table, and gave John a smile, “Just make sure you buy me a super cool gift, okay? I won’t accept anything less than a new hoverboard if you’re missing Christmas again.”

“Alan, I’m sure that Brains can build something much better than what you can get on the market.” John pointed out, and Alan groaned.

“Yeah but he’s busy,” he whined, and John rolled his eyes; yet he knew that it was Alan’s excuse to see John again back on Earth, even if it meant that the ginger astronaut was tripping on his own two feet for the entire duration he was there.

“Okay, Alan,” John relented, sighing as he put his coffee down, quickly turning his attention to multiple screens towards the side as to check the progress of his temporarily forgotten system diagnostics, “I’ll look over the possible models. Maybe, if everything quiets down this year, we can take a trip somewhere?”

“Where exactly?” Alan asks, and John smiles at how suddenly excited he looks.

“I don’t know. Other than Ohio to meet up with some friends, I’m leaving the rest up to you.”

“Oh hell yeah!” Alan practically jumps out from his seat, now restless at the prospect of travelling to somewhere different with John. Before he could say anything, John could hear the distinct call announcing dinner from Grandma. He turned to look at John.

“I’ll be back, John,” he informs his brother, “It’s dinner time, and damn I’m suddenly hungry.”

“Well, good luck with Grandma’s cooking,” John said, now feeling pitiful towards Alan as he smiled at his brother.

“Nah, it’s Virge’s turn, thankfully,” Alan said, “He’s making some really nice curry tonight that he found somewhere in Dad’s old cookbooks! Oh god it smells delicious! I gotta dash, John, talk later, bye!”

“Bye, Alan,” John waved just as Alan disconnected the coms. Getting up quickly to pour away the remains of his now cold cup of coffee, he sat back at his workstation, pulling up a message window, and typed requested some time off with Alan from Scott.

***

There was fire everywhere. Heat rumbled in his ears as metal cracked and splintered below his feet, flakes of wiring and globs of plastic dripped ahead of him as he carried his injured brother out from the rapidly collapsing space station, his arm around his neck.

John struggled for breath in his helmet as he helped Alan navigate the flaming remains of the wreckage, the oxygen that the failing life support provided was already being eaten up by greedy flames that continued to roar for more. The two Tracy’s were familiar with the danger around them and practised many times over the course of their careers to make miracle escapes, yet despite their almost divine-like lucky streak, the disappearance of their father for many years have properly ingrained in them that they too could not escape the threat of death.

“John?” Alan murmured as he quietly exited from unconsciousness, the wound from the heavy steel that struck the young astronaut from earlier in the rescue oozed blood, the crimson streaking visibly down his pale face alongside streams of sweat under his helmet.

“Yes, Alan?” John said, trying hard to give his brother a comforting expression as they shuffled through the deteriorating space station, “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“-m fine,” Alan grunted as he looked at his brother through half-lidded eyes. Alan was not fine, John having the displeasure of witnessing a beam fall on his brother as they made their escape alongside the other members of the space station. Sharp, steel shrapnel sliced Alan’s skin as the station suddenly exploded, sending the youngest of the two brothers whizzing back, and John considered it a miracle that his baby brother wasn’t now blind in both eyes. “-at happened?”

John’s soft smile faltered as he heard Alan’s speech slur, Alan delirious from his sudden, violent impact onto the floor and the smog that choked his lungs. John had the displeasure to witness Alan’s slip out of consciousness, minutes before he struggled to get Alan’s helmet on as he breathed heavily within his own.

“You got caught in a blast,” he replied shortly, turning his attention to the path before him, “Some metal shrapnel scraped your skin pretty bad. It’s a miracle you only got away with that scratch.”

“Oof,” Alan commented, and John struggled to swallow the urge to scold him right there and then. What Alan did there was reckless, staying seconds longer at that malfunctioning console then John had advised him to, he didn’t need to be the one who had to man the console, he…

John shook the intrusive thoughts as he grunted audibly, mustering the extra energy he needed to push forward, his muscles screaming from the previous aches of having to pry open functionless doors and pushing away obstructing debris. He turned to check on Alan again, his eyes still half-open, unfocused as he kept his gaze looking at the floor before them.

“How far are we to Thunderbird Three?”

“Not far,” John answered, just able to see the airlock they used to board the space station past another set of doors, relieved that the glass has been damaged to the point of shattering thanks to the surrounding heat. He breathed in a deep breath, the air in his helmet stale and hot while the muscles in his legs ached. When he had managed to reach the sanctuary of Thunderbird Five, he had to revise his own exercise routine to work more on his leg muscles, he thought to himself.

“We’re close now, Alan, just hold on tight, okay?” John said. Alan's only response was a grunt of acknowledgement, and John wondered if his words were meant to console his younger brother or himself. They both continued to trudge towards and through the broken glass of the last door dividing them between certain death and salvation, John helping Alan through the jaded glass, anxiety choked him at the idea of even a small bit of glass scratching through the fragile material of Alan’s spacesuit.

“-Mmm we there yet?” Alan said, and John uttered a quick ‘yes’ as he again draped Alan’s arm around him. They were so close. So so close.

“There you are!” one of the astronauts said, and John ignored their impatient glare as he quickly typed Thunderbird Three’s access code, exhaling the tense breath he unconsciously held as the access hatch opened up invitingly. John gestured with a quick nod of his head, an invitation for the scientists to follow him into the rocket before quickly shuffling inside with his brother, heading towards the cockpit.

“Easy does it now,” he muttered, lowering Alan gently into his seat, taking off Alan’s helmet to allow him some semblance of fresh air. Alan gasped deeply, and then coughed as John quickly checked his wound. The gash was noticeable, yes, and he feared that it was too deep to be properly taken care of while in space.

“-m gonna be okay, John,” Alan huffed, and he lightly swatted John’s hand away in annoyance, “You’re as bad as Scott,”

“It’s a good thing that the other astronauts don’t have any injuries,” John thought to himself, annoyed that Alan was acting so childish despite being injured. He reached for the First Aid Kit that was located in a compartment that was snugly under the dashboard, quickly taking out a padded gauze and antiseptic, before disinfecting Alan’s wound, the youngest hissing in response.

“John, we don’t have time for this,” Alan said as he again swatted John’s hand away from him, “We need to go, the station is about to blow,”

“Alan, please I need to take care of it now,” John warned, pouring a small amount of antiseptic onto the gauze before pressing it onto Alan’s head, earning a loud hiss from the boy, reaching for tape in order to hold it in place, “You’re bleeding, and I cannot take the risk of it getting infected,”

Alan replied with nothing, too tired to put up anything other than weak grumbles and hisses as the antiseptic made contact with exposed flesh. John quickly patted the tape down on skin before dashing into his own chair, settling down and making sure he was secure before reaching over the controls, undocking Thunderbird Three from the faltering space station before departing, engines blasting in full throttle to ensure they didn’t blow up alongside the inevitable bomb beside them.

They were a few minutes in their flight back to Earth when Alan’s vision as someone cleared up, his eyes picking up the low rumble of Thunderbird Three’s rockets and the astronauts quietly muttering amongst themselves. He closed his eyes. Over the course of his rescuing career, he learned to appreciate moments of stillness and rest; though the rush of adrenaline of brushing against death was an addictive, thrill-seeking activity he couldn’t get enough of, the aftermath was less pleasant, and he still remembers the numerous injuries he had gotten as consequence for not allowing his body to rest.

He turned to John, his older brother’s expression focused and serious, arms tense as his hands gripped the navigation controls tightly. Alan swore he could hear the fabric strain by how tight John’s grip was, and could see his jaw clench tightly - something he did during high moments of stress and anxiety.

“John, you okay?”

“I’m fine.” John suddenly snapped, looking at with sad, angry eyes. Alan flinched, not used to John’s anger, the middle brother always being calm and detached emotionally to the point of numbness, almost like a machine, always listening and level-headed.

John noticed Alan’s flinching, and suddenly he shrunk with a guilty look on his face.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Alan,” he said, and Alan replied with a nod, “I just… I just thought you’d...”

“Hey, but I’m okay, I just got a bump, that’s all.”

“But it could have been worse.” John emphasised, looking away from his brother’s eyes and onto the scenery of space in front of him, “Even a tear in your suit could have been...”

“John, I’m fine, really.” Alan reassured his brother, and felt less tense as he saw John’s arms relax, “Honestly there’s no point in worrying about what if’s anymore. The mission is pretty much done and we can relax.”

“I know Alan, but I can’t help it.” John admits, swallowing nervously, “It’s a habit. You know how anxious I get, and just seeing you there unconscious… I know you’re more than capable of participating and even leading missions, Alan but… but no matter how many times you’ve been on missions I can’t help but worry.”

“I’m not a baby, John.” Alan fake pouts, and John laughs weakly.

“I know, but you’re my baby brother. That’ll never change.” John said, “and because you’re my baby brother, I don’t think I, or any of our family would stop worrying about you.”

“Yeah yeah, I get it.” Alan mumbles. The two brothers sat there while John continued to navigate them home.

“Hey, John?” Alan piqued up.

“Yes, Alan?”

“Thank you for rescuing me back there.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Please, don’t tell Scott.”

“I don’t think that’s non-negotiable.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” John laughed, “If he saw you getting injured in the report before I had the chance to tell him, it’ll be my life on the line next. Unless you can save me, of course.”

“I don’t think even International Rescue can save you from the wrath of Scott going all Mom-Mode.” Alan joked, and John couldn’t resist the urge to let out a humorous, warm chuckle.

***

“John, can you tell me what mom was like?”

John looked up from the tablet he was reading to see Alan’s blue eyes peer into his own, his face half-obscured by shadows cast from the setting tropical sun, blue skies turning a gradient of rich red and orange. He tapped the power button of the tablet off before he put it down on the coffee table in front of him, allowing the spaceman to turn to his youngest brother.

The topic of their mother came up numerous times over the course of Alan growing up. She passed on too early in his life for Alan to remember her, only able to build an image of her in his head through pictures and old recordings that the family had kept safely throughout the years, still only able to daydream holidays with her, memories too young to properly remember the real, organic sound of her delighted laughs echoing in the small rooms of the ranch house they used to live in. John could only pass sympathy to Alan, him feeling as though he took for granted the moments he spent with his mother watching the stars twinkle at night from high, dusty hills, her shared enthusiasm for the stars and space and the beyond now echoed only by the telescope and old fashioned textbooks she silently left behind.

“Sure, Alan,” John replied to his brother’s inquiry, not brave enough to ask him why their mother had again sprung among the forefront of his mind. Alan predictably had a detached relationship with their mother, asking why his brother and father cried with such fervour around the time of her birthday and had looked at them with curiosity when a whiff of perfume from some passing stranger was sometimes all it took to make their eldest brother violently tear up. He felt sad with his mother’s passing, yes, but to him, it was more akin to losing out on something the other brothers shared so strongly. John understood empathised somewhat with this feeling; being the middle child meant that the time spent with his mother was not as fleeting like with Gordon and Alan, yet he was not so close with her as to feel the sizeable hole she left within her passing as she did with Scott and Virgil. A sweet spot he was awarded from the timing of his birth: one that allowed closeness with his mother, but also the distance in grieving when she passed.

“Well, she liked orchids and space, and enjoyed the smell of baked bread and the grass after he had rained-.” he started with practised cadence, the list of what their mom was like rehearsed through the many, many times Alan had repeated the question to him.

“Yeah, I know all of that.” Alan huffed, impatience getting to him from having listened to the same words over and over again, “I wanted to know what she was like when she had me.”

“Why the sudden curiosity?” John asked. Alan shifted in his stance.

“Well...” he said, now looking away at John in embarrassment as he reflexively rubbed the back of his neck, “My friend from my online class, Billy; his mom’s having another child, and that got me thinking...”

“About mom.” John finished, Alan sighed.

“Yeah.”

John grinned, amused at Alan’s sheepish behaviour. He nodded in reply and waited for Alan patiently as the younger brother made his way down the small steps into the circular lounge, sitting on the space next to the seasoned astronaut and waited for John to start with a patient gaze.

“When mom had you...” John started, closing his eyes momentarily to cast himself back into two decades ago, “I remembered there being the four of us at the time, of course. Gordon was always running around causing trouble in the house, mom trying to catch him while she was six months pregnant with you. I remember days where we helped her around the house whenever we could, mom too tired from having to take care of four sons while you were on the way. I uh, also remember some weird foods she had us pick up whenever we went into town with Dad.”

“Like what?”

“Pickled eggs, sometimes Hot Cheetos dipped in ice cream. I remember distinctly mom wanting nothing but imported durian for an entire month.”

Alan almost gagged at the list, John laughing gently at his reaction.

“That’s how I felt as well. Even the mention of durian still makes me a bit sick.”

“Yeah, yikes. Sorry, you had to endure that bro.”

“Unless you had direct control of mom’s cravings, you have nothing to be sorry for, Alan.”

“Well, not that I remember,” Alan said, and John raised an eyebrow, curious as to where this conversation was heading, “Unless of course, my alien baby instincts were controlling her the entire time!”

He positioned his index fingers around his canines, moving them around if they were mandibles as he made absurd sounds that John could do nothing but laugh at how ridiculous Alan was acting. Alan soon joined in, the two of them laughing in amusement before calming down to soft giggles.

“Haha, very funny, Alan,” John said, gathering his composure yet again, Alan grinning proudly at his joke. Silence drifted between them, John looking at his brother carefully as Alan thought of another question to ask him.

“John?”

“Yes, Alan?”

“How did mom react when she was told that she had me?” Alan asked, “I mean, having five boys does sound quite a handful.”

“Actually, mom wanted another son,” John recalled, and Alan looked at him with bewilderment, “You should have seen Dad’s reaction, however. Though he loves you dearly, I remember him hoping that we would have a sister instead. Gordon was especially pleased, as your arrival meant he would have someone to play with when Scott and Virgil were especially busy; Scott was just happy he’d soon have an excuse to get Gordon out of his hair.”

“What about you, John?” Alan asked him, and John shrugged.

“I don’t really remember what I thought,” he admitted, reflexively looking away at Alan for a bit as he tried to recall that particular memory, “I think I was just… indifferent.”

“Indifferent?”

“I think during that time, space was all I cared about, honestly.” he sighed, “I knew mom and dad wanted another child. It wasn’t exactly my place to protest, so I mostly kept quiet during mom’s pregnancy. Gordon was practically bragging to his friends about you, though, and I think both Scott and Virgil were happily anticipating your arrival as well.”

“Yeah…” Alan trailed off, John noticing Alan’s saddened expression.

“Alan.” John cautiously said, “What’s the matter?”

“I dunno.” Alan mumbled, giving John a half-hearted shrug, “I just...”

“What?”

“Dunno… disappointed that you didn’t really react much, I guess?”

“Oh.”

Silence again fell between the two brothers, tense emotions occupied the void left from the previous conversation. John looked away from Alan in embarrassment and shame, and Alan looked away in turn, the idea of staring at his b.

John suddenly chuckled to himself, Alan looked at him curiously.

“Why are you smiling, John?”

“I’ve just remembered something,” John said, looking up from the floor to meet Alan’s stare, “Something you used to do when mom and dad weren’t around.”

“What was it?” Alan asked, and John’s grin grew wider.

“Whenever I had a book out, about the stars, you’d always crawl up to me. Even when you were six or seven months old and Scott was too busy trying to get Gordon out of trouble you’d just sit next to me while I was reading. I think back then you thought I would read you a story there and then.”

“Did you read your science textbook to me when I was a baby?” Alan half-joked.

“Eventually.” John smiled, “You’d never leave me alone otherwise.”

“Haha wow,” Alan said, “Doubt I would have understood anything though.”

“That is true, but you were a diligent student when you weren’t drooling on the pages,” John said, fondly remembering helping an infant Alan trace the constellations in his book with his finger, a memory in which he still remembers fondly.

The two brothers continued to talk about tales from Alan’s infant years as the sun fully set and the moon rose in full, John recounting fond memories of messy dinners and sunny days out, and Alan listened intently, imagining them as his own.

“Hey, you two,” Scott’s said casually towards John and Alan, both of them interrupted by their vacation into nostalgia as they both turned to spot the eldest holding a cup of coffee and looking tired, no doubt still intending to get some work done before heading off into bed, “What are you guys doing?”

“Nothing much, Scott.” John answered before Alan did, “Just talking about some old memories with mom.”

“Well, don’t stay up too late, okay? Alan you need to get up to take that test tomorrow, and John-”

“Yes, Scott. No late-night projects. I understand.”

Scott gave the two of them a satisfied smile before he turned to walk off into the villa, the two brothers watching him until he left.

“You know, with Scotty around, it’s almost like mom never really left,” Alan said smugly, and John couldn’t help but laugh.

[astarion-dekarios]

Also 11 16 43

Took a little while to get to these because I ... got sidetracked on a research binge about physics for a part of one of the stories that turned out to be wholly irrelevant. Anyway: each of these is exactly 300 words and the first one is mildly risqué.

11. Morning kisses that are exchanged before either person opens their eyes, kissing blindly until their lips meet in a blissful encounter.

As Combeferre stirred, he was distinctly aware of a presence beside him. This was unusual. When they went to bed together, Enjolras woke with the dawn in summertime and several hours before it in the winter. Combeferre did not consider himself lazy, or a late sleeper, but he was disinclined to rise on an empty stomach when the bakery did not even open until eight o’clock. Hence, he was usually alone when he did so.

Without opening his eyes, he stretched out his arm to touch the presence in order to confirm. He was met with some resistance: a firm, muscled abdomen beneath a wrinkled linen shirt. One could never be too sure; good scientific practice demanded more data before he could draw a conclusion. Combeferre slipped his hand underneath the fabric, tracing his hand over a warm, soft thigh, a well-rounded bottom, a sharp hipbone. The low, melodic voice that called his name proved beyond all doubt that it was Enjolras.

He shifted closer, pressed a kiss to Enjolras’s skin and found his jawbone. Enjolras let out a puff of amusement, and Combeferre felt a very light pressure against his temple. He corrected his trajectory, tilted his head back, and tried again, this time catching Enjolras’s cheek. He felt Enjolras’s fingers in the back of his hair, positioning his head for him, and then the press of Enjolras’s lips to the corner of his own.

It was a minor adjustment only to bring their lips together, warm and soft and wonderful. However evident it was that he was allowed to kiss Enjolras, putting theory into practice never ceased to surprise and delight him.

He broke apart and his eyes fluttered open, taking in the fresh face in front of him.

“Good morning,” Enjolras said.

“It is that,” answered Combeferre.

16. One person pouting, only to have it removed by a kiss from the other person.

“—and so I told him that I had also replicated his more recent experiments with the rotating disk and needle, using silver, and have noticed that when the needle is held in place, it slows the rotation of the disk as well, and he told me he would be delighted to discuss all of it with me in more detail at a more appropriate venue, and asked where to address his invitation!”

Combeferre, at last, finished describing the lecture he had attended the previous evening, a story which had taken the past fifteen minutes to recount despite his breathless enthusiasm. Enjolras gave him a small smile. “I am glad for you. That sounds very exciting.”

A pause. Combeferre seemed expectant. “Arago means to call on me, or to invite me to dine with him! Arago! Enjolras, he is one of the most brilliant men of our age.”

“Yes,” said Enjolras, finally closing his book and setting it aside. “Why shouldn’t he? You are very talented.”

“You don’t understand.” Combeferre made a frustrated noise and his lips turned downwards into an expression that resembled a pout a great deal. “Or you think he is not really going to call on me, that he was only placating me because I was irritating him at the lecture.”

“No.” Enjolras stood, reached towards him, and took Combeferre by the shoulder. “I believe he will, and I understand perfectly well.” He pressed his lips to Combeferre’s and did not remove them until he felt a smile form on Combeferre’s lips. “But you are the most brilliant man of our age, and he’s more fortunate than you are if you are to dine together.”

Combeferre shook his head, clearly disbelieving, but the smile remained on his face, coupled with a pink color to his cheeks.

 43. A kiss pressed to the top of the head.

Their foreheads were pressed together, noses almost touching, and Combeferre had his hand to Enjolras’s cheek. It was a casual intimacy, nothing they had not done a thousand times before.

Yet when the door to Enjolras’s bedroom swung open, Combeferre sprang back as if burned, wide-eyed and terrified to witness Enjolras’s father in the doorway. At thirty years old, he felt himself a small frightened child. The concept of losing the esteem of this man for himself or worse, for Enjolras, felt somehow more horrifying than all his previous trials.

“Pardon.” Enjolras père retreated and closed the door.

Combeferre mustered his courage and sought him out moments after.

“There are no words—I cannot imagine, sir, what you must think of me. But allow me to try to explain.” He felt broken.

Enjolras père seemed unconcerned. “You and Michel are deeply and entirely devoted to one another. Is that right?”

This wasn’t a reaction Combeferre had prepared for, and it unsettled him. “Yes,” he said warily.

“Then what else is there to explain?”

He had no answer. That was the whole of it, but it had never been the end of it.

Enjolras père smiled a little. “You are Michel’s dearest companion, and I have seen well that you make him happier and gentler than I ever imagined he would be. I am grateful that his affections are not misplaced, and that you hold him as closely in your heart as he does you.”

It was too good to be true; Combeferre was full of fragile hope anyway. “You don’t think less of me?” His voice shook.

“My dear boy,” said Enjolras père, “I think of you as nothing less than my own son.” He kissed Combeferre tenderly on the top of his head.

Combeferre clung to him and wept.

[sergeanttpoliteness]

➹one love confession, please➹(peter b. parker x reader)

The sad and divorced man who’s become a regular for the past year is constantly spilling his emotions to you, his favorite bartender. This wasn’t something new; you can’t count with both of your hands the times you’ve heard someone recount the odyssey of their life. But these flutters in your stomach were definitely something you didn’t experience with your customers, and you definitely did not end up making out with them at the end of the night. Maybe Peter B. was your only exception, though.

(PART I)

word count: 12.3k (oof)

warnings: cursing, alcohol, and mentions of sex (let me know if i missed something!)

a/n: it’s five am where i live and this is already awfully long so i’m gonna make it as brief as i can. first, i’m sorry it took eight months, but at last, it’s here, and i’m so happy and proud of it ! thank you a million times for the amazing support this story got, seriously. second, this was also for @connorshero 1.6k followers writing challenge, and i can’t express enough how ashamed i am that it took so long lmao, i’m a clown. it’s here, tho, and i hope i hear your thoughts and that y’all enjoy it (:

taglist: @fanbase-jumper

Never in a million years would you have deemed possible a human could undergo through such a crushing feeling of dread, yet, sadly, you found yourself to be wrong, for there you were, a pressure smothering your lungs and an iciness washing over you. You never would have imagined yourself hiding in the bathroom from a certain Peter B. Parker, either; but then again, contrary to your previous thinking, there you sat on the closed toilet seat, your eyes squeezed shut, breathing heavily as a frostbite in your heart eclipsed any other thoughts in your head.

For the last few days, you had tried to repress a memory which physically pained you as you worked at the bar, almost as if it were nothing more than a bizarre dream you had one night, or a movie you watched as a little kid and couldn’t figure out as a grown-up whether it was real or not. It didn’t take long before in your restless little brain, that date did not exist in the calendar. So… strange, how all of sudden you couldn't remember anything from that night. Yeah, nothing happened. There’s no reason or possible explanation as to why you nearly dropped dead to the ground every time the entrance opened, or why your lower stomach erupted like a geyser refusing to rest whenever you caught a glimpse in the mirror of the bruises on your neck and, just maybe, somewhere in the back of your head, recalled how they came to be in the first place; how the small vessels burst, why they’re there. Your self-induced amnesia surprisingly worked. Yeah, like a charm. Until you looked up for the billionth time and it wasn’t another false alarm. The fortress of protection you constructed collapsed as if it took no effort to build it, because there he was— there stood Peter, just a few feet away from you.

Of course, you panicked; hysterically searched your surroundings for an excuse to leave, but no one wanted to bother you when you most needed it. Terrible luck, indeed. You only had two choices (although, really, you most likely had more): you could be, you know, smart and face your problems, or, Peter, to be more concise, or you could run away to hide and wait it out in the bathroom. So, after analyzing it thoroughly for approximately two seconds, what did you do?

Get the fuck out of there, obviously; you threw your towel, sped out of the bar, and instantly headed to have the meltdown of the century in the bathroom.

You screamed into your hands as you relived everything in your head, stomping your foot on the floor tiles. Remorse didn’t suffice anymore to explain the sharp pain in your stomach. You’d sabotaged yourself— you got a nip that night, a morsel of something greater, a catalyst for ‘what if’s and a total loss of self-control, because once the temporary high didn’t satiate you any longer, you’d seek it again. Regardless of your constant imbecility, you weren’t oblivious: it was nothing more than a distraction for Peter’s troubles and conflicting emotions over a woman he’d married, and it would never mean anything to him. It never would, despite how much it meant to you.

Suddenly, your phone vibrated in your pocket. You pulled it out, narrowed eyes reading the recent message while your heart went ballistic.

‘You can’t stay there forever, he’s starting to get suspicious.’

You breathed out, partially relieved. It was your friend. You texted him earlier as you lost it in the bathroom stall, as one does. You were close to getting on your knees and start praying to any superior entity that he was simply imagining stuff like most of the time, attempting to read in between the lines when, in reality, all Peter did was drink his whiskey served over ice, totally unconcerned. Yes, perhaps, you running away didn’t signify ‘subtle’, and the fact that you two hadn’t shared a word or texted ever since you fled his apartment a week prior didn’t brighten the situation at all. Why should it matter if you chose to continue escaping your issues? You could stay there forever, and it was no one’s business. The bar’s urine-scented bathroom could be your new home.

Your phone rang again. ‘Dude, c’mon.’

Goddammit.

Your friend shouldn’t have the power to knock some sense into you with just two messages, but he did anyway. You required an abundance of courage you did not carry to hesitantly walk out of the stall, and then the bathroom. You were sure your heart could hop out of your chest, as gruesome as it may have been, at any moment as Peter’s figure came closer and closer to you with each dreadful step you took. It wasn’t as dramatic in real life, most likely (most definitely). But as if you finally understood your situation, the charisma awakened from its sleep and, in an instant, you let out a disappointed ‘aw!’, replacing your terrified features with an exaggerated pout. “Oh, man! Somebody else already took your order? Unbelievable.”

He reacted as though he overheard the most unbelievable noise— a call from God itself or extraterrestrial life, because he could’ve gotten some whiplash by the way in which his head jerked up.

Peter cleared his throat, unsure of what to do with his hands as he showed you a tight-lipped smile. “Uh, hey! Hey…” He exclaimed and you winked at him. “I thought you weren’t here, or something.”

You thought for a moment. For real this time. You couldn’t say ‘I was just having a breakdown in the bathroom’. “Nah, my boss just needed my help… with stuff,” You waved your hand, aware that your boss had left an hour ago. He hummed and nodded, downing his shot. Wait. Your eyes returned to his glass when you fully took it in. It wasn’t whiskey served over ice.

You pointed at the empty drink in his grasp. “What’s that?” 

He glanced down at it, raising a brow. “What, you’ve never seen a shot of vodka?”

“No, no, I mean— yeah, but what the hell happened to your whiskey?”

Peter pressed his lips together, shrugging one shoulder. “I dunno, guess I just… got tired of it?”

The corner of your lips tugged down momentarily. “Ah, I see…” You distracted yourself with a glass, cleaning it despite its already pristine look. You just needed anything to focus on other than Peter. “This is so tragic, your whiskey days have come to an end.” You joked, laughing quietly and disguising the aching in your chest.

He tilted his head, quirking an eyebrow and grinning a confused smile. “What’s wrong with vodka?”

“It’s just… so boring.”

An incredulous grin stretched across his face. “More boring than whiskey?”

Your smile faded, a frown taking its place. “I… I’m guessing I had just grown used to it— I don’t know.”

For the first time in a whole year of weekly meetings and ongoing chatter, an uncomfortable silence sat amongst you two. And for the first time, too, you did not know what to say. “Y/N?” You looked up at him attentively, although you did not want to hear what he had to say at all.

Peter avoided your gaze, instead focusing on his lap, and opened his mouth, closing it when you couldn’t think up any words. “I think, uh… we gotta talk, right? About… y’know.” Your face heated up as red as a field of roses.

You laughed nervously, your hands on the bar as you slanted forward. “...About what?”

“Just, about what happened, and that thing you said the morning after—”

“Did I say anything the morning after?” You cut him off, wishing you’d stuck with your plan of moving into the bathroom.

To your horror, your biggest fear unfolded as Peter let out air through his nose, chuckling without humor.

“Are you gonna try to convince me it was a dream again?” You nearly passed out as Peter cited the words you so vividly remembered uttering. “‘You’re just dreaming?’” It all came back to you, everything— your forced memory loss received a fatal blow as memories bombarded your brain: Peter’s face twisted with puzzlement and sleep after you blurted out your utter nonsense and— how could you forget, oh God, how could you— the cherry on top, your uncomfortably intense five-second staring contest as you headed for the door and dashed out of his apartment.

“‘Wake up?’” He continued and you merely blinked back at him. He didn’t need to fucking quote you and remind you what a joke you were— who does that? But also, who tells the guy you just hooked up with that he’s dreaming after he caught you in the midst of trying to sneak out? B-B-Bingo! Of course, of course it had to be you out of all people.

You stood frozen, like you did that embarrassing morning, begging your head to stop it with the callbacks and breathing out. “What if it was a dream? You never know.” You said, unwilling to give up your idiocy. Peter stared at you, his lack of amusement terrifying you further.

“A dream.”

“Yeah.”

He rubbed his face. “Jesus Christ, Y/N—”

“What?”

“Stop acting like an idiot, please.”

“Peter, you literally could’ve brought up anything else other than this.” You hissed, exasperated. “Any other fucking thing.”

“I can’t not bring this up.”

“Well, why not? I surely can.”

“‘Cause it was weird.”

You grimaced and covered your face with your hands, muffling your words, “Oh my God, I know, I fucking know. What did you want me to do—”

“I don’t know, maybe just talk, you know!” He suggested with raised hands, the harsh sarcasm in his voice deepening your pained expression. “Wh-why did you even say that?! Like—”

“I didn’t want to be there! I just wanted to leave, okay?!” You admitted loudly, uncaring of your blatancy. When you didn’t hear him, your shaking hands slowly unveiled your face. A man two seats away eyed you two as he drank, while Peter stared at the counter with knitted brows, digesting what you said.

“Do you wish it had been a dream?” He asked quietly. You began to tap your finger, your lips shaping the words you wanted to speak, but didn’t exactly know how to.

“No. That’s not it, I…” You croaked out. You couldn’t continue when you noticed what you thought was a flourishing desire in his eyes which you saw that same night back at his place. Just say it. Your fingertips thudded the wood faster, your feet shifting, voice stuttering. Say you’d do it again.

“It was just a one-time thing, right?” You whispered. Then, you doubted if that lust had simply been a delusion your brain fabricated. That, perhaps, you yearned for something bigger so badly you’d projected your own silly cravings onto the man, for all trace of that weakening glimmer was now nothing more than the familiar amity the always held.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Right.” You breathed out.

“It was just a one-time thing.” He repeated as if it were obvious.

“Yes.” You both nodded, unable to look at each other straight in the eye without squirming. As soon as some clients called for you, you shared a last glance before you left. When you returned, all you found were some crumpled dollar bills and no sign of Peter.

You didn’t buy him a gift. And neither did he, but he did send you a message saying, ‘Merry Christmas!’, and there exists a possibility that you broke down crying whilst drunk because of the smiley face he wrote along with it, but that’s something you wouldn’t ever disclose— even if it happened one more time during New Year’s Eve as your head pounded with the people around you religiously blowing their party horns. That was it, though. You didn’t see him at the bar, which a part of you could only be thankful for, but the remaining kicked itself for not fixing things when you had the chance to. For not being honest when you could have.

Your friend yet again with his wisdom from the gods told you to stop wasting time and move on with your life, albeit not as kindly, as if saying it in such a way wasn’t hurtful enough. However, after being too sensitive for two seconds, you sucked it up and knew that he was right. 

You managed to keep Peter out of your thoughts most of the time, focusing on your job and getting additional money with your paintings to treat yourself. You could go out more with your friends, buy a new TV, maybe save for the vacation you’d been dreaming of for the past years. For some time, as there was no Peter in your head nor at the bar, it was just like before the man nearing his forties and with a really, really nice nose sat down in front of you.

You could only maintain him out of your orbit for so long, though.

You sat at another bar two blocks down your place, hunched over and your eyes glued on your cell phone’s screen, anticipation pulling imaginary strings connected to your fingers which fidgeted, tossed the device from hand to hand. Your friend was the fourth person you texted in the last thirty minutes, an act born from desperation, perhaps; created upon an urgency for an anchor, a quick fix that would momentarily patch up the heaviness in your chest that made an unwanted visit too many times to your liking and dissipate all the thoughts in your head. You needed something, a distraction, anything— hell, you’d even texted your boss, a known shopaholic, asking if she wanted to go shopping. But everyone appeared to be doing something that night, too engaged in their own affairs to remember you. It was selfish, you understood, to think that way; they had lives, after all. Nevertheless, that selfishness was a blemish you couldn’t vanish as the three dots emerged, followed by the exact same message you dreaded: ‘Can’t tonight, I’m with dad. What about tomorrow?’ There was no tomorrow, though. No, you ached for it right now, in that instant, something.

Peter.

No. You couldn’t. Another decline was a final blow you couldn’t withstand, anyway, especially from him. However, you weren’t the one making the decisions anymore. Your heart manipulated your limbs, and in a blur, you’d searched his contact. Too soon to your liking, you heard that tedious beeping, your heartbeat then the sole noise in your ears once it halted. All of a sudden, you couldn’t talk, your words lodged in your throat, because it was strange to hear that voice again and it was too much for you right now.

“Y/N? Are you there?” Peter said after you didn’t make the slightest sound, hesitance evident in his tone, for he wondered whether it’d been an accidental butt dial. You took in a big breath and pressed your phone closer to your ear, your elbows aching from the hard counter they rested upon.

“...Hi.” You scrunched up your nose, shaking your head at yourself.

“What… what’s up?” It was odd, you both knew, because when did you ever call each other, and when was the last time you two talked? But turning a blind eye to your friend’s advice, you itched to fulfill your own cravings that night— it didn’t really matter what kind, but just a friend was all you needed, just someone.

You stuttered for a while, internally grateful he remained silent and waited for you to clear your mind. “Nothing. That’s why I’m calling, I guess. Just wanted to talk.”

“To talk?” You could hear the engines of driving vehicles in the background and you frowned, scratching the back of your head.

“Sorry, are you busy? I didn’t mean to bother you. I can call another time—”

“No, no!” He stopped you, your heart growing wings, fluttering and capable of flying out of your chest with how gentle he sounded. “I just got done with something and I’m going back home, you don’t have to hang up.”

You hit the tip of your shoes against the bar, tense brows still not relaxing. “Oh, okay…”

“Are you at work?

“No, my shift ends at a normal time on Friday’s, thankfully.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I see— so you’re home alone and bored?”

You observed the place around you, focusing on the bartender and then on your drink. “Eh, not exactly.” You closed your hand into a fist, struggling to not dissect the skin around your nails like an animal in a biology class. “I know this is unusual, we never really talk outside of the bar and we haven’t seen each other in a while, but…”

“It’s kinda our first phone call, isn’t it?”

You smiled, your lip trembling. “Y-Yeah. Our first phone call.” You almost cursed when your voice wavered.

“Hey, you alright?” 

You sighed, scratching your head. “Not gonna lie, I’ve been better.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“It’s stupid, I don’t know.  It’s a Friday night— everyone’s out having a good time, and I’m just… here, in a bar and on my own.” You shrugged, your nails carving the timber.

“It’s not stupid.” He murmured and you snorted, unconvinced. “If it makes you feel any less alone, I’m not exactly out partying and having a good time, either.”

“Do you even still party, grandpa?”

“Just ‘cause I’m old, it doesn’t mean I still haven’t got the moves.”

“It definitely sounds like you don’t.”

“Don’t sound so sure, you haven’t seen me at my best.” Seeing him wasn’t necessary, you could easily imagine his teasing grin.

“Hm, yeah, I’d immediately take off my clothes if you pretended to lasso me at the club.” You both giggled and you hugged yourself, glancing at the empty stool beside you, biting the inside of your cheek. “Do you maybe want to come and have a drink with me?” You shot your shot, to your thumping heart’s dismay. Guessing by the click you distinguished, he probably just got back home.

“...Have a drink with you?”

“J-Just to hangout, you know.” You quickly explained. “Chat for a while. I can pay, if you want.”

You waited for a response, a rejection. But it didn’t come.

It was quite embarrassing, to say the least, that after he agreed and you hung up, you almost dropped your phone with how the fright weakened your arms as you tried to send him the bar’s address. You eagerly waited, too, like a damn puppy anticipating its owner’s return at the end of the day. Using your phone’s selfie camera, you checked your appearance, tidying up all just to make yourself look way more put together than you actually were, even if you were in a bar, alone, and, well, drinking. Despite your awaiting, though, you were taken off guard when a man chose to settle down beside you and cleared his throat.

“I gotta say, it’s weird to see you on the other side of the bar,” Peter smiled as a greeting. Your eyes scanned him, taking in his presence, struggling to process it as if he were a ghost. In your defense, it did feel as if he hadn’t been part of your world for the last two months.

You chuckled, shyly moving your view to your beverage. “Sorry, I won’t be playing bartender tonight.”

“Too bad, I like it when you give me free drinks.”

“Technically, you still are getting free drinks from me tonight.”

He huffed, a crooked smile lingering on his face. You called for the bartender and side-glanced at Peter, quietly asking what he wanted and biting back a disappointed grunt when it wasn’t whiskey served over ice. Whatever. It was just a drink. You two didn’t share a look after that small interaction, though, your face flustered, redder than the bartender’s awful and painful-to-look-at-from-how-bright-it-was shirt. You preferred to believe it was the alcohol, regardless of the truth that you hadn’t drunk that much yet. But your skin burned since he was there, and suddenly, the last disastrous meeting you two experienced replayed way too loudly in your head, the scorching sensation only spreading further and gaining more vigor with the possibility that it did the same in his, too. The unspoken and evident discomfort was enough to make you assume that it definitely was on his mind. 

You made the effort to spark up a conversation with the dreaded small talk. ‘How have you been?’, ‘Anything new?’, ‘The weather’s been pretty cold lately, huh?’— blah, blah, blah. Nonetheless, neither of you had more to say other than short, boring responses. It became so unbearable, you knew the only way you could get through this night— seeing as you couldn’t leave after he’d just gotten there— depended on your current and whoever many you could afford future drinks. Quite an alcoholic mindset, perhaps, but there was no way you were the only one or that Peter didn’t have the same wish as you.

Holding your third drink, tispy thoughts pressed you to climb out of the hell you were in. You turned your body to face him, nudging his leg with your foot. He’d been paying attention to a wildlife documentary and an animal hiding from its predator before he lifted an eyebrow and nodded at you. “What?”

“Where have you been?”

A crease formed between his brows as he found it hard to differentiate this question from the one you asked earlier. “I told you, I haven’t really been up to much—”

You shook your head. “That’s not what I asked. Where have you been?” Peter pursed his lips, contemplating.

“New York.”

You hummed, bringing your drink up to your lips. “Okay. So if you were here, how come I haven’t seen you since, uh—” You pretended to count in your head, tongue poking out of your mouth as you summed with your fingers. “—December?”

“I was busy.” You narrowed your eyes.

“I thought you hadn’t been up to much?”

“I… haven’t,” Peter said slowly, too far in to escape the contradiction. You bit your lip before finishing your half-empty drink all in one go, head spinning, the weight in your stomach drawing you down to the Earth’s core.

It’s difficult to perceive the line between overthinking and legitimacy. It’s so fine and faint, like a message written with chalk in the middle of the neighborhood’s road that can only be deciphered if you stare at it long and closely enough after the days have passed by and the rain showered upon it. On one side, the message was nothing more than scrawls and nonsensical letters, an unnecessary distraction on the road disrupting you from reaching your destination on time. But then, there was the other side: the truth. A truth that, funnily enough, you reached by overthinking in the first place. Which was what occurred when you suspected the reasoning behind the lack of Peter in your life could be pinpointed to the man purposefully avoiding you; and, right now, grasped that, after all, it wasn’t just another case of irrational overanalyzing. 

“Do you hate me?” You blurted out, your eyes going round with the disappearance of your filter. Confusion overflowed Peter’s head and spilled into his expression, adorning his face.

“Huh?”

“Do you hate me—”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time. Where the hell did that come from, though?”

“You’ve been ignoring me.” You stated the obvious, visibly hurt. Peter denied with his head the misconception, sighing.

“It wasn’t intentional.” He assured you not just with his words but his gaze, too. You pressed your lips together, not fully convinced.

“Was it not?” You asked with a small quirk of your mouth. He stared at you, embarrassment crawling across his skin.

“Alright, maybe it was.” He admitted sheepishly. You let out air through your nose, turning on your seat.

“So you do hate me.”

“Y/N,” Peter called for your attention, although he knew it was half-joke. You returned your attention to him. “If I hated you, would I be here, sitting next to you?” He questioned, motioning around him. You shrugged one shoulder, a grin growing on your face.

“I don’t know, maybe you’re just being nice.” You said and he groaned jokingly, sporting his very own lopsided grin.

“I’m being nice because I like you.”

Your smile fell for an instant, but you put the expression back up, reminding yourself that, once more, it didn’t go further than platonic. “Good. But you were mad, then.”

“No, not exactly.”

“You left without saying goodbye last time.”

Peter frowned, rubbing the nape of his neck. “I did. Sorry.” He apologized, the sincerity interlaced in his voice worsening your state. You wanted to place your hand on your chest, as you diagnosed with your zero quantity of medical knowledge that you had a high chance of having a heart attack before the night came to an end.

“I’m sorry, too.”

“Why?”

“Well,” You placed your chin on the palm of your hand, moving your eyes elsewhere. “First, for being a dumbass back when we hoo—”

“You know what? You’re fine.” He interrupted you. “Save yourself some time.”

Your brows snapped together. “But—”

“You were right. Let’s just not talk about it and move on, alright?” He waved his hand, grabbing his drink. “If you do talk about it, I think I’m actually gonna get up and leave.”

You laughed, nodding. “Ah, I see. So that’s why you’ve been ignoring me, then?”

His actions halted in the midst of taking a sip. “Maybe.” He answered vaguely.

You rolled your eyes. “You can’t just run away from your problems, Peter.” You pointed out like the hypocrite you were, particularly after that was exactly what you were doing not too long ago. Peter, unaware of this, however, had to admit you spoke the truth as he rubbed his nose with his knuckles, grumbling.

“You see, you say that, but I’m still gonna continue doing it.”

“No, you’re not, because we’re going to discuss this like adults—”

“As an adult, I’m telling you that all is good and I’m over it.” He finished with a warning tone you couldn’t take seriously and you giggled. “Next topic.” 

“Okay, grandpa. Sure thing. All is good.” You grinned, the ice in your heart melting off as he copied your countenance.

“For real this time.”

“Yeah. For real this time. Can I be honest with you, though?” Peter waited for you to go on, paying close attention, his gaze soft. You stared at him for a moment too long ‘till your eyes moved to your hand now feebly holding your empty drink. “I missed you. Kind of. Is that dumb?” You mumbled, your voice small.

You couldn’t properly see him, but through your peripheral vision, you didn’t catch any movement. That’s when you prepared to scream ‘sike!’ to his face— a real-life undo button to delete the emotions you couldn’t take back and shove down your system anymore. However, it felt… good. For once, it wasn’t spilling your guts out and regretting everything as you attempted to cram your organs back into you; you had plucked out a thorn that’d been hanging inside the palm of your hand for far too long. It was liberating. And you peered up at him, expecting that relief to be temporary, but his tender features didn’t let that happen.

“...No. I missed you, too.”

You both smiled.

The conversation began to flow. Words started to spill, and although you weren’t at the bar, you enjoyed that exact same security and blissful buzz. You realized then— a revelation that did not help your case— the location didn’t play an important role, and perhaps it never did; bar or not, if Peter was there, you’d still feel stupidly and overly content. Your worries faded away as you two caught up with no drop of MJ’s name, but some lingered anyway, because change was inevitable, looming over you. Laughter left your lips, his hand rested close to yours on the counter. You noticed, but couldn’t bring yourself to pull away, to walk away from the euphoria tainting your body. More liquor entered his, over time you stared at his mouth one, two, three, four seconds too long as you became intoxicated along with him, and so did he with yours.

“C’mon, tell me.” You pouted for an instant, interchanging it for a drunk smile. “Your secret dies with me.”

Peter slammed his fifth drink down, cheeks tinted pink. It was wrong, indeed, to take advantage of his condition and try to get out of him something you’d wanted to know for the longest time, and that he kept to himself as if it were government classified information. In your drunken brain, it did not seem too far off. Perhaps he went on outrageous underground missions. You laughed at yourself. Peter didn’t seem like a spy-type of guy. Unless…

“Do you, like, work for the government?” Peter screwed up his face at your absurdity.

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

Peter opened his mouth, a giggle escaping. “I can’t.” You dragged your stool closer to him, as you weren’t close enough already. Actually, when did you get so close? It didn’t matter. You analyzed his face, hoping that somehow, if you looked at him long enough, you’d gain the ability to read minds and crack into his. Peter drew his lower lip between his teeth, studying you like you were the most interesting being. You didn’t know why, but you felt tempted to move that strand of hair that always hung in front of his forehead away from his face. As any rational person wouldn’t, you did, your thumb brushing against the barely visible scratch that started the conversation in the first place.

“What are you thinking?” You questioned, brimming with interest. He went crossed-eyed as he tried to follow your hand.

“About stuff. Whatcha thinkin’?” He asked back, his view traveling down to your lips. You bit your lip.

The closeness, your full-blown pupils, the actuality that you could lean closer to him and you’d meet his lips. It all seemed too familiar. And so you wondered, if you did move and kiss him, if you stopped resisting and glanced down at his lips, too, what would happen?

“I don’t know. What does it look like I’m thinking?” You asked, lowering your voice. The stench of alcohol should have been enough to stop you both from advancing any further, but Peter licked his lips, smirking.

“It seems to me like you wanna fuck me.”

You gasped, hiccuping. “Oh, my! I didn’t know this part of yours, Peter B. Parker. Is it just the alcohol speaking?”

“Maybe. But is it true?”

“What?”

“What I said.”

Your upper body swayed closer to him, tired, dizzy, and wishing to lie down. You gripped his shoulder and helped yourself add some distance, your other hand landing on his knee. “Maybe.” You simply said. Your eyes remained interlocked into one another, your hand running up his shoulder to his neck, and then all the way up to the back of his head, sensing his goosebumps. “Maybe…” You repeated as your touch on his knee traveled up his thigh. Peter took in a sharp breath, his hand unconsciously wrapping around your wrist.

You couldn’t help it anymore. You leaned in and captured his mouth in a rough kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck. Pull away, a voice said in your head as you felt his tongue momentarily slide against your bottom lip. Pull away, the nagging voice went on and you did, shaking your head.

“I told myself I wouldn’t let this happen again.” You whispered, yet your mouth came back into a messy kiss, even messier hands craving touch. Breaking glass startled you two apart and you looked down, sighing when you saw your drink’s contents all over the ground. “You owe me a drink.” You panted, your lips swollen.

Peter scoffed, his half-smile blurring your vision as he tilted his head towards your ear. “Nothing has to happen if you don’t want it to.” He said, mouth ghosting near your cheek despite his words, yearning to continue. You pecked his jaw, lips resting against his hot skin, careless about the other customers in the bar.

“I do want something to happen, though.”

You both ignored the conversation your sober selves had. ‘It was just a one-time thing, right?’. Peter slammed your apartment’s door closed whilst your lips were still connected, your hands clumsily coming down to try to unbuckle his belt. ‘Yeah’. His own hands aided yours, the clinking of his belt buckle speeding up your heartbeat as if it weren’t already dangerously fast. ‘It was just a one-time thing’. Peter groaned into your mouth, tasting like liquor, like something you’d both regret the next morning but did not care about the consequences, even if it was a lesson you’d already learned. Not at the moment.

But nothing happened.

You couldn’t recall much the next morning. The first proof that it didn’t go further from a make-out session was that you woke up in your bed, alone, and wearing the same clothes as the previous night. The second evidence you gathered when you barged into your living room and there slept Peter on your couch, his appearance also identical to the one in your hazy memories. He didn’t remember anything. As you struggled to cease your trembling legs, he simply laughed and asked if he got so wasted he had to crash at your place. You shrugged and smiled, still capable of tasting his lips and vividly feel his hot breath.

From then on, you avoided drinking or being too exhausted to have any common sense when you were around Peter. One day he invited you to go out and have a few drinks again, to ‘repay’ you, and to which you responded as calmly as you could that you had other ‘plans’; other plans that, truthfully, were faker than the disappointed expression of yours that followed. Then, as if you couldn’t ever reach a state of peace, he asked again a month later, and you had no other choice than to invent a faulty reason for why you didn’t feel like drinking that night, the next night, or the one after, even if, according to all the drunk stories you’d recounted to him in the past, you never really turned down a drink or the opportunity to get inebriated. Guilt poisoned you when he never brought up the idea after that, fingers crossed that he didn’t get the impression you didn’t want to meet him in other circumstances other than the bar; regardless that that’s exactly what was going on. Every other night after he helped you with closing the bar, you’d also nod goodbye at him and stand in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting until he turned around the corner so your feet could dreadfully carry you to the subway station, your now-unfixable car present in your head like an aggravating piece of gum that stuck to your shoe.

Nothing could be more vexing than this, though.

Eventually, you began to wonder. Perhaps, yet again, you were as weary as that time you slept with Peter, seeing as you couldn’t think straight, almost as if you’d suffered from a concussion and all your neurons died, to your utmost dismay. But there was a dissimilarity: the unfortunate detail that, unlike physical fatigue, mental exhaustion wouldn’t pack its bags and wave farewell after a night-long sleep. Not when immediately after you woke up, the same worries still found their home within your head. So your imagination took it as an initiative to force feelings and schemes onto you, ones which involved the stomach-churning plausibility that maybe, just maybe, Peter liked you back and you could happily come clean. You had to laugh. But then you really started to wonder.

You needed at least six reasons to follow through with it. First. He was the one who made a move months ago. Second. He wasn’t drunk. Third, you listed in your head, you kissed. Again. And, fourth, this time he might have been drunk, but if he did it both as a sober man and a drunk one, it had to mean something, right?

You were struggling to distinguish the line between overthinking and legitimacy again.

You went to work that day, decided, the fifth reason simply being that you couldn’t get him out of your head, but the sixth reason missing. A truck landing on you would probably do the job, you thought. You didn’t mean it whole-heartedly, of course. But, apparently, the universe didn’t know about sarcasm and how it worked since, an hour after the thought passed through your head, it sent you a nice little gift and Spider-Man just so happened to get in a fight near the bar and an actual truck broke through the walls of the pub.

“I can’t fucking believe a truck landed right here. This is why I hate living in this city so much,” You scoffed, holding a towel wrapped around ice up to your bruised forehead as you observed the gigantic hole where the truck happily invited itself into. Peter barely reacted to your comment, too focused on disinfecting the wound in your arm. You pulled the makeshift ice bag away from your head, screwing your eyes shut. “I’m starting to get a headache from how cold this is, can I—”

Peter grabbed your hand and forced it back up to your forehead, shaking his head and focusing again on your arm. “No, trust me, it will reduce the swelling.”

“Should I be worried that you know so much about injuries?”

“I’m just trying to help.”

You chewed on your bottom lip, looking down at your lap. “I know. Thanks.” You smiled, recalling the urgency in his voice after he called you, saying he’d seen what’d happened on the news. He moved on to the gauze and began to bandage your arm, making sure his movements were delicate lest he hurt you more. “I met Spider-Man, though. I think I can finally die in peace.” You caught the way the corner of his mouth lifted upward.

“Really? Did he apologize for almost killing you?” Peter grumbled, accepting the scissors you offered him to cut the cotton fabric. You released a huff of air, admittedly offended and immediately going to defend the masked superhero.

“He didn’t almost kill me, it was the other guy. Bad guys, you know? They’re everywhere.” He huffed. “He checked up on me and offered to take me to the hospital, though. Pretty cool guy.”

“And why didn’t you say yes?”

You contemplated his question. “Stranger danger.” You shrugged. Peter laughed softly, muttering ‘fair enough’. “It also wasn’t necessary. I didn’t want to interfere with his, uh… superhero duties…”

Peter’s eyebrows furrowed. “Isn’t making sure you’re okay part of his duties?”

“I guess, but I’m fine, it’s no biggie.”

“Y/N, you could have died.”

“But look at me,” You patted your torso, then holding your arms wide open. “I didn’t. You’re making it sound much worse than it actually was.” Peter ran his hand through his hair, exhaling tiredly.

“Whatever,” He said, hesitance showing through his eyes. “I just think the guy should be more careful. His job is to protect the people, not to… hurt them.”

You scowled playfully, kicking him lightly. “Dude, fuck off, don’t talk shit about him like that. He’s Spider-Man. Give the poor guy a break.” He didn’t say anything, though, stirring your concern as you realized he seemed off since he first arrived. “Are you okay?” You inquired, frowning.

Peter glanced up at you before rubbing his face. “Yeah. It’s just been a long day.”

“Every day is a long day when it comes to you, isn’t it?” You joked lightly, nudging him a second time. “You helped me, now let me help you. What’s up?”

He moved his head from one side to another. “You’re always helping me.” He said almost as an apology, smiling sadly. You smirked back, standing up from your seat next to him to jump over the bar. You grasped an empty shot glass, checking no small debris had made its way into for the sake of Peter’s health (now, that’d be a hell of a lawsuit) before you slid it towards him.

“It’s my job as your bartender.”

He peered down at the glass and then up at you. Chuckling defeatedly, he took ahold of it, and you read it as ‘ah, the hell with it’ as you reached for the bottle of vodka. “I fucked up.” He whispered while you poured the liquid.

You screwed the cap closed, your eyebrows lifting high. “How come?”

Peter placed his head in his hands, nose crinkling. “I, um… talked to MJ?” And just like that, your mood took a fall as well, an inaudible ‘oh’ fleeting past your lips. “It’s the first time we talked in a long time.”

“...And?” You asked anxiously, folding your arms across your chest. Peter clutched onto the shot of vodka, watching the liquid dangerously reach for the edge of the glass after he slowly tipped it.

“Well, she’s trying to move on.” Surprise crossed your face. “And I was so distraught by it for the rest of the day that I really fucked up at work.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“That maybe I should move on, too.”

Your arms fell down to your sides. Maybe you really did hit your head too harshly, you thought, as your body started to feel heavy and you had to support yourself on the bar, for all this information you were hearing at once was colliding against you more vigorously than the pieces of wood which fled towards you earlier. Swallowing to bring moisture to your throat, you continued with the million-dollar question pestering you.

“What’s stopping you?”

You regretted uttering the words, something you seemed to be doing too much to suit your taste as of lately. However, Peter, although the question troubled him the same way it did you, clasped his hands together and you studied him whilst he went through every thought in his head and through every feeling, seeking an explanation he himself needed to know as well. 

“I’m not sure if I want to. But I know that I have to.” He finally breathed out. You leaned forward, not satisfied, needing to hear more and more even if it’d hurt, because nothing was more vexing than this feeling. 

“But you love her,” You said matter-of-factly. Silence. Your heart pounded rapidly enough you could sense it in your head. “Right?” You asked, embarrassed by the apparent desperation in your tone.

“Huh?” Peter snapped out his thoughts, blinking up at you.

“You love Mary Jane?”

He bit his lip as he went back inside the isolated room of his brain after only just sneaking his head out, evidently growing stressed. “It’s okay,” You brought him back out, sacrificing your curiosity as you gently smiled at him. “You don’t have to answer.”

Peter exhaled thankfully, downing his shot. “What’d you wanna tell me earlier, anyway?” He asked expectantly, his voice scratchy from the liquor. Oh. Yeah, right. Plans might have changed an hour ago, yet for some reason, you still wanted to come clean to Peter. However, right now, after hearing about Mary Jane, you forgot about the sixth reason and remembered why you never did in the first place after all this time.

“Do you… want to go get a drink?” You cursed your imagination for not working when it was necessary. Peter’s forehead creased with astonishment as if he never thought he’d hear that sentence again (in his defense, though, it’s exactly what you were planning to do).

“You finally wanna go and get a drink?”

“Hey, just be glad I’m feeling like it.”

It was an understatement to express you were feeling like it.

You continued searching for that sixth reason for the next weeks, even if the entire world knew that after you found it, you’d keep your lips sealed. Your friend put your friendship at risk when, during your September lunch with your boss, he couldn’t resist but telling her about your ‘secret crush’, saying he simply did it for a third opinion, but neither of you gained no new eye-opening advice for your boss dragged on about how Peter could be ‘the one’, which honestly worked in scaring you away from the topic. One day after, as you couldn’t fall asleep, you deliberated the reasons why you should forget about Peter.

One. He’s your friend. Your really good friend. You liked him being your friend. He’s funny, a nerd, and you could talk to him forever, even if it was merely absolute nonsense. Two. He’s a lot older than you. Not that eight years mattered that much, but it could. You were just entering your thirties whilst he was nearing his forties. Even if he’d made it clear kids weren’t his cup of tea, he could change his mind. You weren’t ready to settle down yet, despite most people reminding you the clock was ticking and you should start considering it. 

Three. The iconic Mary Jane Watson. Peter’s ex-wife whom he loved dearly. He might have not talked about her since he mentioned the idea of moving on, but you knew it was easier said than done. If you opened up, he could shut you down and reveal he’s still in love with MJ. Or worse, if you two did wind up dating, he could decide to leave you for her. Four. Your friend helped you with the fourth one. He had yet to tell you about why he’s bruised most of the time. It admittedly awakened the cynicism in you, for it could be something which had the potential of putting you at risk, or get you killed. Plus, if he did not want to give you an explanation, it meant he didn’t trust you enough. 

Five. You couldn’t lose him. You already almost did. Your absurd crush could be the last straw and get rid of him for good. If that was the case, then you’d do anything to muffle your heart singing its love songs when he crossed your mind or simply stood in front of you. You’d do it, even if it’d hurt.

Again, you couldn’t come up with a sixth reason. You established, then, that whichever reason you uncovered first, would be the final word. Your friend knew both a sixth reason for why you shouldn’t forget about Peter and why you should that, trying not to influence you any further, he kept to himself; it being clear in his head which one he hoped you’d find first.

It was another Friday night. You’d just returned home after wasting your money on some restaurant that definitely was not worth the price (goddamn New York) when your phone blared its ringtone in your pocket. Your heart clenched as you read the name and were about to answer immediately, until you stopped yourself. Counting eight seconds in your head, your thumb slid across the screen after you got to the last number and picked up the call. “Peter?” You were audibly and justifiably perplexed— why has he calling you at… you checked the time— ten P.M,? It may have not been the first one anymore, but phone calls were still a rare occurrence between you two.

“Hey! Are you busy?” His breathing was heavy, which made you wonder what he possibly could’ve been up to before he called you.

You opened your apartment’s door and blindly searched for the light switch. “No, I just got back home, actually.” You muttered, and then voiced a victorious exclamation when the room lit up in front of your eyes. “Why?”

He inhaled profoundly. “Cool. Great. Yeah.”

You guessed the barely distinguishable quiver in his voice could be defined as uneasiness as you sat down on your couch’s armrest, squinting.

“Is everything okay?”

“...Yeah. Yeah!” He repeated, firstly too quietly but now with faux confidence. “I needed to talk to you.”

Ah, hell. You had one important question and one only: when would you get a break from confrontation and those words? The last time you and Peter ‘needed to talk’ didn’t exactly go as smoothly. That in mind, your organs plummeted down into an expanding black hole in your stomach as you brought your fingers up to your lips. “I’m all ears, as always.” No, not really, but you didn’t exactly have any other choice.

“Okay, okay. Um, I, uh… what am I doing?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“I wanna say sorry in advance.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

You could solely hear what sounded like wind. “You’re not gonna believe me, so just, just look outside your window.”

The black hole having devoured the contents in your system, you raised to your feet and sped to the window, not capable of painting in your head a single picture of what in the heavens the man could be planning. You unlatched the lock and glided the window upward, your head gradually peering out. Your eyes went as big and round as the full moon glowing above you when you saw it.

You stared dumbfounded, close to pinching yourself to do a reality check. It had to be a dream. A strange dream. There was just no way. No fucking way, it was absolutely impossible. It was beyond the innumerable existing possibilities that Spider-Man looked back at you, stuck against the wall. Similar to someone’s lack of subtlety, it couldn’t have been any more evident. You didn’t even need a big brain or to think, to analyze deeply as if it were a riddle in a newspaper. Because it was just right there in front of you, plainly obvious and transforming your blood into ice: the phone he held up to his face.

“Hi…” Said the masked hero. And so did Peter through the phone call.

Your phone slipped from your grasp, yet you didn’t glance down at it. You continued to gawk at the man as he flicked his wrist and saved not only your phone, but simultaneously also your bank account from having to spend hundreds of dollars on a new one. You did not mutter a thanks, let out no relieved sigh when he gave it back to you. You just stared.

“I know I’m pretty cool to look at, but can you please say something?” He laughed nervously. Ignoring him, you took a step back and retreated your head, eyes close to falling out of their sockets. The phone in your shaky hands rang a second time and you answered without needing to look at the contact.

“H-Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Peter, what the fuck.”

“I’ve done this so many times but I still don’t know what to say.” He groaned to himself. You put your hand on top of your head, disbelieving.

“Get in.” You abruptly ended the call and plopped down on your couch, clutching your stomach, blinking furiously after black dots uncontrollably twirled in your vision. You heard a thump, the floor shaking slightly; however, you didn’t turn around to look at your guest, instead focusing on the wall in front of you. It wasn’t until the cushion beside you sank with the man’s weight that you blew up. “Holy shit.” You cupped your face with your hands, laughing out of pure shock. “Holy shit… holy shit!”

“Don’t freak out.”

“How am I not supposed to freak out?!”

Peter— Spider-Man shrugged, his white lenses wide. “I don’t… I don’t know.” He admitted.

You scanned his mask, the mask you’d become familiar with after seeing it so many times on TV and pictures. Somehow, however, regardless if you knew that mask and the person behind it, you couldn’t believe its authenticity. “Take off the mask.” He didn’t move or respond. “Please.” You begged.

You first saw the stubble. Then his lips. Then his crooked nose, and soon, those eyes. The whiskey eyes. Peter’s whiskey eyes. Your hands wound up on his broad shoulders, and for some reason you yourself couldn’t work out, it just dawned upon you how muscular they were. Your eyes came back to his face. Yeah, that’s Peter. That’s Peter B. Parker. Peter Parker was Spider-Man. All the revelations crashed against you quick, glass shattering in your head, everything suddenly making sense. The bruises. His constant fatigue. Everything.

“Peter… oh my God.”

“I know I-I kept this from you for a really long time, and I know it’s hard to fully digest it, but I did promise I was gonna tell you one day.” He said, the corner of his lips twitching. But you weren’t smiling— all the terrible fights you’d watched on the news throughout the years flashed in your head, going all the way back in time to when you first discovered Queens’ brand-new superhero as a seven-year-old.

You gasped, covering your mouth. “You’re telling me you’ve been at this since you were a fucking kid?”

Peter let his mask drop to the carpeted ground, his back sliding down the sofa’s backrest. “Since I was fifteen, yeah.”

“Peter…”

He grimaced at your concern. “I know it sounds sad, but it’s not… it’s not that bad.” He promised you, but you couldn’t take him seriously. You picked up your legs, sitting cross-legged and playing with your fingers as you continued to go through your racing questions.

“I used to look up to you when I was little.” You revealed quietly. Peter scoffed, grinning playfully. 

“What, you don’t anymore?”

You shook your head vigorously. “I do. Shit, I still do. I never thought I’d meet my childhood hero the way I did, though.”

“Sorry I’m just a sad, old man.”

You rolled your eyes, prodding him with your elbow. “You’re so much more than that.” All humor fled his expression and he shut his eyes, throwing his head back. 

“Am I? I constantly feel like I’m letting everyone down.” He huffed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he spoke. There it was, of course; he couldn’t talk about Spider-Man in a non-degrading way.

“You’re fucking Spider-Man!” You exclaimed, not accepting his utter bullshit, but he was willing to accept it as he peeked one eye open to look at you.

“I know, you always say that.”

You gave up in trying to change his mind and shifted closer to him, copying his position, unable to focus on your view of the boring, mundane ceiling; so you turned your head to see Peter getting lost in the white square. “You really didn’t have to tell me. This is a big secret.”

“It’s alright. I trust you.” You were glad he kept staring up as you felt the blood rush to your face.

“You do?” You asked, your chest warm, illuminated with glee. Peter glanced at you, nodding nonchalantly.

“I mean, yeah. I really do.”

You turned your face away from him, your muscles close to tearing from how big and proudly you grinned. “Spider-Man trusts me.” You hushed to yourself.

Peter breathed out, exasperated, his eyes fluttering closed again. “Stop.” He pleaded, laughing himself nonetheless. You bit your smile back, moving to sit straight in what your friend liked to call your ‘parent worried about their kid’ sitting position. 

“I guess I was right for worrying, huh?” You smiled sadly, taking in the severity of the situation. He poked his cheek with his tongue, shaking his head.

“I don’t want you to worry.” He sighed. You snorted.

“That’s dumb. You’re saying you’re always putting your life on the line? Of course I’m gonna worry.”

“Well, I worry about you, too.”

“How come?”

“If you’re close to me, then you’re putting your life on the line as well.”

You frowned, squeezing his arm to comfort him. “No, don’t say that.”

“Y/N, it’s the truth, though.” He fully sat up to turn toward you, his eyebrows furrowed. “It’s the worst thing about this. How many times have the people I care about gotten hurt? All ‘cause of me?”

You remained speechless. Moments later, he placed his hands flat against the sofa, preparing to stand up. “Y’know, I get it if you want to keep your distance from now on. I actually think it’d be a good—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” You warned him, expression stern. “It’s stupid.”

“I almost got you killed that other time—”

“You didn’t almost get me fucking killed, for Christ’s sake!” 

Peter’s jaw tightened and he ran his hands through his hair, that strand of hair falling back in front of his forehead. “Whatever. You can’t be so sure, anyway.”

You pressed your lips together, knowing that he was right. You nervously placed your hand on top of his. “Can I hug you?” You asked like a child, giving him a half-smile. Peter looked down at your hand before his eyes moved to you.

“Sure. Y-Yeah.” 

You wrapped your arms around him, hugging him hard, your eyes squeezing shut. You felt him slowly embrace your waist, scared of  underestimating his strength. “I’m glad you told me. It must have been really hard.” You murmured against his chest. He chuckled humorlessly, his cheek on top of your head.

“You have no idea.”

“I’m gonna be here for you no matter what, okay? Whether it’s to vent or for some weird spider shit. I…” Love you. “You’re my friend, dude.”

After he left that night, you’d never been more conflicted about your feelings. It was a conundrum; a whole headache-inducing brain-teaser. You’d striked out the fourth reason why you should forget about Peter, the original five down to only four, but you still searched for that sixth— now fifth reason. As if it didn’t scramble your brain enough that it left you dazed and your thoughts impossible untangle, Peter unknowingly joined the game with the objective of rattling you up more. 

You noticed he didn’t disappear without notice ever again, and if he did, he didn’t leave you hanging, rather he sent you a text the day after with an entire clarification. Then, you caught onto the increasing meter of his touchiness: new and unexpected hugs, holding your damn hand— although that only happened twice, but still. Your overdramatic friend didn’t even need to point it out. 

One Saturday, he sat down in front of you, and before you could greet him, he surprised you. “One whiskey served over ice, please.” He smirked. You gaped at him, laughing, face astonished.

“What’s up with that?” He shrugged, grin never disappearing.

“I dunno, I guess I missed it.”

You never thought you’d continue hearing ‘one whiskey served over ice, please’ ever again. But you did.

This year, you did give him a present for Hanukkah and Christmas. A painting of one of your favorite photos of his that he showed you one day; a day you so vividly recalled, for he asked you to come with him to take pictures of an exhibition at a museum, and you accidentally broke a statue after you leaned against it in the attempt of doing an extravagant pose. To your surprise, he gave you one, too: a photo album with pictures from that day, and a message that read, ‘Merry Christmas!’, accompanied by a smiley face. In the blink of an eye, it was New Year’s Eve again, except that this time, you and Peter were talking.

You came out of the party’s bathroom, unable to tear your gaze away for the fourth time from Peter’s New Year’s Eve message, until you bumped into someone and had to force yourself to pocket your phone. You lazily swayed to the music, your vision blurring out, turning it harder to find your friend amidst the people. While your body was there, all your five senses working perfectly, feeling the heat from the enclosed space, the music vibrating in your chest, the smell of alcohol and smoke fixed in your nostrils, your mind lived in December 20th. December 20th being last Monday: a date that continued to echo in your head, the entirety of the day playing from the beginning until the pitch-black hour of midnight. It played, played, played relentlessly, exhaustingly. December 20th, it continued, a stupid date that your drunk self could not let go of.

You distinguished your friend in the crowd, comfort kissing your body and your tired legs guiding you to him, until you moved a person aside and saw the full view of his lower body grinding against a girl all over him. “Ah, fucking gross,” You groaned, pushing the unlucky same guy as you took a turn and headed for the glass door leading out to the balcony.

You firstly bumped into the door thinking it was open, but successfully slid it open and made it out into the winter weather, the city more awake than ever twenty minutes before the New Year. But you weren’t focusing on the future. No, you held onto last Monday, gripping it so tightly it hurt, hanging onto it as if you’d be nothing once it left. You stumbled towards the bench to your left, falling defeated on it. December 20th. You turned on your phone, squinting down at the screen, eyes struggling to focus through the brightness. Last week. You opened your contacts and without hesitation called a number, bringing your phone up to your ear, humming along to the beeping whilst you awaited for the person to pick up.

“Hello?” Peter said. You hung up, eyes wide. What the fuck were you doing? You didn’t answer your own question, though; you pressed the button to call again. 

“...Hi?” 

You ended the call a second time, growing frustrated with yourself. Having finally made up your mind, you called him one last time, jumping when he answered in what appeared a worldwide record-time. “Y/N, what the fuck—”

“Peter! You answered.”

There was a short silence. “I did.” He agreed, undeniably puzzled. You slumped against the wall, muffling your dopey laughter with the palm of your hand. You could hear… ah, wait. You could see, not hear, his face in your head with no problem: his furrowed brows and narrowed eyes.

“How are you?” You wanted to hear about his day. What had he eaten that day? What had crossed his mind? Hopefully you’d made an appearance at least once. That’d be nice.

“I’m good, thanks for asking.”  You hummed happily. “How drunk are you?” 

You shook your head, failing at rubbing the haziness out of your eyes. “Just a bit tipsy, maybe.”

“How much exactly is ‘a bit tipsy’ for you?”

“How many phone calls have we had?”

A question out of the blue, you knew, and you were expecting yet again the quietness as he processed your sudden need to quiz him about such insignificant rubbish. Well… did he think it was insignificant? So many questions bouncing off your skull all at once, worsening that awful migraine you could already feel coming… or was it the booze? No, who cares. All you cared about at the moment was his response, because knowing how many fucking phone calls you’ve had wasn’t that hard unless you didn’t care.

“What?” Really? He was going to make you repeat yourself? You dug the heel of the palm into your closed eye, white fireworks blowing up in the darkness behind your eyelids.

“Like, for these past two years. How many phone calls?”

“I… don’t know, maybe like three?”

Your face fell ever so slightly. “It’s six, actually.” You heard an unenthusiastic gasp.

“Wow, that’s great.”

“Do you remember the sixth one?”

“Isn’t this the sixth one?”

“This is the seventh one.”

“Okay, and why are you giving me a class about how many phone calls we’ve had?”

“Because you don’t remember the sixth one. I’m sure you don’t even remember the fifth one that well.”

He remained quiet for a moment. “It’s a blur.” Peter murmured.

“You were drunk…” You shut both eyes now, trying to dig through the fog to recall. “It was after you came to the bar…” Peter’s embarrassed stutters, similar to his inebriated ones, helped to uncover the memory further. 

“I-I was drunk, yeah,” He admitted, “just like you are right now.”

“And what did you say?”

He laughed uncomfortably. “I think you remember better than I do.”

You grinned. “You’re embarrassed.”

“Of course I’m embarrassed, Y/N.”

“Well, what about the sixth time you called me?”

“I seriously can’t remember a sixth time.”

“It wasn’t a failed booty call.”

He breathed in harshly. “Ah, I’m glad, I guess.”

A frown took over your features. “You really can’t remember?” You needed him to. He had to. Or else...  or else…

“I swear on my aunt.”

Your heart shattered, the sharp pieces prodding and hurting your chest. “So… so I guess you didn’t mean what you said?” You mumbled to yourself, realization sobering you more than you wanted it to.

Peter couldn’t help but begin to panic a bit at the mention of expressing something without his knowledge, or at least without his not drunk self’s knowledge. You immediately grew conscious of it for this time, the silence was different. “...What did I say?” He questioned, somewhat afraid. You didn’t speak. “Y/N? What did I say?” He pushed more urgently.

“It doesn’t matter,” You changed your mind. Calling was just another bad idea. You took your phone away from your ear for a second, jumping off from your seat, but your foot accidentally knocked over your drink. You stared down at the growing pool of alcohol staining the floor, seeping underneath your shoe. Blinking, you looked at your phone, at Peter’s name, and the numbers of the counter below it rising, marking each of your thumping heartbeat. 

The sixth reason. You needed it to stop you right now; an instruction to back out, the reassurance that it was still an option and it didn’t stop being one long ago. But as your finger came down to end the call for the better, your head screamed, freezing you.

Sixth. You were in love with Peter Parker.

You dropped back down on the bench, eyes glazed over. That was it. The sixth reason. Peter. The man nearing his forties and with the loveliest messed up nose. The customer you met last year and that continued to come to bar you worked at just to talk to you, his bartender. The guy you laughed with, sang with, slept with, became too close with, fell in love with. You put the phone back up to its right place, anxiously licking your lips. “Look, I’m gonna regret this. I know I am. But that hasn’t stopped me in the past, so why should it now, right?” You chuckled, your eyes wide. 

“I’m really concerned about that phone call, though.”

“Peter,” You glanced up at the sky, gulping. “I’m so glad I met you. I really am.”

“I-I’m glad I met you, too.”

You smiled momentarily. “Good. Working at the bar had become such a pain in the ass, and it still kinda is, but then you came that first time, and you called me ‘kid’ which annoyed me, but I was still hoping that maybe you’d stay, you know?”

“Why?”

“Because…” Your free hand came up to aid the other which trembled too much, grasping it tightly. “I don’t know, it was weird, I just couldn’t… I-I really wanted to get to know you. And it took some time but eventually we did talk— you said that stupid pick-up line and somehow it worked. I really need to higher my standards.”

“Hey, it was a great pick-up line.”

“It really wasn’t.”

“You gave me your number, didn’t you?”

The corner of your mouth twitched upward, and you laughed softly at yourself. “I did, I did. And I’m glad I did, even if you were just trying to get your mind off of MJ.” The truth stung as it glided out of your mouth.

Peter thought for a moment before continuing, “Maybe I just wanted a friend.” But it lacked sincerity, and you both could recognize that.

“But, Pete,” You bit your lip, looking down at the mess you’d left on the ground, the sole of your shoe now sticky. “Am I really just a friend?”

More silence. You breathed in, your chest moving up. “Be honest with me, please.” You begged, your voice hushed.

“Okay.”

Your stomach began to cramp up. “That time we hooked up,” You paused, the eerie shortage of noise on the other side of the line pushing you to go on. “Did it mean anything to you? Was it anything more than just a distraction?”

“I…” 

“Or what about that other time at my place? Why did nothing happen?”

“We were too wasted. It was wrong.”

“So you do remember.”

“I do.”

You placed your hand on top of the other, beginning to pace around. “Are you lying about that phone call, too?”

“What is it with this phone call you say? What happened?” He repeated, desperate and with a hint of irritation. You approached the railing, placing your elbows on the metal.

“Just… be honest with me.”

“I am, Y/N.”

You kneaded your forehead with your knuckles, shaking your head. “I can’t take it anymore. It’s been too long, and it’s so confusing. You’re so confusing. Or maybe I’m stupid, I don’t know. There’s… there’s this thing, I know you can feel it as well, and sometimes it’s as if there’s a chance that you might feel the same way I do, but then the next minute it’s as if not, a-and it’s so confusing.”

“Feel the same way you do? What do you mean?” He clearly knew what you meant. Your eyes traveled around the city, the cold and strong breeze nearly knocking your body backward. If he knew, why couldn’t he simply outright admit it? Why, all of a sudden, was it taking him so long?

“The phone call…”

He groaned. “Y/N, just please tell me why you’re so hung up on that phone call?”

“It was last week. You said you liked me.”

You said it. He heard it. He finally heard it, and you waited for anything like an idiot, yet it never came. You checked if you had accidentally hung up the call, but when you saw that it was still going, you sighed and decided to end it for once and for all. “We can be anything. Anything, okay? I can just be your bartender, you can be my client, we can be friends, w-we can be more. If it’s not supposed to be, then just as long as you’re there, I really won’t mind. Just, please… I’m begging you…” You whispered, not capable of discerning whether your body quivered from the winter or the fear brutally gnawing on you.

“Be honest.” 

Peter held his breath. “Y/N…” You waited, shoulders shaking, the stupid fucking silence clutching you by the neck as you waited. Just say it. Just say it—

“I’m still in love with MJ. I’m sorry.”

Oh.

“Oh.” You said aloud, voice cracking. “Wow.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No. Pete, no, I’m…Thank you. It’s just kinda hard to take it in, but I...” You tightened your jaw, your throat aching, swallowing back your pity. “I will. Thank you for being honest, though.”

“I really hope this doesn’t ruin things,” You could barely hear him: your brain too loud compared to his voice. You shook your head frantically, scrunching up your nose to hold back a sniffle.

“Never. I love you.” It wasn’t the way you wanted to say it. “You’re my friend. And I’m not going anywhere because you said I was stuck with you, remember?”

He laughed, a beam of light that almost mended your fractured heart. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten about that.” You smiled brightly, wiping the tears you’d tried so hard to stop from running down your cheeks. You stood straight, but it was only for a mere second, for your arms plopped back down onto the railing from the lightheadedness which threatened to bring you down. 

“Okay,” You slurred, the bile rising up and burning your throat. “I’m gonna leave you. My friend will hate me if I miss the countdown…”

“Sure. Happy new year… be safe.”

You giggled, waving your hand at no one, really. “Don’t worry about me grandpa, I do this every year.” You doubted the idea that popped in your head, but voiced it anyway, “And if you need any help with MJ, I’m here. I can give you a discount at the bar for a date night!” The excitement you forced onto yourself was salt on the wound.

“I’m not sure if that’s a romantic idea, but thanks, I’ll think about it.” You both hesitated, waiting for something once again. But when you realized that it’d never arrive no matter how much time passed, you nodded quietly and unwrapped your arms from yourself, preparing to let go of that feeling you’d clutched onto for the longest time as well.

“I’ll see you around.” You finally said and hung up. You stared at your phone, grief by your side, holding your hand. Yet, to your surprise, a weak smile started to creep on you, relief slowly sewing your heart together. You told yourself that the heaviness in your heart didn’t matter, because at least you had Peter. At least he would still be there, at the bar, with his whiskey served over ice.

As you stumbled to your feet, ready to join your friend and drink away your bittersweet ache, your phone began to vibrate. Your brows twisted together and you looked down, sliding your thumb across the screen.

“Peter?”

[joealwyndaily]

Man About Town interview with Joe Alwyn

Fresh off the back of a star turn in Kasi Lemmons’ Harriet, we catch up with British superstar Joe Alwyn about getting into an evil mindset, playing the long-game in his career, and his upcoming role in Steven Knight’s A Christmas Carol.

words by Francesco Loy Bell

It’s an unnerving experience, having to ask an actor to fill you in on the ending of the film you’re supposed to be interviewing them about, but it’s a testament to Joe Alwyn’s charm and down-to-earth manner that he duly obliges, happily relaying the final ten minutes of Kasi Lemmons’ Harriet with an infectious enthusiasm only someone with genuine passion for a project could muster. I had been most of the way through Lemmons’ bold new offering, centred around American historical icon and slave-turned-abolitionist Harriet Tubman, when the fire alarm sounded, resulting in a hoard of shell-shocked journalists being quickly ushered out of the building, only to be told that we would not be able to watch the last 25 minutes of the film. Fast-forward 24 hours, and I can’t help but pause to reflect on the surreality of sitting across from the films horrifying antagonist as he casually explains his fate to me over coffee. More on that later, however. 

Despite being the only actor in his immediate family, it’s fair to say Alwyn inherited some of the requisite DNA to pursue a career in film, his father, a documentary-maker and his mother, a therapist. Alwyn sees both as formative, instilling him with the “curiosity for looking into people’s lives, observing, and listening to stories” that had possessed him from an early age. “I always liked going to the cinema,” he explains, “sitting in big dark rooms, watching stories. It was kind of a way to disappear.” Though he cannot pinpoint the exact ‘light bulb’ moment in which he decided to become a professional actor, he does attribute seeing Ben Whishaw as Hamlet at the Old Vic when he was 12 or 13 as foundational, and “one of those moments that stick with you, where I thought: ‘I would really like to do that’.” That feeling soon blossomed, Alwyn taking numerous shows to the Edinburgh Fringe while at school and university, shows he can now jokingly admit “should not have been seen by anyone!”

Drama school naturally beckoned, the then-graduate enrolling himself into The Royal Central School of Speech and Drama, an experience he looks back on fondly, his eyes lighting up as he recalls some of the more eccentric aspects of his time there. “A lot of rolling around on the floor, a lot of tight black clothing. And lots of trees, I was a brilliant tree,” he laughs, before informing me, in sudden deadpan: “you’re also looking at a llama.”

Alwyn probably wouldn’t have expected such a swift re-entry into the dynamic absurdity of drama school so soon after leaving, but then he probably wouldn’t have expected to be working with director Yorgos Lanthimos only a couple of years later either. Having shot his first job — Ang Lee’s reverse-engineered war film Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk — just after he graduated in 2015, Alwyn was sent the script of a then still in development The Favourite soon afterwards. “It felt like a special script. I mean, at that point, I hadn’t read that many scripts. I still was” — he catches himself, as his eyes widen in momentary wonder — “well, I still am new to this. But yeah, it was just... such a good script. I knew of Yorgos; I knew of his films. And those two things kind of narrowed together: this twisted take on a genre that can be quite conventional and stuffy, and his very unique, singular mind. It was exciting.”

A skype session with Lanthimos soon followed (“we talked about everything probably apart from The Favourite” Alwyn laughs), and the rest is history, the actor landing the role of Samuel Masham, a young baron in the court of Olivia Colman’s Queen Ann. Though his turn in the film is punctuated by exaggerated physicality — the court dancing scene with Rachel Weisz a particularly memorable example — Alwyn tells me that it was only when he got on set that Lanthimos’ true, bonkers vision began to come to life. 

“I didn’t know that it was going to become one of those moments,” he says of the dance scene and others like it. “Because in the script it just said ‘they dance’, or, ‘he chases her’.” He can’t help but smile when speaking about Lanthimos: “He is hilarious. And confusing. He doesn’t really say anything to you about conventional direction; there was no discussion of period, or etiquette, or character, or history — which I think we’d expected to a degree, just because of the nature of the film. We had two weeks of ridiculous exercises and rehearsals, where I’d be playing Olivia’s part, and Olivia would be playing Nick [Hoult]’s part, and you’d sing the lines, and you’re chasing each other, and... you don’t know what you’re doing, or why you’re doing it. And Yorgos doesn’t say anything. And then he’d get on set, and just kind of say ‘Mmm... louder, faster, quieter’.”

The profound respect Alwyn holds for Lanthimos is tangible — he responds “Yorgos again” in a flash when I ask him who he’d love to work with — and he largely credits the director’s vision for the success the film has since garnered. “He made it weird and wacky and bawdy and irreverent, and it’s just not what you’re used to seeing,” he gushes. One particular on-set tale gives some insight into the energetic nature of Lanthimos’ sets, Alwyn recollecting a close-shave experience during a flirtatious forest scene with Emma Stone which resulted in the actress being taken to hospital. “The woods scene; the rugby tackling scene. We — or I — got maybe a little too carried away in the rugby aspect of it, and Emma took a fall... which was completely my fault. She knocked herself on the root of a tree and hurt her head; the paramedics came, she had to go to hospital, and we had to stop filming for the day.” The sheer panic still momentary lingers on Alwyn’s face as he recounts the story: “She’d just won an Oscar [...] I was cowering in the corner thinking I’d just killed Emma Stone.”

Alwyn’s latest project, Harriet, is a stark departure from The Favourite, the actor trading in Masham’s comic fluidity for the chilling rigidity of Gideon Brodess, the vengeful and sickeningly violent son of Harriet’s owner. As aforementioned, it is difficult to reconcile the man sitting opposite me sipping his coffee with the evil he portrays on screen, and I’m curious as to Alwyn’s process for getting into such a poisonous mindset. “It’s tricky, because what he stands for is abhorrent, and obviously unrelatable,” he explains. “What him and his family did, and the idea of slavery, is repulsive. But I suppose with those kinds of characters you try to find some kind of humanity within them — which suits the time they were living in — to hold onto. And in Gideon’s case, it’s probably some kind of deep, repressed, buried feelings of love. Maybe love for Harriet? I don’t think he necessarily has a language for it, or even understands what it is. But he’s deeply tangled and confused inside. And you try and connect with those sides of him. But, in terms of who they are and what they stand for... it’s hard to find a way in. It’s near impossible.”

Alwyn gives a brutal performance in the film, deftly showcasing Gideon’s skin-crawling internal struggle between racist disgust, and Lima Syndrome-style  lust of Harriet, and his antagonistic villainy is the perfect foil to fellow Brit Cynthia Erivo’s stunning performance as the eponymous emancipator, Alwyn extolling her “formidable” work ethic and on-screen generosity as hugely motivational in his preparation. The story of Harriet Tubman, though well known, is perhaps not as staple a piece of knowledge in the American psyche as her actions demand, and Alwyn hopes that the film will help to give her the wider historical credit she deserves, both in the States and beyond. “Growing up in the UK,” he explains, “I didn’t know who she was, really. I’d seen her name; I’d seen the older iconic images of her. But I didn’t know her story. You hope that films like this will make it more accessible, and bring people in to learn about her and the story of what she did, what she achieved.”

As the politics of division take hold around the world, there has been an intensified focus on the debate surrounding story-telling, and the potential impact or consequence a story can have in the current climate; Todd Phillips’ Joker, for example, has faced significant criticism for potentially giving encouragement to white terrorism and racism. In this vein, the telling of stories like Tubman’s seems more necessary than ever, and this is not lost on Alwyn. “If you go on Twitter and read down on the news, there’s endless stories of division and racism, bigotry, families being torn apart at the borders. Without putting too much on it, if there was someone who represents a fight in the face of that, Harriet Tubman seems to shine pretty strong. And you’d hope that someone like her would become a part of a global curriculum at school.” Alwyn is hopeful that giving figures like Tubman their due historical credit — at least in terms of film — will universalise her all-too-recent struggle, and help unite people in the face of societal partition.

Alwyn’s next project will see him return to London, albeit a dark, Dickensian version of the city, as he takes on the role of Bob Cratchit — Ebenezer Scrooge’s much-abused clerk — in Steven Knight’s upcoming rendition of A Christmas Carol. Though he cannot give too much away, he promises the miniseries will be much darker and truer to Dickens’ sordid portrayal of London than previous versions. “It’s very much more in that kind of gritty, darker, slightly twisted world,” he explains. “It’s not as sanitised, perhaps, as most other versions are [...] it really goes into Scrooge’s own pain and why he is the way he is in quite an unpleasant way. And definitely in a way that hasn’t been seen before.”

Alwyn speaks with a soft, magnetic enthusiasm that almost makes me forget that this is indeed an interview, and I am disappointed to look down at my dictaphone and discover that our allotted time slot is drawing to a close. Characteristically, however, he laughs off any time constraint, and I am afforded some final questions. At 28 years old, the actor is arguably slightly older than some of the other industry ‘up-and-comers’ one might bracket him alongside, and I ask whether he thinks the hyper-visibility of fame elicited by social media is in part to blame for an increasing tendency to link the validity of success with being in your early 20s. Alwyn, despite having an instagram page and being in a relationship with one of the biggest musicians in the world, is notably more private than many others in his position, and he quotes a piece of advice given to him by Ang Lee on set of Billy Lynn in his response.

“It’s not a sprint,” he decides, after some deliberation. “Everyone has different ways of going. I’m still at an early stage in my career. I left Central in 2015, the first film I was in came out at the end of 2016. It doesn’t feel too long ago. I don’t think there is any right way to do it, but [...] I do think it’s an interesting point about social media and the idea of instant visibility, an instant attainment... it’s a dangerous thing to play into. And something that would be dangerous to get hooked on because I don’t think it’s real. You know, social media is [a facade]. And if you buy into that being a reality — or that’s what you go after — it’s not healthy.”

I am struck by how refreshing Alwyn’s attitude to fame is, though by the end of our conversation, I am hardly surprised. This is someone for whom the work is clearly a far superior motivational factor than fame or recognition, and this passion for his craft is evident in every project he touches. Ang Lee was right, it is a marathon rather than a sprint, but Joe Alwyn certainly seems ahead of the curve as he enters what promises to be a vastly exciting new chapter in his career. I, for one, can’t wait to see what he does next.

[ts1989fanatic]

Taylor Swift’s folklore Isn’t a Return to Her Roots, But Somewhere She’s Never Been

Almost a year ago, Taylor Swift released Lover, a lively course correction intended, in part, to craft a more measured and mature style for the singer, whose previous album, Reputation, had used withering sarcasm and hip-hop production elements to wage war with Swift’s crumbling, goodie-two-shoes image and the enemies poking holes in the narrative. In January’s Netflix documentary Miss Americana, which chronicled the Lover sessions and revisited key career moves in the preceding decade, Swift admitted to being driven, on a certain level, by a hunger for public approval: “My entire moral code is a need to be thought of as good,” she said. 1989’s pop turn was really a quest to be seen as the total package in music, an overcorrection for the embarrassment at the 2009 MTV VMAs. The country era before that had been a bit of an act of folksy people-pleasing, too. Lover, it seemed, was the real deal. But even that was a charm offensive of a sort, heralded by blindingly bright music videos and bustling, busy melodies.

Amid the R&B/soul underpinnings of “False God” and “I Forgot That You Existed,” the droning synths of “The Archer,” the high school melodrama of “Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince,” the maximalist pop radio fare of “Me!” and “You Need to Calm Down,” and the rustic repose of “Soon You’ll Get Better” and the title track, half a dozen possible Taylors emerged from the pyre on which the old Taylor burned. Again, Swift created distance between her past and present by arming herself with different toys. You could argue that the singer’s eighth album folklore, announced and released in a whirlwind 24 hours just before the weekend, is another sweeping recalibration, trading soaring melodies and effervescent production for moody, introspective folk-pop. But it undersells the true utility of this stripped affair to say it’s just a new sandbox for Taylor. What’s striking about this collection of songs is the relative lack of a fussy new sound and an obvious single. Loosed from the responsibility of piquing the audience’s interest with a rollout dotted with attention-grabbing gestures, Swift is left with just her feelings and her stories.

By challenging the very idea of what a pop song needs to bring to the table in order to make a complete statement, folklore proves that Taylor Swift doesn’t need to make as much noise to get through to us as she has in the past ten years of molting stylistic restlessness. The autumnal accompaniments, provided by the National’s Aaron Dessner alongside his brother and bandmate, Bryce, as well as Swift’s longtime production partner Jack Antonoff, are not a rejection of pop music so much as a reduction. In the quiet of a tune like “my tears ricochet,” all vocals and slowly swelling electroacoustic instruments, there’s nothing to hide behind — no loud, obvious, radio-friendly bells and whistles to elevate hit potential. A middling lyricist and melodicist wouldn’t be able to carry it. The album floats because, beneath the dramatic twists, Taylor Swift is a writer’s writer. Her stories here are more purposeful, if a little less personal. She’s obsessed not just with people falling in and out of love, but the long tail of these connections. There is a Faulknerian interest in multiple outside protagonists and in stories that span decades. The “folk” in folklore isn’t so much a statement of purpose with regard to genre as it is a signal that this is her storytelling album. The Dessners’ trademark folk-pop quietude, at least as manifested on the National’s 2019 album I Am Easy to Find, is the perfect canvas for Swift to show her wares and nod to her influences.

From the title to the music, folklore is an album about the wisdom and experience passed down through generations. On the opener “the 1,” Swift muses languidly: “You know, the greatest loves of all time are over now.” It doesn’t stop her from pining for a storybook romance of her own or gesturing to some of the great love songs in recent history in her writing. The track “the last great american dynasty” recounts the tale of the heyday of Rebekah Harkness, the ill-fated oil heiress and philanthropist whose family life was marred by suicide attempts and murder charges. “mad woman” appears to pick the story back up years later, as a nameless woman stews in spite over a life lived under public scrutiny. “epiphany” is a flashback to Swift’s grandfather’s involvement in World War II’s Operation Watchtower, the inaugural land offensive in the war against Japan and its acquisitions across the Pacific, that uses a wounded soldier’s dark night of the soul to spin a timely yarn about courage in spite of illness and the nearness of mortality. folklore uses allegory to illuminate present realities the way great American songwriters and archivists do. Swift is able to address recent troubles with music industry men and tap into the era’s chilling pulse without naming culprits, to point out the universality of American calamity without being bogged down by specifics.

While it does all that, folklore pays respects to its predecessors, left turns in rock and pop history like the Smashing Pumpkins’ Adore, a gothic folk opus borne out of death and doused in electronic atmospherics from Nitzer Ebb’s Bon Harris; Bruce Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love, the Boss’s synth-laced snapshot of a crumbling marriage and a band on the precipice of an extended hiatus; and Automatic for the People, where R.E.M. made a mint ditching the pop smarts of “Shiny Happy People” and “Stand,” fixating instead on pain and loss in a series of acoustic career highlights. It’s reductive to call Folklore the return to Taylor Swift’s roots some have been waiting for since the EDM excursions on 2012’s Red became the main thrust of 1989. It’s more like a trip to an alternate universe where Rough Trade and 4AD indie rock and dream pop acts like Mazzy Star and the Cocteau Twins played the same field as blockbuster artists of the ‘90s like the Cranberries and Sarah McLachlan. It also fulfills the promise of the Cowboy Junkies fan service in Lover’s title track and confirms the subtle, wide-reaching impact of the electroacoustic warfare at work in the recent Bon Iver albums, which is, itself, a mutant strain of ‘80s and ‘90s Americana.

It’s tempting to say that folklore is a breakup album of sorts, but it’s not necessarily obvious what Taylor Swift is breaking up with here. Is she done with Joe Alwyn, the boyfriend whose secret companionship seemed to inspire the giddier songs on Reputation and Lover? Is she through with trying to please every audience at once, pitching massive singles into the space between pop, hip-hop, and dance music? Or is she, like the rest of us, just missing a life where we could go and behave as we pleased, responding to the jarring shift in the mechanics of friendships, relationships, work life, and nightlife by sliding under her covers and playing sad songs until the outside world fades from view? Maybe she’ll tell us next year.

[bothsandneithers]

Day 3327

I need to hurry up and write this, because I am forgetting how miserable I was. This is not part of an effort to ensure that I don't repeat this process over again (perhaps as some may be tempted to do after childbirth). Instead, this exercise is consistent with my tendency to ask my friends to describe the most uncomfortable and unfortunate parts of their vacations. Who wants to hear a story that could more succinctly be conveyed within the narrow pages of a travel brochure? To adapt this question to the present situation: Who wants to hear a series of events that could be more adequately summarized by a few pages in a student handbook?

I’m sure that someone could have a field day by drawing parallels between giving birth to a child and writing a dissertation. While this is not my story to tell, I have described my experience by drawing upon the image of a mother who harnesses supernatural strength to lift a car off of her child. The listener is then immediately confused, and I then have to clarify that, in this metaphor, I am both the mother and the child, and that the dangerous, debilitating, threat of the car, is my dissertation.

It may be more effective if I am more direct: I want everyone to know that I (as the small child) was quite miserable, and I (as the mother) accomplished something that I thought was more than I could handle.

I imagine that if a car did end up on a small child, then the entire situation would invoke so much stress on the mother that she may not ever be able to recount exactly what happened during those subsequent moments. In a different way, of course, and for reasons I am still trying to understand, I too remember very little from the summer and early fall leading up to my defense.

In the place of memories, I find myself relying on artifacts to represent months and events that I cannot recall. One such set of artifacts are the six or so issues of The Atlantic magazine that have been set aside into a small pile; each one received a small verbal promise that I would open the pages after my defense. Now, as I review the covers, I imagine that they may never be read. Below are some of the stress-inducing cover stories of these abandoned issues:

How to destroy a government: The president is winning his war on American institutions.

How QAnon is warping reality and discrediting science.

The election that could break American.

How did it come to this? Why the virus won.

In the early days of lockdown, when the virus was beginning to take hold of its victory, I read this explanation for why most of us are not thriving right now: In order to flourish, one must be able to play several different human roles over the course of the day -- something that is arguably impossible when we rarely leave our dwellings.1

After reading this explanation, I starting clinging to the argument that the overwhelming reason why completing my dissertation had become so difficult was because of an absence of variability in my human roles. Even though none of my other typically played human roles were terribly interesting (commuter, friend, peer, coffee shop customer, gym patron), each one offered me respite from the singular human role that I was stuck with: The neurotic graduate student.

The neurotic graduate student human role was difficult to be around, because she was always worried about so many things: that her arguments weren't good enough, that there were errors in her code, that she should be able to understand certain concepts that were still evading her, that more time-intensive analyses were still required, and that overturning new stones would reveal that previous analyses or assumptions were wrong or incomplete. More simply, the neurotic graduate student human role was always worried that she was not good enough.

This persona can be debilitating, and I found that the act of writing a dissertation included a lot of time not actually writing, but rather, a substantial amount of time was devoted to sitting in paralyzing anxiety, not able to do anything.

Even though many of the weeks leading up to my due date were a blur, I do recall choosing this time to watch One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Perhaps I did this because misery loves company. I decided to view this odd movie choice in a particular odd format, whereby I watched the movie in 15 minute intervals, across several nights, as if savoring a segmented Toblerone.

I watched the first few segments in stoic sympathy with the characters, but I eventually found myself amused when Jack Nicholson realizes that almost all the residents are “voluntary”:

You can go home any time you want? You're bullshittin' me. He's bullshittin' me right? Cheswick, you're voluntary? Scanlon? Billy, for chrissakes you must be committed, right? I mean, you're just a young kid, what're you doin' here? … I mean, you guys do nothing but complain about how you can't stand it in this place here and then you haven't got the guts just to walk out?

I remember smiling for a few moments at this scene; it was a gentle reminder that I invited this stress into my life, and that I could, indeed, bring it all to an end if I really wanted to. The smile was fleeting, and felt similar to when you are crying, and your friend says something that is true and funny to try and make you feel better, and you laugh and it feels really good but it also reminds you of how bad you feel, and how far away you are from feeling like yourself.

Yet again, someone else might have a field day drawing parallels between today’s academic environment and a fictional mental institution from the 1970s. I can't do this, in part because, aside from that one scene, I don’t actually remember what happens in the movie.

I did, however, voluntarily lock myself in a hotel room to write, because the suffocating familiarity of my home was preventing me from generating any new sentences. A sticker had been placed between the room's door and its frame, denoting that the room had been thoroughly cleaned. Surely this was only intended to be a symbolic seal to provide some peace of mind that it was safe and acceptable to be outside of one's house.

Once inside the room (that seemed no cleaner than in the absence of a pandemic), I did not immediately initalize my plan to write incessantly. Instead, I desultorily found myself on a support group on reddit that was dedicated to "PhD stress." Feeling compelled to write anything that was not my dissertation, I made a post targeted at those who were also writing their dissertations during a pandemic:

What you are doing right now is really, really hard.

Under "normal" conditions, you would be facing a sheer amount of uncertainty with your work (e.g., not knowing how analyses will turn out, not knowing what your advisor will think of your progress, etc). Under these new conditions, you are dealing with the uncertainty of the state of the world (pandemic), the government (upcoming election -- if in the US), as well as your dissertation! These are absurd conditions, whereby any one of these things would undoubtedly have negative impacts on your well being.

For many, you went from having an entire support group of peers, to sitting in your bedroom, day in and day out, trying to come up with novel ideas and effective ways to communicate these ideas.

As such, I urge you to take care of yourself. I urge you to give yourself permission to ignore unwanted criticism that, while in other circumstances you may work hard to address. Now, in this current context, just don't. Give yourself permission to stop perpetuating the idea that your work and your psyche should not be impacted by the fact that nothing is the same right now.

Defend your ideas, yes. And do good work (-- nah, do good enough work). But know that you are defending your work under surreal circumstances. Account for this when you wake up tomorrow, move four feet from your bed to your desk, and try to do the same thing over again.

Overnight, this became the most popular post in the subreddit’s history. Admittedly, there aren’t a lot of members in this particular community (it should also be noted that this post was recently surpassed in popularity by a post entitled, “PhD has destroyed my mental health”). Still, several users responded with something along the lines of, “Thank you. I needed to hear this.”

I needed to hear those words too -- that is one reason why I wrote them. But I was also desperate to play another human role; one who ambiguously could have already made it to the other side of the dissertation defense, and was able to offer encouragement to those close to the finish line.

Soon after my hotel stay, where I eventually did find motivation to write, I was set to defend my dissertation. This was met with the opportunity to transform into another human role: someone who was nearing the end of her graduate student career, and had no choice but believe that her work was good enough.

The dissertation defense took place via video conferencing. I sat at my desk in my make-shift office in my bedroom.

Five kind and smart professors asked me kind questions that made me feel smart.

And that was it.

After the defense, the stress began to fade away. I recalled the wise words that my therapist once said, “It’s remarkable how, after the defense, people just won’t need anything from you anymore.” I made edits to my dissertation and submitted my final version. I dismantled my “home office” and replaced it with a reading chair and a plant. A new issue of The Atlantic arrived in the mail, and now with time, cognitive space, and optimism that this issue would not be as depressing as the others, I started to read.

I opened to an article about a historian who predicts that the United States is about to experience a terrible decade. He blames this on the overproduction of elites. ("There are still only 100 Senate seats, but more people than ever have enough money or degrees to think they should be running the country.") These elites find alternative ways to disrupt the status quo to influence people; the elite overproduction "creates counter-elites, and counter-elites look for allies among the commoners.”2

Although the article was compelling, it did not feel like appropriate material, as one does not work tirelessly through graduate school to then be compared to Steve Bannon.

I continued to the next article which was about young adults (or old children) who post things to a social media platform I’ve never used (TikTok). Not only do they create short videos that are viewed by millions of viewers, but there is an entire industry of these individuals, and they curate their content together in the mansions that they cohabitate (I am yet to grasp the monetization of this endeavor).3

I settled into my chair. Finding myself enjoying my new human role as a casual observer to an unknown world, I thought: What an absolutely absurd life pursuit.

xx,

Amy, PhD

https://nplusonemag.com/issue-37/the-intellectual-situation/epilogue-for-a-way-of-life/ ↩︎

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/12/can-history-predict-future/616993/ ↩︎

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/12/charli-damelio-tiktok-teens/616929/ ↩︎

[phusch21ahsgov]

Blog post #2, Media Assessment of Issue

In this blog post I will share my analysis of 3 articles from reputable news sources concerning gun control and second amendment rights. One article is from a left-leaning source, one from the right, and one is neutral.

Article #1, Liberal, CNN: Virginia Beach Mass Shooting

Subject: This article is trying to convey the message that there is a direct correlation between the number of guns in america, and the number of gun related homicides and suicides.

Author:  Jill Fillipovic authored the article Fewer Guns Mean Fewer Killings, and We All Know it. Filipovic is an American feminist, author and lawyer. She has previously written for feminist blogs such as Feministe, as well as cosmopolitan. She has written for other news sources besides CNN that are quite neutral on the political scale such as Washington Post, New York Times, and Time Magazine. Based on this information she is likely a centrist, however her tone in the article, and heavy involvement in feminist arguments and sources convey that she leans heavily toward the left.

Context:  The article was written in june, recently after a mass shooting. This menas that the source will strike a lot closer to home for the citizens of america, as they have recently experienced a tragedy.

Audience: The source was published By CNN, and while CNN only slightly leans left, the source was most likely published for liberal readers, people who advocate for stronger gun control. The source was not very objective, and did not consider other options beside restricting the number of guns in America.

Perspective: This article is definitely subjective, you can tell that the author has a liberal view on gun rights just from the title. The perspective of the author is that we need to remove guns from the hands of civilians, and doing so will prevent gun related homicides and suicides. This is in opposition to the conservative view that removing guns from civilians will increase gun violence

Significance: The author recounts a recent shooting to support her claim, and talks about the lack of action that has been taken by politicians. The verifiable evidence is that no recent laws have been passed, and that the majority of homicides are gun related

Article #2, Neutral, Time Magazine: The Fight Over Gun Control Isn’t Really About Guns

SIGNIFICANCE: The author uses several charts comparing the viewpoints of gun owners and non gun owners to showcase the differing perspective on the issues at hand, these statistics are verifiable facts, and it is interesting to see how the answers differed. Additionally the author includes quotes from people in both political and gun-rights affiliation to further showcase the differing perspectives.

SUBJECT: This article is trying to convey the message that the argument over gun control is actually an argument over the sense of freedom and independence that guns represent to americans. Central to the argument is the author’s ability to look at both sides, and convey the strong feelings and outcomes that come with gun violence by recounting a recent mass shooting.

AUTHOR: The author of this article is Charlotte Alter, a national correspondent for Time Magazine, who’s work has also been published in New York Times and The Wall Street Journal. Her political affiliations are unclear, she likes to cover hot political issues such as feminism, political campaigns, climate change, and gun violence, but it is hard to say what her positions on these issues are, as is demonstrated by her neutral tone in the Time article.

CONTEXT: The source was produced in Las Vegas, on October 5, 2017, four days after the deadly shooting it describes. The effect of this is that the tragedy is still fresh in the minds of the readers, as well as the author as it happened in her backyard. This highlights that there is a problem with gun control in its current state.

AUDIENCE: This source conveyed the horror of the Las Vegas shooting to effectively alert the mass media - the people for whom the source was published - of the horrific effects that guns can have, all while staying unbiased and presenting arguments from both left and right political viewpoints. Time Magazine published this article, and being a relatively neutral source It seems the reliability and objectivity are on point.

PERSPECTIVE: This text Is definitely objective.

Article #3, Conservative, Fox News: Tony Perkins: Solution to Gun Violence Isn’t What You Think

SUBJECT: This article is presenting the idea that the solution to gun violence is not to simply restrict gun ownership laws, but to strengthen morality and religion in our government to stop individuals from becoming the type of person to commit such a crime.

AUTHOR: Tony Perkins is aconservative politician, previous police officer, and christian. His credentials are that he is the president of the Family Research Council, has served two terms in the louisiana house of representatives, and was appointed to the United States Commission on International religious Freedom. As he obviously states, his religious affiliations affect his view on gun violence, and his experience as a police officer prove his credentiality on the subject as he has experienced gun violence first-hand.

CONTEXT: This article was published in October of 2019, this article was not a response to a recent mass shooting, but more of an opinion piece by Perkins, conveying his experiences and opinions he has formed over time.

AUDIENCE: This article was published by fox, a conservative news source, and the article is quite clearly geared towards a religious demographic, meaning it may not be the most objective as it is targeting a more narrow audience.

PERSPECTIVE: This text is subjective, the viewpoint conveyed is that stricter gun control laws will not have a large impact on gun-violence, and instead more emphasis should be placed on religion to increase morality of american citizens, stopping the problem at the source. I don’t fully agree with the argument presented. For one, the proposed solution may infringe on people’s freedom of religion, and while I don’t believe super strict gun control laws will solve the problem, I think certain preventative measures can be taken to decrease the likelihood of giving a gun to someone who is not mentally fit to own one.

SIGNIFICANCE: Perkins cites our founding fathers to back up his claim, stating that the marginalization of faith and religion is directly correlated with the increase in violent people. He also cites verifiable evidence, such as the statistic that 80% of gun crimes are committed with illegal guns.

Between all three of these sources, I found the key similarity was that each article had accounts of gun related violence: The first two articles were published recently after mass shootings and had graphic descriptions of them, and in the third article Perkins recounted his experience losing friends to gun violence as a former police officer. The main difference I found was the tone throughout each article. Time magazine kept a very neutral and calm tone, while CNN and Fox were more opinionated, with Fox being the more opinionated out of those two.

I identified most with Article 2 from CNN, as I agree that these mass shootings are terrible tragedies, but I can see the arguments from both sides as valid. I don’t know enough about the subject yet to make opinionated claims, however I do not believe religion will solve the issue, nor do I believe restricting all guns will completely solve it. Much like the tone of article 2, I am observing, and listening to arguments from both side