#endless jackie edits

[husbandhoshi]

TO GROW LOVE (AND EAT IT TO THE CORE)

pairing: mingyu x gn!reader wc: 8.1k summary: your whole life, you've only wanted one thing. then you meet mingyu. suddenly you want too much, and you wish the summer never ended. notes: farmer!au, established relationship, angst/hurt/a little comfort

this is a birthday fic for my one and only cat @wuahae ! yes this is about half a year late but what can i say. all good things come with time. thank you for being so kind, funny, and thoughtful (and patient)! not a day goes by where i’m not thankful for our friendship :)

and a million thanks to hana @wqnwoos and jackie @97-liners for helping me with edits. literally you guys are insane writers and i will never stop looking up to you.

i. strawberries (the summer we were young)

When a strawberry is ripe, the seeds push out from the heart of the fruit, as if it's bursting from the inside out.

This is one of the few and only things you've learned by living in Seogwipo, where strawberry season comes like a supernova. The May sun, full and heavy, peels into summer, and the roadside farms open their doors, trying to catch stray vacationers from Jeju City on the other side of the island.

That being said, there are approximately two things to do here. One of them is farm. The other is pretend like you have a life, which is your childhood friend Yizhuo's favorite thing to do when she's back from university on summer break.

Today, this involved convincing her ritzy, too-good Seoul friends that they're missing out on this side of Jeju. (Missing out on what? You're not sure. Perhaps the chipped paint of the mural walls, or the endless flat-topped stretches of seagrass. Yizhuo isn't fooling anyone, but you've always liked stretching your legs out in the bed of her pick-up, even on the long drive to nowhere.)

Unsurprisingly, her friends quickly came to the same conclusion. Just one look at your local strawberry patch, with none of the glamour of the bloated tourist traps in the city, and they decided they'd rather spend the afternoon at the beach.

It was then, between the fragaria blooms, when you met Mingyu. He asked for your name, and the rest was history. Yizhuo and co. scattered like the grasping hands of an overripe dandelion and you learned that he was, one, the newly-graduated son of a pair of local farmers, and two, very, very attractive. Almost too much so, especially for a place like this.

Now he holds up a berry, a bright red murder between his fingers, and tells you to try it.

"You must be delusional if you think i'm taking food from a stranger," you laugh, perched on the fence bordering the field. It sprawls before you, melon stripes on the sunbaked ground.

"No, my name is Mingyu," he replies. "No idea who delusional is." His smile, all bright lip and snaggletooth, tears into the scarlet belly of a newly picked strawberry.

"We all know what happened to Persephone."

"Well, if the underworld was a strawberry patch, I wouldn't mind being stuck there for all of eternity."

"What're you picking all these for, anyway?" you ask, watching Mingyu struggle with his too-big straw hat between the vines. His woven basket bleeds over with little berries.

"Jam. I make it on the very first day of every summer."

"Why?"

"You ask a lot of questions for someone who trespassed on my farm. You're cute, but I won't let you off easy."

He laughs at how you balk, clearly red-handed. You're not sure how to tell him you don't think you were supposed to be here either. You don't do things like sit in the back of trucks, trespass, or talk to pretty farmer boys who take a fancy to you, but it's the summer before you graduate and you're not even sure how long you'll have to continue making bad decisions.

"Are you gonna take my first-born now?" you joke instead. The daylight runs down the rim of Mingyu's hat, trickles down his brow, and you wish you could pour the image of him into a jar and keep it forever.

"No, but I will invite you in for some fresh jam on toast. I baked a loaf this morning." and when you say nothing, he continues. "The strawberries are only good once a year. It's the best you'll ever have. Promise."

It's a whine and a half, and somehow you convince yourself this will be the last bad decision you'll make. You've been here long enough to know that good things don't come twice in Seogwipo, and he is unlikely to be an exception.

Yizhuo blows up your phone, you tie the gingham apron around Mingyu's tiny waist, and the basket turns to blood in the saucepan.

Mingyu is right. Love comes to you in that kitchen, high and red like the sun, and the jam never tastes as good as it does that summer.

ii. watermelon (hollowed out, like a magic trick)

"A good watermelon sounds like a heartbeat."

You watch Mingyu heave the fruit, small and striped, out of his grocery bag. It joins the array of egg sandwiches and banana milks you picked up from the store together earlier. (There should have been chocolate Pepero too, but you split the box on the walk).

You're on a picnic, sprawled out on the outcropping overlooking the water. The path up is basically right behind your house, but you had never cared to visit. It had always been the local makeout spot, a schlocky teen crawl for those with nothing better to do, and yet, with Mingyu stretched out beside you, it seems newer. More exciting.

You're still just friends, or at least that's what you told Yizhuo. But ever since you sat on Mingyu's kitchen counter and ate from his jam-covered spatula, you don't think you've gone a week without seeing him. It's been almost two months, which seems so long and yet not long enough—he makes it easy to be greedy.

"See?" He thumps the watermelon with the heel of his palm. "Try it."

You already went through this entire charade at the grocery store, right in front of all the local aunties, but you indulge him. There's little point to triple checking if it's still ripe, but you think he just likes hitting it.

"It sounds good," you say. "But how are we even gonna eat it? We don't have a knife."

"Watch this." Mingyu procures a coin from his pocket. "You didn't learn this in elementary school? I feel like everyone was doing it."

"Here?" you ask, incredulous.

"Yeah, here. I grew up here too, you know."

He holds the edge of the coin to the skin and slams his palm into it once more, so that it lodges itself into the rind, and begins dragging it around the fruit. You start to wonder if he bought the watermelon just to show you a party trick—not that you mind, though. The strain of his biceps peeks through his rolled up white tee, and you remember why he was able to stop you with just one look back when you first met.

"No way." The watermelon is so ripe, it bleeds around the incision. "I feel like I know everyone here. And I definitely would have remembered you."

"I was probably, like, two grades above you," he replies. "And my parents shipped me off to live with my cousins after elementary school. They said I should get out of Seogwipo and experience the real world."

"Good call. There's nothing here." You watch Mingyu spin the melon over to cut through the other side. The coin catches the sunlight, and it looks like gold. "I wish I left for university. The one here is so small."

"Really?" He pauses to show you his handiwork. The two melon halves roll over on their backs, their cut edge cruel and jagged. "Cool, huh?"

"Impressive," you say. "Honestly. I really didn't think that would work."

"I didn't either when I first saw someone do it. But I’ll try anything once," he replies, ripping open the packaging of the plastic spoon from the bag. "I can't believe you don't like it here."

"You do?"

"Yeah. A lot." He shoves the spoon in his mouth, and you watch the watermelon juice pool around his lips. "I missed home. The trees and the tall grass and the ocean. All the fruits. Everything. I learned to ride a bike, right down there by the water."

"Hm." He passes you the spoon. You don't want to hog it, so you carve out a piece bigger than you need. "Are you gonna work at the farm?"

"Maybe. Haven't decided yet," he says. "I think I want to be here, though. Maybe do something with food, but I want to be home."

"That's funny, because I think I’ve always wanted to live a different life. Or at least one somewhere else."

"You want to go to law school, right?"

"Yeah." Mingyu is right. The watermelon is all sugar, and you would almost feel guilty for eating it if it wasn't technically good for you. "I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer. It's something about the people watching, I think."

"That���s really cool," Mingyu says, mouth full but no less sincere. It's then that you notice your shoulders are almost touching, and your heart crawls back up to your mouth. "You know what you want. I admire that."

He makes it sound like a compliment, but you're sure it's a curse.

You think of your parents. There's a permanent wrinkle ironed into their foreheads, the paper crease of expectations and high standards. It's not that they didn't care, but their kind of care was a humbled sort, made heavy by a hard life. It didn't help that your big sister Seohyun went straight from Yonsei to work a big tech job in San Francisco and never once looked back.

But you can't blame any of them—wanting has always been a hereditary failing. Sometimes Yizhuo will catch you frowning at nothing, and then you remember that life isn't a performance and every day ends at the same time no matter how hard you work. But you don't know how to tell her that the only thing you can do sometimes is want, because otherwise you wouldn't really have much at all.

It seems like the exact opposite of how Mingyu lives—everything about him seems to pass like the seasons. Maybe that's why you can't seem to get enough of each other.

"Thank you. Really." You dig the spoon into your half of the melon. There isn't much left. "You're way too nice to me."

"It’s not hard to be," he laughs. "Maybe you're just too hard on yourself."

You're losing track of the distance between the two of you. You can almost feel the heat playing off his skin.

"Maybe."

It's then, under the veil of summer, where you meet Mingyu's gaze and, finally, things seem close to simple.

All you know are his eyes, heavy with sun, and then the slow, slow move of his lips against yours. He tastes like August, long and sweet, and for once you know what it's like to not only want, but to have, and to have again.

The ocean sings on the horizon, and the watermelon bellies weep.

iii. adzuki beans (or, the blood of a headless taiyaki)

Mingyu eats taiyaki headfirst because he says it hurts less.

"That makes no sense," you tell him, your pinkies linked. You never really liked holding hands, but yours fits so perfectly in Mingyu's and there's some girlish, childlike shine to it when you watch his finger search for yours after just a moment separated.

"What do you mean."

He breaks your gaze to eye a red bean taiyaki, like an unwilling predator sizing up their prey. It's the lamest, most embarrassing iteration of National Geographic you've ever seen, and yet you cannot find any fiber within yourself not deeply in love with the lion.

Fall is a forgiving place for your relationship to settle. You're now a senior at university and he's started his gap year. Gap implies he's in the middle of something, but in true Mingyu fashion, he leaves it up to fate, or chance, or something not nearly as kind (whim).

"Taiyaki isn't alive. And why would you want to pretend it is? Eating gummy bears would become an extinction event."

"It kind of is." He holds out the tail end of the taiyaki, the pastry almost explicitly flayed open, in front of you to eat. "Why does the Haribo bear have a face? Why do the gummy bears live in a gummy forest?"

"Great, so now I can’t even enjoy gummy bears without feeling like a serial killer?"

You dig your pointer into his shoulders, broad from all the time he spends on the farm. To think that his hands, big and weathered, were made to pick berries (and now wrap around your pinky finger) is bruising, if not ridiculously funny.

"It's a crime of passion. Gummy passion. Prosecute that."

He kisses your cheek and your heart almost squeezes into two.

The terrible thing about being with Mingyu is how seemingly endless his affection is. Now he's feeding you in public and buying the two of you matching socks (cat and dog, to be exact), although you'll admit it's a little charming, even if the neighbors do gossip.

He's sweet, too sweet, and his kisses stick to the back of your throat.

But you can't be fooled. There's an unsaid violence to the way Mingyu loves. (The meticulous spiral of the peel he carves when you ask for him to cut you an apple. The grind, decisive and cruel, of a knife against a cutting board. A pair of canines against your neck, your jaw.)

Even now, he bites the head off another unwitting taiyaki before stuffing it back in the bag.

"We're still splitsing, right?" he says, with perhaps 1% of his mouth available for speaking and the other 99% murder machine.

Splits, he always says before you share food. You never had the heart to tell him that it's in the same family as mines or sharesies or takebacks—silly childhood relics, ones that no one uses anymore because they don't mean anything.

This time, you don't hear him because you're thinking about the law school fair you went to before Mingyu picked you up. The future is so close, it scares you. A year from now, what ground would you be standing on? Would it smell like this—the peat, the thread-spool fields, the balm of the ocean? Would you still have Mingyu's finger wrapped round yours?

"Have you decided if you're staying at the farm?" you ask.

"Not really." He uses the back of his hand to wipe off his chin. "If my sister decides to take over, I’m actually kinda thinking of going to pastry school instead of getting a masters."

Mingyu had been toying with the idea for some time after you had talked about it on the outlook. It started off as a joke (September; a galette), then a what if (October; green tea mochi), and now it sits at a kinda.

"Kinda?"

The word gathers speed in the pachinko machine of your mind. You never liked being a kinda person. For Mingyu, it seems like a luxury of a word, but for you, it's really just another thing to hide behind. Kinda talented, kinda ambitious, kinda just there. You're always one foot in, one foot out of something better.

"Yeah, kinda. Why?"

"I dunno. What if we both end up leaving?"

"Maybe. You still want to, right?"

You would be lying if you said you didn't—it's what you always wanted. Seogwipo has been a sun-rot, too-small crutch for you, but you would also be lying if you said you weren't terrified that you'd eventually come back, limping like some doomed Icarus, unable to truly make it in the real world.

Then you think of the pockmarked farmland beside your home, lacy with the fall harvest. Even now, you can trace the endless blue of the coastline all the way there, cut through all the maybes and just let the sound of the ocean fold you into sleep like you were a child again. You wonder if Seohyun, all the way on the other side of the world, ever misses it.

"I’m not sure," you say, because, as much as you don't like it, it's the only answer you have.

"It's ok. You'll figure it out. You always do." He squeezes your cheeks together between his thumb and index, laughing at how they pillow out underneath his fingers. "Screw pastry school. I could come with you. Who else would keep you fed?"

Mingyu's complete and unfounded belief in you makes you feel something close to betrayal. How could he say any of that? With what proof? Only someone like Mingyu would be able to hold the wrinkled fruit of your unremarkable life between his palms and see something better than that. Maybe it's because he grew up on a farm. Either that, or he already cares for you too much, too painfully.

Secrets are easy to keep when they look like yours. At least here, in the pit of your stomach, you can keep count, take attendance of them, all your tittering, small anxieties. Some days it feels like your ribs are pressing out, but it's better than cutting everything loose to spill out over what little you do have control over.

You can handle a little pressure. You have to.

What concerns you is the hand Mingyu's got across your chest. With one look, he just might gut you. A twist of the heart-knife, and all those carefully wound insides carved out in an instant—maybe he'd pity you, but worse than that, he'd likely be disappointed.

For you, expectation has always stood taller than shame, and the idea that he sees something past you makes you want to run away.

"I could be a house husband," he says as easily as ever. "You'll be off saving the world, arguing with whoever, and I'll be there to run you a bath afterwards."

"Let's not get too ahead of ourselves," you reply, binding up the strange, hollow feeling in your stomach with a laugh.

There's a scared little girl hiding inside you, and whether Mingyu sees her or not hurts the same. A spade is a spade. You can only pretend so long.

You look at the taiyaki floating in their wax paper bag, blinded and wrought open by the same grin that now peels you down, and you're not hungry anymore.

iv. winter pears (rotten, outside your parents' house)

Mingyu's family loves Christmas.

You think it's because of the pear trees they have in the front yard. They stand bravely before the house, all emerald ash and wisdom in the December freeze. Run your palms over the knobs and it's like you can see into a sleepy visage of simpler days past. (Below its heart, carved: 1982, the year the farm was bought. Along the tangle of the roots: gyu waz here, in an unsure, childish scrawl.)  

Winter comes to the countryside crawling on its hands and knees. On days it doesn't snow, there's a mist, boggy and clingy. You've come to realize the cold is more of a threat than a promise, and so the pear trees still bear fruit; the silvery branches hang heavy, faithful.

The first day of December, Mingyu's parents had tasked the two of you with decorating the farmhouse, a duty you took very seriously. You wrapped Mingyu up in string lights and watched him blink in and out like your own personal firefly.

It wasn't until you watched the rafters, the barn doors, the joyous vault of the ceiling all glow, like a spectacular firework, that you finally started to understand why Mingyu was so into the holidays.

It was in the yellow blush of the string lights that you had your first pear from the tree, which Mingyu insisted was a holiday tradition. We make poached pears, he said, mid-bite. You simmer the pear in syrup until it gets so soft, you can cut into it with a fork. Just like butter.

That same night, he kissed you, mouth hot and trembling and tasting of honey, and pressed you against the bark so hard, you could feel the grit of its veins against your skin.

You think December became your favorite month, and pears your favorite fruit.

So much so, that for the entire month, you try to put away your worries about law school applications to celebrate with Mingyu and his family.

You learn his mom makes the best hot chocolate (a cinnamon stick and a dogged devotion to the whisk), and that Mingyu has no clue on God's green earth how to ice skate. (He careens right into your chest the first time. You spend the next hour with him attached to you like a backpack—he manages to find the most impractical ways to do anything, which you somehow admire the most). On Sundays, Yizhuo ditches her Seoul friends and instead accompanies you to the mall two towns over, where she watches you compare different ties and watches and collagen creams as you decide on gifts for his family. (Lilac is so last year, she'd say, stirring the straw of a watered-down milk tea.)

It's not until the weekend before Christmas when you realize just how serious things have gotten. Your feet understand the meander of the dirt path to the farmhouse, your bones the scent of the yellow-skinned apple, the faded wildflowers. Your palms crave the plush of the rug they have in front of the fireplace. Hell, you can't even eat soondubu without thinking of the kind Mingyu's dad makes, with extra anchovies and green onion.

You don't think about what this means. There are ten days left in December and love poured from a full cup never seems to run out.

"Please let me carry some of those," Mingyu wheedles. "Oh my god. I'm like the worst boyfriend in the world."

"No, you are not." you make your way up to his doorstep, taking care to one-two step over the stray roots of one of the pear trees. It's second nature to you by now. "The moment I hand you a box, you are gonna start trying to figure out what it is."

He harumphs and plucks the big one off the top anyway, the one he knows you can't reach. "I didn't even know you were getting us gifts. You didn't have to."

"It's the least I could do. Who shows up to a holiday dinner emptyhanded?" You stop at the front door. "And stop shaking it," you laugh, using the tip of your boot to nudge his shin.

"Okay. Okay," he says, saccharine, adoring, before grabbing the doorknob. "Ready? Are you nervous? You shouldn't be nervous, right? It's not fancy or anything, if you were worried about that."

And that's the thing that wedges itself between your ribs. Mingyu and his whole family are like this. They love and worry and love again; it presses deep into you, fills you, and overflows.

So here you are, standing in your nicest dress and balancing a stack of gifts you hope will amount to something, never enough but something, to repay the people who you feel have loved you more than you deserve. It's all you really have. You do your best, and yet you know when that door opens, it'll all be washed away in a high-tide flurry of hugs and laughter and the familiar press of Bobpul's wet nose against your leg. They're just those kinds of people—they would be just as happy if you didn't bring anything at all, and somehow that makes you feel even more guilty.

"No, no," you wave him off. "I’m fine. Excited."

When Mingyu opens the door, everything goes just as you expected. His sister takes your coat, your gifts are whisked away to the tree (Aji has already figured out which one is his), and his parents descend upon you in a choking swell of warmth and charity.

We baked some fresh bread for your parents (—Thank you so much, but you really shouldn't have.). You look so beautiful in that color (—No, no, you flatter me too much.). Mingyu better be taking good care of you (—He is. He really, really is.).

The kitchen is gauzy with cinnamon, anise. They must be making their famous poached pears, which Mingyu remarks on, just like clockwork.

Dinner passes the same way. It bubbles over with affection, and you feel swallowed by an impossible yearning. This—a full table and a hand to hold underneath it—did you deserve this? And could you keep it?

For an instant, you picture yourself, years later, at this same seat. Mingyu would be fussing over the rice cakes, his apron still gingham because it reminds him of the day you two met. His parents, grayer but no less happy, bickering over the shade of tinsel on the tree. And the dogs, coiled at your feet like they are now. The vision laps at your bones like you're a raft in a storm.

You're pulled back into the moment when Mingyu squeezes your hand, grounding and insistent. "Mom asked how school was going. I told her I think you're basically the smartest person I know, and I’m pretty sure you're getting into whatever law school you want."

Mingyu's parents laugh, and they cut through their pears.

"Oh, sorry," you say. "Um."

Clink. Knife meets flesh, meets porcelain. Your cheeks are hot. You wanted to talk about anything other than yourself tonight. Clink.

"The top programs are a reach, but it'd be nice." clink. "I just want to get in somewhere."

"They’re all so far away," Mingyu's mom remarks. "So grown up. Any school will be lucky to have you. You'll get into all of them."

Clink.

"Or maybe you can stay here." You watch the prongs of Mingyu's father's fork disappear into the pear. "Keep us old folk company."

"No, no, I think Mingyu should take notes and get off his lazy ass," his sister says, teasing. "Going back to the city will be good for him."

"So you can, what, burn down the kitchen again?" Mingyu grumbles, and the whole table seems to boil over with laughter.

"We’re kidding," his mom tells you. "No matter where you go, I’m sure you'll do great. We can even throw you a party at the end of the year. For graduating."

Clink. Clink.

There's a horrible uneasiness writhing around in your stomach. It's pear and syrup and clove and a blackness, an anxious, selfish one that sucks up all the generosity of the evening and turns it into shame.

Mingyu's mom is talking about throwing you a graduation party, something you didn't even think to do for yourself, and here you are, thinking about the shaking moment you open your rejection letters and the lonely path you'll draw on your way back home.

It's ok. They missed out, Mingyu would say, pouring you a consolation drink, and then it would be over. You'd go home and sit on your bed and the trifold piece of paper would go round and round your head like it was in a washing machine.

Your heart, an inventory of tasks and goals and tally marks. Things you've taken and things you've owed. It's a soft, boneless excuse. Be grateful. Give them that, at least.

Clink.

Dessert ends before you can tell his family not to get their hopes up. Mingyu's mom sends you off with your loaf of bread and a kiss on the cheek, and the moment is gone.

"Gyu," you call out on the steps in front of the house.

There are words at the seam of your lips. You want to tell him you're sorry for worrying so much. For making the whole dinner about you and then very possibly having nothing to show for it when it matters. For the heaviness in your chest. Your cowardice. But none of it comes out.

Instead you watch Mingyu pull at the leaves of a pear tree, watching the frost-filigree they get at the end of the season. He looks over his shoulder and smiles at you, as if he's on the hazy cover of a magazine. His eyes bend so wonderfully at the corners when he looks at you, and it breaks your heart.

"You had fun, right?" he asks. "My parents like you a lot, you know. I think they really do."

But that's the problem, you want to say. You all do, and I have no idea why.

Some of the pears are beginning to rot now. You watch one drop off the vine, and it caves to the pavement like it was made of nothing at all.

v. wild barley (grows like weeds)

In March, you play house.

Your parents leave on a two week trip to see relatives, and Mingyu takes it upon himself to make sure you survive.

It's a kind, blinding charade.

(7 am, breakfast. You usually don't even eat breakfast, but you wake up to doenjang and a smile, one that presses itself to yours until you're wearing it on the long walk to school.)

(4 pm, the stretch between lunch and dinner. You're muddling through another useless club meeting when Mingyu sends you a picture of him in your mom's apron, making kimchi. Kiss the chef, he texts you. You promise to, over and over and over.)

It's good until it isn't.

That isn't to say that it's Mingyu's fault. In fact, it's never really Mingyu's fault, and that's the worst thing about your relationship. Sometimes you wish he was worse just so there was someone else to blame.

(1 am, a fridge-cold glass of water and a hand on the column of your spine. Can't sleep? He asks. Just had a weird dream, you say.

It's a lie. You're a liar.

You miss your parents and the first wave of acceptance letters comes out in two days. You're not like him. Sleep has never been a cure for the exhaustion you're feeling, and you have no way of telling him that however warm the bed is won't fix that.)

It's on a Thursday afternoon when you open your mailbox and see the tiny, thin envelope that you've been expecting for the past week. You don't need to open it to know what it says, and yet you do it anyway.

The sun is white, a ghost in the spring sky. The ocean bleeds into the overcast, the curly barley stands tall around your feet, and you let the worst letter you've gotten in your life fall upon your shoulders, word by terrible word.

Then you close it, pinching the seam shut, and draw up your brave face. Nothing left to do but be brave. You're convinced you've used up all the sadness in your relationship—spend in pennies and the well still runs dry. Mingyu will cup your cheek and call you darling, pouring into your emptying basin, holey and broken.

You see him now through the kitchen window, Venus in his clamshell of a kitchen. Galbijjim day, he had said this morning. Now, he waves at you, glittery with recognition.

Your throat feels like crumpled paper.

Mingyu smiles at you, hazy through the glass. Your cheeks hurt and your mouth is paper mache, but you smile back anyway.

///

The letters come one after another.

You know what the envelopes hold and yet you keep opening them. The little folder you keep stashed in your bottom drawer gets fatter every passing day because you can't help but revisit your misery, almost as if you need to remind yourself it exists.

Mingyu is none the wiser. Today he decides he'll put off pastry school for one more year. "It doesn't feel like the right time," he says, rolling a log of burdock kimbap up. "You know what I mean?"

No, you don't. You never really do.

You do know, however, that it would feel really fucking bad that, come the end of the year, to have nothing. All your friends would be going somewhere—even Yizhuo opened her acceptance to an MFA program in Shanghai yesterday—and you would be here, still, feet firmly planted in the muddy Jeju dirt like they always had been.

"Hey, don't look so disappointed." he jokes. "Don't tell me you're already trying to get rid of me."

You're not, you really aren't. But part of you wonders if it's just a race to the bottom. If you got rid of him before he decided he wanted to get rid of you, maybe it would hurt a lot less. One less letter for the folder.

"Never. But imagine if you picked up a French accent at pastry school. Then I’d consider it. Maybe."

You watch his knife rock back and forth on the cutting board as he cuts the kimbap.

"Some for you. And more for me," he says, in what you can only describe as someone attempting to speak French when they've never heard it before. "Unless you want more, mon cherie."

He brings the plates to the table, his grin nothing short of dizzying.

"I’m irresistible, huh? Still wanna leave me now?"

"You're gonna have to try a little harder than that, I think."

The words roll off your tongue, easily, traitorously.

You watch the kimbap disappear off of Mingyu's plate.

Going, going, gone.

///

Seogwipo is always dark at night, only kept alive by the glow of the moonlit sea.

You can't sleep. Again. And so you sit out on the steps in front of your house, letting the twilight wrap around you like a blanket.

You got your last letter back earlier today. You held your breath and tore it open like you would a birthday card with money in it.

Waitlisted.

It was surely better than a rejection, but some naive, child-eyed part of you thought that if you had just closed your eyes and hoped hard enough, things would work out the way you had planned. Tragically, it wasn't enough this time. You wanted and wanted and you thought maybe that would mean you'd come close to deserving it.

Your parents called today. After managing to sideline the issue of basically the rest of your entire life, they had finally cut through your sad little charade. No good news yet, huh?

No, but—

It was always like that with you. No, but it's not as bad as you think. No, but give me a chance. No, but I’m trying. I've been trying.

You wish things didn't come out of you so complicated. That you could be like Seohyun, who could go through school with her eyes closed and still graduate at the top of her class. Instead, you parade around your little failures, trying to convince people it all could mean something only if they squinted. See? It isn't so bad.

You think you're past the point of crying about it. Your stomach hurts, you're cold, and most of all, you just want to go back to bed. Plus, although Mingyu sleeps like a log, you think he's developed a sixth sense for whenever you get up too early.

Time to be brave, you've been telling yourself, although you don't know who you're pretending for anymore.

So you nudge the front door open—it's so old, it wails if you come at it with any more force—and, to your surprise, see the light above the kitchen sink turned on.

It's not very bright, but it's enough to make out Mingyu's broad silhouette, back turned to you as he makes a cup of tea. He's humming one of his made-up songs.

"Mingyu?"

"There you are," he says, turning around. "Just came out to check on you. And make you some tea."

The kettle whizzes. Your gut twists.

You still haven't said anything to Mingyu. To manage your own disappointment was one thing—you don't think you could handle another person's. And yet when he stands there, Pororo mug between his huge hands, you feel as if you are holding a knife, big and guilty and bloody.

"I-I'm fine, Gyu. Honest." you watch his expression flicker, unreadable in the persimmon lamplight. "Sorry you had to come out. It's chilly out here."

"You know, you can tell me what's going on. I won't judge."

No, no, no. This is the last conversation you wanted to have, with the last person you wanted to have it with.

You feel feverish. You think your hands are shaking.

"Mingyu, I swear—"

"Whatever it is, we can fix it. I know we can."

That almost makes you want to laugh if you didn't want to cry so bad. Of fucking course he would say that. Mingyu, who treats life like it's the watermelon trick he showed you on the outlook, wants to put a bandaid on this whole thing, as if that could come close to fixing it.

He'd tell you to curl up on the couch with a bad movie while he orders takeout. Kiss you on the top of the head. It's ok, baby. Just another bad day for the person who has the worst luck in the world. Another lump of problems for him to try and make better. If he isn't sick of you now, he sure would be soon enough.

"It’s okay," you say, steeling your voice. "It really isn't a big deal. Let's just go back to sleep."

You try to walk away, but the hardness in Mingyu's eyes roots you down to the tile.

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Pushing me away," he swallows. "Like you always do. I know something's going on."

"I’m not, i just—"

"You just what? You can't help it?"

"No, I—"

"Because you like to know that you can? That you can say whatever and then watch me come back?" A fragmented, heavy silence thrums between you. He's looking at you like he's daring you to say something, anything. His gaze is black. "What am I good for if you can't tell me anything?"

There's that familiar, stinging pressure behind your eyes. You think you're crying, but you're not sure. Maybe you've been crying this whole time.

"Fine," you bite. Your blood feels like hot metal. "You really wanna know? I didn't get into law school. There. Happy now?"

Mingyu looks stung.

"W-why didn't you tell me?"

Because I thought you would stop loving me. I thought you would have finally had enough.

"Because it's not all about you, Mingyu."

The words, selfish and damning, burn your tongue. Mingyu is right. This is what you always do. You fuck up and then make everyone else hurt for it.

"I'm sorry," Mingyu says. His voice doesn't sound like his. Instead, the words seem to hang in the air, trembling and holding their breath, waiting for an apology you can't give yet. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's ok." You swallow hard, and it hurts. "Let's just go back to bed."

It's getting colder and colder. You think there's a little hole in your sock, right above the cat's whiskers.

Mingyu doesn't reach for you as he passes to get to the hallway. Maybe he doesn't know how to anymore.

The Pororo cup is left abandoned on the counter. You walk over and read the label on the tea bag—barley, because you have class tomorrow morning.

You pick it up, let the ceramic buzz between your hands with whatever warmth it has left, and hold it to your lips.

It's cold now, but all you can think to do is drink it. Erase all the evidence that tonight ever happened, and maybe it'll be nothing more than a bad dream in the morning.

There's honey at the bottom of the cup. It sears the back of your throat, but you drink until there's nothing left.

vi. the peach blossoms (without fail, bloom every August. I miss you.)

You broke up the next day.

Even now, you remember what happened. You had woken up early that morning to make your own breakfast because you couldn't allow Mingyu to give you any more of himself. Your hands could only hold, shatter, so much.

"Mingyu, I think we should...." You looked at the zigzags of jam on your toast, angry and uneven. "I think we should stop seeing each other. For now," you had added, as if that made anything better at all.

Somehow that seemed more merciful at the time. Really, you think it just showed your cowardice. If you were going to break his heart, you might as well have gone all the way the first time.

Maybe it was a good thing that Mingyu saw right through you. He always did.

"So that's it, huh? You're just gonna give up on us?"

"No, I just...need some time."

"How long?" he asked. "Be honest with me. Because you know I’ll wait."

"I don't know." You couldn't meet his gaze. His eyes reached and reached over that kitchen table and you denied him even that.

"Don't you always know?" he asked, pitifully, desperately. "Don't you want this to work?"

And you did. In fact, you don't think you had ever wanted anything more, and it was that that scared you. You had already lost law school—you couldn't let the only other thing in your life let you go. So you pulled the trigger first.

"We should just end things. I'm sorry. I can't give you what you need."

He packed his bag within the hour, and you think everything, from then on, froze inside you. You didn't move from your seat until your parents came home from the airport later that day and asked why there were two plates of toast still on the table.

You think you knew, someplace, inevitably, this would happen. You, who only knew hunger, had reached deep inside Mingyu and rooted out a love you didn't think you were worthy of having. And yet you still ate from the vine, bite after guilty bite, until you couldn't take any more. The only time he asked you for anything at all, you couldn't give it to him—such was the irony of your relationship.

Maybe you were doomed the moment the first strawberry hit your tongue, just like you had said, all that time ago.

About a month later, you got another letter in the mail. Chungnam National University Law School, it read. This one was fat, in one of those brown envelopes lined with bubble wrap. Somehow, miraculously, that position on the waitlist had turned into an acceptance. You held the package to your chest and cried, loud and with abandon, as if taking a deep breath after almost drowning.

Ironically, the first person you wanted to tell was Mingyu. But the good news you needed to save your relationship came too little, too late. Perhaps that meant it had no legs to stand on in the first place, but that didn't stop you from missing it. Instead, you told Yizhuo, and she drove you to Jeju City and treated you to dinner. "You should just call him," she had said. "Hey, don't look at me like that. He'd probably pick up on the first ring."

The city is swathed in August's crimson summer—peach season. The narrow streets are lined with peach trees, the fruits glowing like fat drops of sunlight. All you do these days is plan for your eventual move to Daejeon and the start of a life that seems newer and shinier than your own. But surrounded by the cicada song, the velvet treeline, the rain-soaked asphalt, somehow you think you're going to miss Seogwipo more than you think.

(Fickle, fickle heart. You always needed things to be taken away to really be able to appreciate them. Somehow, all that wanting had boiled down to something more satisfying, more filling.)

You wonder how Mingyu is. Now that you think about it, he seems just as much a part of Seogwipo as the farm he lives on. It was only last summer when you had first met him in the field, set on fire by the strawberry harvest. You think about him now, peddling around that ridiculous wicker basket to make jam. Maybe talking to another pretty girl, someone as naive, cruel as you had been.

Not long ago, you considered calling him to apologize, but that'd just be another thing to be selfish about. A little time and some warm weather, and I’m calling to finally wash my hands of you. That's what it would sound like, no matter what you said. Still, it didn't stop you from thinking of him, every flower, every season.

"You know, I always wanted to grow peach trees. But I think we've always been a pear kind of family."

Mingyu. If a voice could cut through air, it'd be his.

You whip around, half-believing you're hearing things. Certainly that would be easier, but you're learning that there are some things you can't run from.

And like a picture, Mingyu stands tall, golden, framed by the peach blossoms. Not a thing about him has changed. Not even the way he looks at you.

"Mingyu," you breathe. Unfortunately, none of the times you replayed your last conversation with him help you come up with something to say, because in none of them did you anticipate him coming back. "W-what are you doing here?"

"I live here, silly."

"No way," you reply, scrambling. "Crazy, because I live here too."

You both laugh nervously, a silly, bubbly thing, but you feel like you're going to throw up. It's only now that you realize you're kind of on the walk to his place. Seogwipo has never had places to hide.

"I...um." You try and disentangle the guilt from the nostalgia from the scent of the peaches and the warmth on his face. They all look the same. You missed him. "I got into law school. In Daejeon."

"I heard," he says. "Not surprised at all. I always knew you would."

"Thank you. I mean it." The cicadas buzz around you, as if they know they have an important silence to fill. "You're staying in town, right?"

"Actually, I decided to apply to culinary school. It finally felt right, you know? I'm leaving at the end of the summer, but it's just in Jeju City. I couldn't leave the island."

"Thank goodness. I don't know if you could tell, but I kind of always hoped you would. I don't think I’ve ever eaten better food." Your voice wobbles, but it gets there. "You'll do amazing."

Then time stretches and forces you to recognize, reckon with, the moment you're in. You wonder if he feels the same way you do—bruised, overripe. If there's still a space in his heart for you.

Deep breath. Life only gives you so many chances.

"Mingyu, I’m sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't make us work. You deserved better." Saying it feels like peeling the skin of your heart back. There's still a palpable distance between the two of you—you think that had always been there—but it feels more comfortable in a way it never did before.

"Don’t apologize," he says, easily, as he always does. Everything seems to flow off him like water, and you think that's the part of him you loved the most because it was the one thing you couldn't touch. "We loved each other. I think that much was true."

A jasmine breeze curls through the trees, sending the blossoms fluttering around you like ink in water. The very first time you met Mingyu, you thought the image of him, haloed with the sunset, was the one you wanted to keep forever. And yet, somehow, you don't think you'll ever forget the way he looks right now.

"Will you ever come back to Seogwipo?" you ask.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing—you were always the one who wanted to get out of here." He grins, ear to ear. "Of course I'm coming back. There's nowhere I'd rather be."

"Yeah. I think I know what you mean."

The sea, the clay dirt, Mingyu. Even yourself, clumsy and care-worn. You think, somewhere along the line, you forgot how to love. But you're learning—one step at a time.

"Friends," you say. "Let's be friends. If you'll let me."

"Thought you would never ask. Gladly. Always." The space between you seizes, like it's holding in a breath. Maybe one day, you'll think of closing it once more, but you like where you stand now. You can admire him better from a distance, without your fingerprints all over him. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, something he does before he gets ready to leave. But before he does—"I'll see you soon, okay? You better come back. Promise me."

For the first time, you see the honesty in his eyes and you really, truly believe him.

"Promise."

The Seogwipo sun is high and red in the sky when you wave Mingyu goodbye. It feels like you're coming to an end of a long summer, but you're not afraid. You watch the wind dance through the peach blossoms, their branches never searching, never wanting, and you finally feel as if you've arrived home.

[jovenshires]

endless au edits: the battle of the bands au nobody asked for pt 7

battle of the bands 2024: an honest op-ed by jeremy elder the six entries to battle of the bands 2024 have finally been announced. not only will we be seeing sad men in their 30s's favorite new band the chosen, known for their appearance on the netflix reality show 'up & coming,' but also four other groups who desperately wish they were as famous. this includes: ftc, renowned alternative-indie sad-girl trio; kolivition, known for making the music your mom turns off every time she walks into the room; coventry, the punk girl group equivalent of that pinterest quote 'we are the granddaughters of the witches you could not burn'; and let's do this, who... no, that's it. who? anyway, it's not like any of that really matters, because i've yet to mention the smosh reunion, aka the wet dream of every millenial who asks for a veteran's discount after surviving warped tour. a clear favorite to win, smosh is coming in with an army of fans and a near-decade of experience on these guys. good luck to what little competition they have. in addition, i am thrilled to report that we now know the final lineup of judges. diehard battle of the bands fans - all two of you - will be thrilled to know that rhett mclaughlin and link neal of mythical will be back to judge yet another thrilling year of mediocrity. after winning ten years ago, those guys just won't let go of their glory days. (or maybe it's the other way around. blink twice if you need help, guys.) on the bright side, though, they've also introduced surprise judge jackie uweh. known for being one of the greatest performers of our generation, it will be uweh's first time judging a musical competition. i don't know what she's doing here and i highly suggest that she runs. and runs fast. the three will be the wonderful, charming, and dutifully impartial judges to this year's competition, and definitely will not be just handing it to smosh as a reward for their long-awaited reunion. (because ian hecox definitely wasn't signed onto the mythical label as a solo artist. it's not unfair at all.) finally, the emcee and host of the event will be newcomer to the rap scene, trevor. if that name doesn't ring any bells for you - don't worry, it doesn't for the rest of us, either. the 24-year-old rapper was apparently responsible for mixing the beats on mythical's latest and edgiest album, which, due to the power of nepotism, made him a natural choice for this year's emcee. known for his "meme rap" (i am being so serious right now), trevor auditioned for the battle of the bands but, fortunately, did not qualify. thus, he will not be competing nor, allegedly, performing. though i have my doubts. i reserve the right to run screaming for the hills the moment they hand him a mic. the soundcloud musician (that's right - don't bother looking him up on spotify, you won't get anywhere) will be hosting the battle of the bands and the series of live shows leading up to it. what does all this mean? well, it looks like this year is no different from the last, and predictable set-ups have means to predictable ends. nevertheless, i, your faithful and humble local reporter, will be making the trip to la with an all-access backstage pass in hand and reporting on the entire thing from start to finish. no rehearsal, live show, or, most importantly, complete disaster of a finale will escape my sight. rest assured that you have at least one decent and reliable eye witness to the whole fiasco. tomorrow marks my trip down to la - i'll be reporting live from the road. until then, i bid you adieu. may the best smosh - i mean, band - win.

[elvenbeard]

A Day in the Life (like any other) - 2076 edition

Time for some big VP projects again :3 This one was so much fun to set up, edit, and assemble into a post (several, really, I took so many pics). I'll share some more details on all scenes below the cut but yes. I really wanted to give a glimpse into how I picture Vince's life to look like when he still worked for Arasaka - and how, specifically during late 2076, the days began to bleed into each other, he got trapped in an endless cycle, and, in hindsight, was lucky that Jackie helped break him out of it all.

Days for Arasaka employees start early and are long - on a relatively calm and normal day, he probably would have to get up and get ready between 6-7 am. At that time he needed lots of meds, boosters, drugs to get out of bed in the morning and make it through the day somehow, keep up his performance the way it always used to be prior to some traumatic event TM that happened in early/mid 2076.

He lived close to Corpo Plaza though at least, so walking to work was feasible, and a means to get some semi-fresh air and actual movement in during a day otherwise spent mostly in front of the computer.

Occasionally I think Jenkins would call for a morning meeting (and few people would like those), where he'd discuss important measures, plans, and so on. Some more impressions from this, because I love setting up big group scenes:

Most of Vince's day would probably have consisted of data analysis, overseeing and planning strikes against enemy corporations on big and small scales, and maintaining Arasaka's own security and secrets. I love the many little glimpses into the dark and twisted corpo workday we get through what NPCs say and the Corpo dialogues, but I'd love to know even more!

For his lunch he'd actually leave the office, and if no coworker invited him elsewhere, Vince would always be drawn to the Plaza. Find a nice spot to sit or just walk around the Plaza a couple of times to clear his head and sort his thoughts for the rest of the day. In 2077 it's still one of his favourite places in all of NC, and watching the holographic fishes swim their circles has something calming and meditative about it. Spoiler alert, in that spot he's sitting here in these pics he ends up after Mikoshi, stumbling out of Arasaka Tower. He just sits down and passes out watching the fish ;_;

But now, back to 2076:

I figure, with the kinds of high stakes missions Counterintel probably carries out, a lot of planning has to go into them. And preparation as close to real-life condition as possible. So I think the agents probably play through their missions in cyberspace prior to carrying them out in the real world, in a safe environment, recording everything, and analyizing it the next day during the morning meeting.

As a very traditional Japanese corporation it's probably customary at Arasaka to not really be allowed to leave your workplace before your boss hasn't. So It often gets late, everyone is tired and frustrated, and not rarely the same groups of people would end up in the same bars. Vince doesn't and didn't drink back then, but being in and around Japantown certainly was an opportunity to stock up on drugs or otherwise numb himself from what his life had become at that point.

He was never very close to any of his coworkers besides Harry, who I always pictured as some kind of guiding figure for him. He was there long before Vince started at Arasaka, and he'll probably remain there in his little cubicle for as long as he still cares to keep to himself and a low profile, just doing his thing well with little ambitions to make it big. The latter is what usually breaks corpos their neck, but I think for every V, Jenkins, Abernathy, there are at least a dozen Harrys who are content with being a tiny, insignificant cogwheel in the huge corporate machinery.

Vince's days would often end way too late and at that time he's incapable of sleeping without pills and the like, so it begins how it ends: self-medicating in the hopes it will somehow make this never-ending cycle easier to bear.

[asarlaiochtsystem]

Branches of a Wreath (A Day In the Life of a System)

The body lays in the bed, sprawled out in the mangled manner it was accustomed to as a child. It’s always hotter in the body’s room than everywhere else in the domicile, always too dry and the body doesn’t intake enough water. The body awakes and now it is a girl, 18, normative.

Sara shook her head and grabbed her phone, flipping through the messages from her friends, letting them know that she was the one in front today. How did she know it was her? For Sara, the question was one that elicited anxiety and unease for she didn’t know the answer. She just sort of knew, something about it being her and her memories in this body. It was her likes, she had her own wants and problems compared to the others who shared the body. It was her beliefs, different from the others and realistically it was improbable that someone would fake seven different personalities with their own backgrounds, desires, likes, relationships and even involuntary reactions to stimuli. It was her, for better or worse. 

Sara pulled up the document with all of the notes:

8 desires white hair dye

Ark Server needs updating: Talk to Jackie

Homework done, please edit writing

Azrael needs more feathers to fix wings

Elaine needs more glue for the latex ears

SWP Table at 2:00p

SWP table? Wait, when did we… oh gods damnit Ginevra! Sara pulled her hair back and stretched, “Just what I wanted today. If she wants to help the socialists so badly she can do so on her time.” She knew that was a ridiculous proposition: they shared the time. Morning rituals and purifications were complete, it was time for breakfast.

“Morning Mike.”

“Morning mom.”

That wasn’t her name. It wasn’t even the name of the body. The body hadn’t used that name since middle school. The body’s name was Vanessa and her name was Sara. It wasn’t her mother, Sara’s mom was probably long dead by this point. Old age and drugs do that to someone. This woman was the body’s mother. You’d think a mother would know the name of their child, alas the sins of modern suburbia are endless and constant. This body would always be a “baby boy”, “Son”, “brother”, the stain of a false masculinity (or perhaps a denied femininity).

Sara liked driving to school, it was 30 minutes of alone time where it was just her, the road and the radio. They all had their own playlists: Death Metal for Azrael, Dark Synth for 8s, Punk music for herself, etc. We don’t have many friends… or any. I’d settle with being seen as an effeminate gay man at this rate. I get it, I’ll never look like the punk-y queer I imagine myself to be, but at the very least I want people to just know I’m not straight. Sara sighed, her hands sliding down the side of the wheel, “Your tells are so obvious, shoulders too broad for a girl.” Laura Grace spoke to her in these songs, there were few pieces of media that appealed to her dysphoria in a way that provided a sort of comfort. It didn’t make her feel better, it didn’t make her sadder, it was just comfortable.

**********

Azrael was in the car at the church when she woke up. She didn’t remember driving, must’ve been someone else. First things first, throw on the jacket, wipe off that shitty white girl makeup, grab your cigarettes in the glove box. What class did they have today? She grabbed their phone and flips through their schedule: “Workshop #2” in big letters. Oh for fuck’s sake. It wasn’t that Azrael was against interacting or writing, it was just uncomfortable for her. It felt like a knight without armor or a snake without scales: she didn’t feel safe. Have you ever had that feeling where you wish you had a weapon, not because you were going to use it, but because you wanted to just have it on you? She was feeling it right now. 

She kicked open the car door… well okay she didn’t kick it open, she pushed it open after opening it. The parking space dips over a bit, it’s hard to get up when you’re already 45 degrees inverted. When Azrael had finally made it to the front gates she heard someone come up behind her.

“Azrael, I know you didn’t pack your filth with you.”

She didn’t need to turn, she knew who it was, “Sara… bash our head into any walls again? Or were you weeping about how our daddy beat us as a child?” Azrael didn’t see her, but she felt the gritting of teeth, the redding in her face, the irish curse on her lips, “Relax, I’m just playing. Yeah I got my medicines, I’m not a fan of being in front for this sort of stuff”

“One, go hifreann leat. Two, SWP table today remember? Gotta get Gin out for that. Three, if you’re so nervous just don’t go,” Sara twirled her hair, some stupid thing she does to feel less dysphoric, “Besides, it’s just reading stories and responding, just following the patterns. Use our autism to our advantage.”

“You know,” Azrael began, “you don’t have to be so hard on yourself. Being a punk is overrated and just because mom and dad are shitty doesn’t mean you need to take it out on others. You’re not defined by their bigotry.”

Sara started to fade away, “Just,” she did that thing where she tries to say something, but wants to say it in such a way it doesn’t seem hypocritical, even though it is, “don’t worry about it.”

Azrael decided to not go to class, she spent the time instead smoking while she waited for… something. Loneliness, that’s the feeling that drives her up the wall. They didn’t have friends, not really. They walked to and fro, spent their time talking to themselves about nonsense, about what it meant to be a schizo like them. 

“That’s rich coming from you. You spent all that time criticizing me about not defining myself by the bigotry of others, and here you are calling yourself a schizo,” Sara sat on the wall above Azrael, at least that’s how she imagined it. 

“Why are you pestering me today? Don’t you have some racist ML to fuck or something?” Azrael took a drag, “Why can’t I deal with 8’s or Gin something?”

Footsteps, like actually real footsteps, not the ones she imagined when her sisters spoke, “Hey Vanessa!”

“Hey”, oh right, they didn’t tell anyone yet. What was this woman’s name again? Carol? Siobhan? Some Irish or Scottish name, the ones mothers give their children to make them seem mystical and mundane at the same time. 

“You weren’t at class today,” the girl looked at the cigarette in Azrael’s hand, “I didn’t know you smoked.”

Right, people don’t really see her, “Only once in a blue moon, when my anxiety acts up bad,” Azrael could see she was upset, “It’s… herbal. Not like I’m chain smoking Marlboro reds.”

“Are those bad?”

“Reds? Yeah they’re like what soldiers and rockers smoke. They taste nasty.”

“And what about Herbals? Do they have nicotine in them?”

“Of course, but it’s not tobacco. It’s usually rose petals.” There was a pause after Azrael spoke.

“Can I ask you something?” 

When people ask that, it’s always the kind of question that tends to offend people,“Sure?”

“Why do you always seem so far away from everyone?”

Azrael looked at her, Grace, that was the name, snuffed the cigarette on the wall and crushed it, “Elaborate.”

Grace was a bit more timid now, “Well… you don’t interact with people, not really. Most of the time you sit on benches, you’re alone, you only walk from your car to class and back. You don’t really seem to do anything.”

She’s got our number… “Well, truth be told I don’t really do anything. I’m kind of scared to do anything honestly.”

“Too scared?” 

Ah fuck that was the wrong answer, “Yeah. I’m kind of agoraphobic and get bad social anxiety. Ask anyone who’s ever had a class with me. I’m kind of scared of showing myself to people.” Well shit, all in now, “If I’m being honest, I feel like the less of me I show to people, the better their opinion of me will be. Not even the people I am organizing with really know what I’m like; I don’t even think the people I hang out with online know what I’m like.”

“Oh…”, Grace grabbed her arm, “Doesn’t that get lonely?”

Yes “No, not really. I just prefer my solitude is all,” Azrael shrugged, “Any other questions?”

Grace shook her head, “Alright well, take care Ness…”

When Grace had finally gone out of sight, Azrael smashed the back of her head on the wall, “Fuck me, why couldn’t I tell the truth?”

**********

Elaine rubbed the back of her head, “Yep, that was Azrael.” Elaine smirked, pulled her hair back and folded the jacket and cigarettes up. She clicked her heels and started to walk towards the University Greens. Elaine always liked to lilt while she walked, today it was Nancy Mulligan, tomorrow it would be Star of the Co. Down. Everything was brighter to Elaine than it was for Azrael or Sara, physically and emotionally. Elaine was the ‘flower girl’ of the system, she always picked up flowers while walking and stuck them into her hair, dancing and skipping all the way to class. Elaine knelt down under a tree and started to pick the dogwood flowers on the branches, placing them one by one into her hair until she had a line of them in her braids. She sat down at the greens, looking around for the table she was to sit at, yet no tell-tale signs of socialists, least of all those she recognized. Hmm… oh the oak tree!

“You and your fucking oak trees,” Azrael was glaring down at Elaine.

“Oak trees are important,” Elaine retorted, “Oak, Ash and Thorn are the sacred woods. You of all people should know that.”

“I gave up on that nonsense about the same time Van gave up on leftism.” Azrael was being venomous, when she gets like this she lashes out at everyone. She usually only becomes this curt when someone else is upset.

“Who’s upset?”

“What?”

“Who. Is. Upset? You don’t get this way unless someone’s upset.” Elaine looked up towards Azrael, her dark hair and bright red eyes trying to hide the truth from Elaine.

“No one…”

Elaine sighed, “Don’t lie to me. I know you… well we both know each other better than anyone.” Elaine started to shape the branches around her into a crown, little pieces turned into something rugged, poorly made, and yet beautiful all the same.

Azrael sat next to Elaine sighing, “Sara’s still upset about that girl on twitter I guess.”

Elaine’s ears twitched, dropping the half-made crown, “Gehenna? We don’t even know her.” She knew that didn’t mean anything, when any trans woman dies they all feel it deeply. Least of all in cases as publicized as this.

“It’s not just that… it’s what it represents.” Azrael fell to the grass, looking up at Elaine, “Van’s mom still calls us Mike. Van’s mom still sees us as a boy. Van’s mom doesn’t even know about us, or even her own daughter. The killings only heighten the subtle kinds of transphobia. The deadnaming, the misgendering, etc. Those are, usually, borne of ignorance rather than cruelty, and ye-”

“And yet, they cut all the same. Death by a thousand plus one cuts,” Elaine placed the crown upon Azrael’s head: a little crown of thorns for the protector.

“Yeah. It all adds up right? What’s that Haywood quote? ‘I’ve got the marks of capital all over my body’? In our case, we have the marks of… a lot of different things on our body. If we were to take our internalized pain and wear it on our flesh we’d look something more akin to St. Bartholomew’s corpse rather than a person.”

Sara sat down next to them now, her hair was covering her eyes, makeup running down her cheek, “It’s just so tiring. I’m tired of martyrs, of eulogies, of the anemoia, of the slaughters and purges. Is this how Sun Yat Sen, Marx, Lenin, Goldman and others felt? Is our lot to suffer? To always desire change in a world that fundamentally hates us for what we are?”

Elaine sighed, “Martyrs die. That’s what makes them Martyrs; a personal sacrifice of some kind. There’s a difference between martyrdom and murder though. A martyr has to willingly give themselves up. It’s this submission to belief that martyrs them. People murdered in oppressive systems are victims. They didn’t ask for it, they didn’t deserve it.” Elaine closed her eyes and let the sound of peers laughing, birds chirping and the feeling of the sun fill her, “Anger is just a type of sadness. You feel powerless, you want to fix it, make it hurt less. It’s like a gaping wound with blood pouring out, nothing works to fix it and so you panic.”

**********

I wake up on the grass. I have flowers in my hair, my head is banging and I am alone with my siblings.

[izzy-b-hands]

Technically now for SFerguson Sunday vs Ferguson Friday, but! The fic I was working on is finally edited to my liking. Will go up on AO3 when I have the spoons for it, but wanted it on here for now at least! Fic is below the cut.

Stealing my description of it from last night bc it actually wasn't terrible lol:

Ferguson/Izzy, au that puts us in the time period of the former's show, with a vague plot that by fucking Ferguson maybe it'll help Jack out of a particularly bad charge that he may or may not have actually done. Also, additional ed/izzy with a final hint of ed/izzy/ferguson 👀.

“I mean, I'll fuck him,” Izzy shrugs. “He's not bad looking. Actually, he looks a bit like m-”

“Don't remind me,” Ed blushes, dropping his head into his hands. “He looks a lot like you. Enough that I asked if he knew you or was related to you.”

“While he was arresting you?”

“Was there going to be a better time?!”

Izzy sighs. “Maybe not. So, what exactly am I convincing him not to do?”

“They let me go because ultimately, they claimed they didn't have enough to prove I was working with Jack and I wasn't worth the paperwork,” Ed replies, lifting his head enough for Izzy to see how miserable he looks. “But Jack is-”

“Oh, Eddie-”

“Come on! You like Jack too! You fuck him nearly as often as I do, at least!”

“Yeah,” Izzy finds he's suddenly all tired sighs, a well of them, seemingly endless. He leans back in his chair, and studies the newspaper clipping photograph of the man. “So I'm meant to waltz into the station, ask for…whoever this is-”

“DCI Ferguson,” Ed interrupts as he raises his head fully and sits up in his chair. “Or Trevor.”

“You get his phone number too?” he smirks, knowing full well that if Ed managed to get a first name out of the man, then he surely got more. 

“Only his office number, but he blushed pretty hard over that, so I didn't want to push it,” Ed pulls a scrap of paper from his trouser pocket and gently moves it across the kitchen table to Izzy. “So actually, you'll call him, set up a meeting to discuss Jack's charges as his acting legal counsel-”

“Jackie is an actual lawyer,” Izzy interrupts as he takes the paper. “Why are we not calling her to deal with this?” 

“Because she'll get him something lesser,” Ed's eyes meet his, and the notes of teasing and flirting drop from his voice. “But we need to get him out. I don't care how, and I'll make sure he lays low or find him somewhere else to stay for a few months elsewhere if need be after, but he can't…”

Ed pauses, voice breaking, breath hitching in his throat. “He didn't do it.”

Izzy moves the paper aside so he can reach over and take Ed's hand. “What did he do?”

“I didn't see it either way, but I know he didn't. I wouldn't lie about this.”

And Ed probably wouldn't. And Izzy doesn't think he's lying now, but if he didn't see whatever happened…that hardly matters. “Ed. What's he charged with?”

“Murder.”

---

“You don't look like legal counsel.”

“You don't look like you should be a cop,” Izzy replies as he strides into the yellow-tinged office. As much trendy colour scheme as effect from the cigarette smoke in the air and the nearly full ashtray on Ferguson's desk. Not that he can judge, and it might benefit him in this circus act he's enacting for Jack's sake.“Do you mind if I-”

Izzy slips his own pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket, and gestures. 

Before Ferguson can reply, he's got two out, one held out to the detective in offering. 

“Wouldn't have said no even if you weren't sharing,” Ferguson takes it, his fingertips lingering briefly on Izzy's as he does. “I'm not counting this as a bribe.”

“Who said I was here to bribe you?” 

Ferguson crosses the room to his desk, motioning for Izzy to sit in the chair in front of it. “No one. But I think I've got you and your two friends figured out.”

“Have you?” Izzy settles into the chair, seemingly designed to be the exact opposite of comfortable or ergonomic. “And what have you figured out about us?”

“You're too nice.” There's a flash of flame as Ferguson lights his cigarette, a matchbox already out on the desk. “And that's a shame. You don't need to go down for this just because he's your friend.”

“I don't know that Jack's done anything,” Izzy shrugs, reaching for his own matches in his pocket. “He's an idiot, sure. Makes poor choices, yeah. But murder-”

“I know Mr. Teach claims he saw nothing,” Ferguson interrupts as he exhales smoke across the desk. “And that may well be the case. But even if he didn't see it, someone else may have-”

“May,” Izzy cuts him off, still fumbling for his suddenly hiding matchbook. “May have seen him? So what evidence exactly is he being held on?”

“The dead man's body, and being covered in blood for a start,” Ferguson replies as he walks back around the desk. He leans down, close enough to light Izzy's cigarette with the tip of his own. “And that he was the last person heard in the area per everyone living there that agreed to an interview.”

“You shouldn't be telling me half of this,” Izzy smirks. “Almost makes me think you don't think he did it.”

He takes a drag and watches Ferguson watching him. Leaning back against the desk now, cigarette balanced in his lips, looking entirely too tempting for a cop. 

“That's the bit I definitely can't tell you,” Ferguson smiles as he takes his cigarette from his mouth and walks back around the desk to sit. “But I can say that whatever you're planning to do here, to bribe or convince me to just let him go…you know I can't. And I'll let you walk out of here now, no trouble, no charges, nothing. I can't guarantee that if we start something though.”

“We?” Izzy leans back in his chair, legs stretched out. “Thought I was the troublemaker in this equation. Here to distract you from your…noble duties, to win your favour and-”

It's lucky that the blinds covering the office's internal windows are already pulled closed, and maybe that's why Ferguson moves so fast. Cigarette shoved into the ashtray, then around the desk to lean down and kiss him exactly as roughly as he likes. 

Not every day that someone gets that right on the first try, and it's enticing. “We indeed.”

Ferguson nods, stammering. “I'm not. I shouldn't be doing this. It's not going to get your friend out-”

“I know,” Izzy interrupts gently. “I told Mr. Teach, Ed rather, as much too, if you want to know. He still asked that I come and try.”

He stands up slowly, moving Ferguson with him until he's got him backed up against the edge of the desk. “I think he knows full well it won't work, but we wanted to see how far I'd get.”

“Go lock the door and I'll show you just how far.”

It's later in the day, and the station could be busier than it is. Even so, there's a wonderfully desperate thrill in knowing someone might hear them. 

A desperation that's hard to suppress when Ferguson slows things down, just a bit. Takes his sweet time stripping Izzy of his jacket, the borrowed dark purple t-shirt cut nearly too short by Ed. 

The entire time, seemingly just as desperate in every achingly slow kiss and hickey he presses to Izzy's lips, his neck, his chest-

“Mr. Teach said a lot about you,” Ferguson's voice cuts through the haze Izzy's fallen into. “Mentioned in particular how pretty you look on your kne-”

He doesn't let Ferguson finish the word before he shoves the chair back, and drops to his knees. Mouth open, tongue out, sitting back on his feet. 

“He wasn't lying,” Ferguson murmurs warmly, nodding when Izzy reaches for his belt. 

There's a twinge there, and it nearly throws him off his game for a moment. While he's in here letting a detective fuck his mouth (and more, if they can manage it without alerting anyone else), his cunt getting wetter and cock harder by the minute, Jack's locked up, presuming and hoping he'll be freed soon. 

“Look, if he really didn't do it,” Ferguson sighs softly, a hand reaching down to toy with the earring in Izzy's ear, flicking the silver hoop gently. “Then…it might all work out. I'm not making any promises-”

Izzy lets Ferguson's cock pop from his mouth. “I know, Trevor. I'm not asking you to. And I…I want to think he didn't. I really do.”

Ferguson's hand is cradling his face now, a thumb softly rubbing his cheek. “But you can't say for sure he wouldn't.”

Izzy nods. “Can I go back to sucking you off now? Far less depressing, that, in comparison-”

He's cut off as Trevor pushes his head down, not too roughly, but enough to make him moan. 

“I'll give you two whatever updates I can,” Ferguson murmurs, his fingers twining through Izzy's hair. “Whether I should or not. And I really fucking shouldn't-”

He moans around Ferguson's cock, and suddenly he's back on his feet. 

“I don't have,” Ferguson stammers, peering towards his desk. “I mean, why would I have anything for this in here, but-”

“I've got us covered,” Izzy steps away from him long enough to retrieve the small bottle of lube and the few condoms he'd hidden in his inner jacket pocket. “Figured we might want it.”

“Can I ask you something?” 

He cringes internally, but nods. “You want to know who did the surgery on my chest?”

Ferguson blinks. “I. I suppose I'd wondered, but I didn't mean. I meant to find out if you'd prefer ass or-”

“Oh!” The tension that had filled him deflates as he drops his trousers and leans over the desk. “That's different, kind of you to ask, actually. But any and all holes are up for it if you are. We might not get this chance again soon, so you might as well have most or all of them.”

It's one of the lines he's not had a single man refuse, and it doesn't fail him here. Trevor has him pressed down against the desk, hips moving against Izzy's ass, cock teasing his cunt and ass in turn. 

“That's mean,” he sighs happily as he lets himself lift up and lean back into Ferguson. “I like it.”

“I'd tease you longer,” Ferguson purrs into his ear, leaning close even though Izzy can hear his hands busy with a condom, the telltale crinkle of foil.“But I've another meeting, and she'll be here soon.”

“I'll make sure I don't tire you out completely then, for her sake.”

He chuckles as Ferguson finally slips inside his cunt, hard and warm and already twitching. “Is that really how it is between you and her? Who is she? Another ‘lawyer’ like myself-”

Ferguson thrusts hard, shoving him forward, but a hand reaches around to help hold him up. A mindful one, not messing too much with his top surgery scars, but still tracing gently there now and then as he leans into it. 

“Wouldn't you like to know,” and there's another thrust, paired with a slightly needy moan. “She isn't, as it happens. She has actual credentials-”

“Does she know you're meeting me?”

Izzy can't help but ask. It'll be ten times hotter (and he's already sweating as he fucks himself back on Trevor's cock, in rhythm with him) if it turns out she knows, and knows exactly what they're getting up to as well.

“She does, or she should,” Ferguson's other hand is between his legs, gently teasing Izzy's cock. “Was on our fucking schedule for the day, though not that I'd be doing this with you.”

“Work mates then? Work mates with benefits, rather.”

Ferguson moves a hand, then both, to hold Izzy on his cock, keeping him from moving. 

“Did I strike a nerve?” Izzy teases. “I'm not judging. I've wound up fucking plenty of the people I've worked with too. Nothing wrong with it, as long as everyone is on the same page about it.”

One hand is at Izzy's cock again, rubbing harder, Ferguson's hand slick with how wet Izzy is. He's relentless in it. 

“If I keep asking questions about her,” Izzy pants as he lays on the desk, still trying to fuck himself onto Ferguson’s cock, though he can feel that he's already in deep. “Will you keep doing that?”

“Why don't you find out?”

It's a teasing, warm challenge that has Izzy's thighs shaking. “I wonder if she would help with Jack's case, if she got to watch something like this.”

Trevor groans into his neck, still working Izzy's cock hard, his other hand gripping Izzy's hip tight. 

“Ed and I could come back together,” Izzy continues, trying to ignore his own cracking voice and gasps and moans as he feels himself dripping onto Ferguson’s cock. “As Jack's legal team. Meet up with you and-”

“Denise.”

“Denise,” Izzy says softly. “She sounds lovely. You moving your hips would also be lovely.”

“Come for me first,” Trevor murmurs. “I know you're close. I can fucking feel it, jesus christ-”

Izzy nods, focusing on the fantasy taking on a clearer picture in his head. “We meet up with you two here, close the blinds and lock the door and then-”

That pushes him over the edge, coming hard on Ferguson’s cock, a hand hurriedly shoved over his own mouth for the moans he knows he can't quiet or stop. 

“More,” he gasps out when he's got a glimmer of his mind back and his legs under him again, shaky though they are. “Can we-”

“Hang on,” Ferguson slips out of him, and with a chuckle and a huff of breath, gets onto the floor on his back. “If your knees can take it-”

“I'll make them,” Izzy turns from the desk, and gets onto the floor, straddling Ferguson's hips. “Please. I don't even care if you could actually do anything for Jack, I just need-”

It's not that he minds tending towards topping with Ed. He's always joked he was happy to be an emergency top for the people he liked and/or loved best, and Ed is at the top of that list. But it's nice to take a turn on the other side of it, and to let himself be needy and subby on top of it all. 

“I've got you,” Ferguson's hands wander, helping hold Izzy steady as he settles onto his cock. “Good boy.”

“Say it again,” he's begging, and this is a bit pathetic, but at times like these it feels stupid good to grovel. 

“Good boy,” Ferguson mumbles happily, smiling as Izzy bounces and grinds on his cock. “Such a good boy, taking it so deep, making such a mess on me.”

He reaches back carefully, until he can feel the soft, velvety skin of Trevor's balls. “Yeah? Can I come on it again?”

He toys gently with them, adjusting his touch in tune with Ferguson's moans. “Hm? My come dripping down to your balls, making a mess of us both.”

There's the urge to tell him to pause long enough to take the condom off, but he knows better than to risk it. Even if he wants so badly that it makes him ache to feel Trevor coming bare inside of him. 

Coming inside while covered by the condom will have to do though, and at the very least the one they used is thin enough that he can feel most of the twitching and pulsing that feels as good as any thrusting. 

He switches from grinding to bouncing as one of Trevor's hands moves to tease his cock again. “Tell me. Tell me I can come on it.”

Trevor nods, then gasps it out. “Come for me.”

He lets himself go, hands on Ferguson's warm, hairy chest to ground himself as he fucks himself through his orgasm. He can feel Trevor pulsing inside him, though he's stifled his own moans with a hand clapped over his mouth. 

Izzy leans down to lay against him after a moment, whimpering desperately when he feels Trevor slip out of him. “Would I be too forward to ask for your number? Home number, not your office line, in case anyone can listen in on that. Just to keep in touch about Jack, of course.”

Trevor nods in between kisses, hands back at Izzy's hips, holding him close. “And to set up our next meeting. For any…in person updates we might want.”

He's already thinking of Ed in his cunt, and Trevor in his ass, laying across the desk. Utterly boneless and feeling cockdrunk, but happy to move as needed as Trevor rouses and moves about the office. 

There's not really anything to clean up with, but it's not the worst state he's left somewhere public in. And Trevor handles the majority of things: disposing of the condom, tossing Izzy his shirt and jacket, and most importantly, scribbling his phone number on a slip of paper.

---

“Home number?” Ed plucks the folded paper from Izzy's hand. 

He nods. “He'll be updating us whenever he can. But Jack's not getting out right n-”

“I know,” Ed bumps into him gently, the closest touch they can afford while standing on the sidewalk in front of the station. “But it was worth a try, and even if this one didn't get us anywhere, any future attempts might. Besides, seems like you enjoyed this quite a bit.”

“Next time, he suggested we might both come by to talk about Jack's options,” Izzy smirks as he motions Ed down the sidewalk and into the nearest alley, pondering exactly how well-fucked and messy he must look for Ed to comment on it. There, he can finally, potentially safely kiss him. “As his unorthodox-looking legal counsel-”

Ed smiles into the next kiss. “Think we could sneak the harnesses underneath our clothes without anyone noticing? Probably, almost definitely, yeah? I don't want to somehow make this worse for Jack-”

“I don't think it can get much worse for Jack,” Izzy interrupts. “Short of a conviction and prison. We'll see.”

“You don't think he did it,” Ed's eyes light up. “Wait. Does the detective think he didn't-”

“Tell you more when we get home,” Izzy can feel a set of eyes on them, and sure enough there stands a cop at the end of the alley. A woman, watching, but thankfully not making any moves towards them. Maybe she didn't see the kiss. “I can give you a reenactment of my valiant attempt to free Jack in there, if you're willing to put on a tie and button up to set the mood.”

“Do we own a tie between us?” Ed mutters. “Doesn't matter, I'll put on whatever we have that's closest.”

Izzy keeps an eye on the cop as they walk away, peering back to make sure she doesn't follow. 

She doesn't. But she doesn't turn away either. For a moment, he wonders…Denise? 

But Ed is getting ahead of him. He doesn't dare head back towards her.

[magicbookofrecord]

Exploring the World of Records: A Journey Through Extraordinary Achievements

The Fascination with World Records

Humanity's quest to achieve the extraordinary has given birth to countless world records. From remarkable feats of physical endurance to groundbreaking scientific discoveries, world records celebrate the pinnacle of human potential. This article delves into the intriguing realm of world records, providing a comprehensive list and an insight into the renowned Guinness World Records.

A Glimpse into All World Records

World records span diverse categories, reflecting the limitless possibilities of human ingenuity. Here is a curated list showcasing a variety of astonishing records:

Tallest Man Ever: Robert Wadlow, measuring 8 feet 11 inches, holds the record for the tallest man ever recorded.

Longest Fingernails on a Pair of Hands (Female): Lee Redmond's nails measured a total of 28 feet and 4.5 inches.

Fastest 100m Sprint: Usain Bolt's lightning-fast sprint in 9.58 seconds remains unbeaten.

Most Expensive Painting Sold at Auction: Leonardo da Vinci's "Salvator Mundi" fetched $450.3 million in 2017.

Deepest Dive by a Human: Ahmed Gabr descended to 1,082 feet (332.35 meters) in the Red Sea.

Heaviest Weight Lifted by a Human: Paul Anderson lifted 6,270 pounds in a back lift.

Largest Collection of Teddy Bears: Jackie Miley boasts a collection of 8,026 teddy bears.

Most Tattoos in 24 Hours by a Single Person: Hollis Cantrell inked 801 tattoos within a day.

Longest Time Spent in Space by a Human: Gennady Padalka accumulated 878 days in space.

Most Sliced Apples While Juggling Three Knives in One Minute: Ian Stewart sliced 24 apples in one minute.

The Guinness Record Website: A Gateway to Astonishing Feats

The Guinness World Records website is a treasure trove of human achievements. It serves as the official platform for recognizing and documenting record-breaking feats across the globe. From the bizarre to the awe-inspiring, the website features detailed descriptions, photos, and videos of record holders and their incredible accomplishments.

The First Guinness Book of Records: A Historical Perspective

The journey of the Guinness World Records began in 1955 with the publication of the first Guinness Book of Records. The book was the brainchild of Sir Hugh Beaver, then managing director of the Guinness Brewery. His vision was to create a definitive source of world records to settle debates and satisfy human curiosity. The first edition was a resounding success, quickly becoming a bestseller and establishing the foundation for the iconic record-keeping institution we know today.

Conclusion

World records continue to captivate and inspire people worldwide, showcasing the remarkable capabilities of the human spirit. Whether it's through the pages of the Guinness World Records or the comprehensive lists of achievements, these records remind us of the endless possibilities that lie within us all. Embrace the spirit of adventure and curiosity, and perhaps one day, your extraordinary feat will be etched in the annals of world records. Explore the world of records and embark on a journey of amazement and wonder. The pursuit of greatness is a testament to the boundless potential that resides within every individual. For more information and to discover more incredible records, visit Magic Book of Record.

[smosh-described]

[ID: Images of different Smosh members and videos, each with posts edited over them to represent the photo.

Image 1: A professional photograph of Trevor Evarts sitting on a stool with a neutral expression. Attached is a Tumblr post by @/m3rryg4m, who says, "I'm a hopeless bromantic, high five me in the rain, fistbump me gently as the sun sets."

Image 2: A motion blurred screenshot from a Smosh Pit Theatre video, where Shayne Topp and Tommy Bowe are both screaming. Shayne appears more joyful and has his arms spread wide as if lunging toward Tommy from behind, while Tommy's expression is fearful. The attached Tweet by @/thechaoticsage reads, "I'm not as unhinged as I could be and i want everyone to be grateful for that".

Image 3: Chanse McCrary wearing a Jesus costume. A textbox edited over the photo says, "stop asking jesus to take the wheel, cars didn't exist 2000 years ago he has absolutely no idea what he's doing".

Image 4: Tommy, Angela Giarratana, Chanse, and Courtney Miller in a Beopardy video. They all appear confused or mildly disgusted and are wearing headbands with animal features. Tommy's is elephant ears, Angela's is leopard ears, Chanse has frog eyes, and Courtney has giraffe ears and horns. A Tumblr post edited onto the image depicts @/junoinfernal saying, "the horrors are endless. but we stay silly :3".

Image 5: A close-up of Shayne, leaned forward to hold his face in his hand and furrowing his brows in a confused expression. The attached Tweet by @/e4moji reads, "If I had a nickel for every time I got confused, I'd be like "where'd this nickel come from?" and then there'd be another nickel and I'd think "what's with the nickels?" leading to more nickels and confusion and eventually I'd be slowly crushed by nickels without ever knowing why".

Image 6: Tommy and Kimmy Jimenez looking deep into each other's eyes and leaning their heads close together. There is a halo of bright yellow and green light around their heads. The Tumblr post by @/psycho-mocha says, "two wrongs don't make a right but two stupid bitches might make a genius".

Image 7: Damien Haas, Arasha Lalani, and Jackie Uweh in the Smosh video 'How To Leave A Party'. They all look shocked and confused. A Tumblr post by @/shitilivefor is edited over the screenshot. It reads, "if you can't blow them away with your brilliance, baffle them with your bullshit".

Image 8: A photo of Ian Hecox, sitting at a table with a bored or depressed expression. He is drinking from a 'My Favorite Coffee' mug. Attached is a Tumblr post from @/marypsue, who says, "maybe this silly little coffee drink will equip me to face the unrelenting and unendurable horror of existence". The only visible tag on the post reads, "it will not 😔".

Image 9: Ian and Anthony Padilla in a 'Flashback with Smosh' episode. Anthony looks very slightly shocked or confused. Ian is leaning his elbows to his knees, holding his head in his hands. Everything is in regular color except Ian, who is grayscale. A Tweet by @/Dick_Butte says, "we all have that homie who never fully recovered from the incident".

Image 10: A screenshot from the TikTok Towel Challenge on Smosh's Challenge Pit. Tommy is standing, looking proud and joyful. Next to him is Courtney, who is holding a towel at her side. Angela is lying flat on the ground, faced away from the camera, with towels wrapped around her limbs. Finally, Chanse is sitting with his back against the wall, looking disheveled and laughing. The attached Tweet by @/drewjanda reads, "The haters said I couldn't do it. And they were correct. Honestly great call from the haters".

End ID]

Why are they Like This (affectionate)

[mondoradiowmse]

05/08/24 Mondo Radio Playlist

Here's the playlist for this week's special membership drive edition of Mondo Radio, which you can download or stream here. This episode: "Loud Love", featuring tunes about amplitude and more. If you dig it, don't forget to also follow the show on Facebook and Twitter or, even better, become a Sound Citizen today!

Artist - Song - Album

Soundgarden - Loud Love - Louder Than Love

Tankard - Incredible Loudness - Alcoholic Metal

The Dictators - Faster & Louder - Bloodbrothers

Meat Loaf - For Crying Out Loud - Bat Out Of Hell

Kiss - Shout It Out Loud - Kissworld: The Best Of Kiss

Contraband - Loud Guitars, Fast Cars & Wild, Wild Livin' - Contraband

Meat Loaf - Everything Louder Than Everything Else - Bat Out Of Hell II: Back Into Hell

Pink Floyd - Louder Than Words - The Endless River

The Cranberries - Loud And Clear - Bury The Hatchet

Mama's Boys - Hard 'N' Loud - Power And Passion

TKA - Louder Than Love - The Tommy Boy Story, Vol. 1

Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark - Talking Loud And Clear - The Best Of OMD

Daryl Hall/John Oates - Love Out Loud - Marigold Sky

The Temptations - Thinking Out Loud - All The Time

Jackie Wilson - Whispers (Gettin' Louder) - The Best Of Jackie Wilson, Vol. 2 1966-1975

Erma Franklin - Whispers (Gettin' Louder) - Super Soul Sister

James Brown - Talking Loud And Saying Nothing - Part II - The Singles, Vol. 7: 1970-1972

James Brown - Say It Loud (I'm Black And I'm Proud), Pt. 1 - 20 All Time Greatest Hits

Public Enemy - Louder Than A Bomb - It Takes A Nation Of Millions To Hold Us Back

Brownout - Louder Than A Bomb - Fear Of A Brown Planet

Marcus Strickland's Twi-Life - Talking Loud - Nihil Novi

DJ Rashad X DJ Spinn X Taso - Roll Up That Loud - Afterlife

Hype Williams - Loud Challenge - Rainbow Edition

Ratatat - Loud Pipes - Classics

Major Lazer Feat. Nina Sky And Ricky Blaze - Keep It Going Louder - Essentials

Jamie Xx Feat. Romy - Loud Places - In Colour

Glass Animals - It's All So Incredibly Loud - Dreamland

Wye Oak - The Louder I Call, The Faster It Runs - The Louder I Call, The Faster It Runs

Jessie J Feat. Lindsey Stirling - Loud - Sweet Talker

Vic + Gab - Loud - Love Of Mine

Iron And Wine - Loud As Hope - Around The Well

Drive By Truckers - Hearing Jimmy Loud - English Oceans

They Might Be Giants - Man, It's So Loud In Here - Dial-A-Song: 20 Years Of They Might Be Giants

[insanislupus-moved]

Endless Edits Of Jackie Matlin.

[kaeptainamericas]

Jacqueline Fernandez→ Wearing Tarun Tahiliani

[ratanslily]

jackie varma, in endless summer style 🏖️

[kingsroad]

[swan-of-sunrise]

What The World Needs Now... (Part I)

Summary: Entirely out of options and fearing for her daughter’s safety, (Y/N) decides to pay Professor Charles Xavier a visit at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. The man in charge of the school, however, was nothing like what (Y/N) had expected.

Pairing: Charles Xavier X Reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings/Disclaimers: None

A/N: I was going through one of my old flash drives when I found this one-shot I’d written years ago, way back when I had a huge thing for McAvoy’s Professor X (specifically Professor X from X-Men: Apocalypse, the flowing brown hair really got to me lol). After making a few quick edits, I decided to publish it for you all to read so I hope that you enjoy! "What The World Needs Now Is Love" by Jackie DeShannon partially inspired this one-shot, so give it a listen if you've never heard it before :)

What The World Needs Now... September 1979

Looking out the window of the taxi, (Y/N) quietly admired how the sunlight streamed through the endless forest of trees; although they’d been traveling from Westchester County Airport through the woods of upstate New York for nearly a half an hour, the beautiful scenery still managed to keep her distracted from any anxious thoughts.

(Y/N) turned to Molly, who was curled against her side and fast asleep, and gently brushed her hair away from her peaceful face before looking down at the letter resting on her lap. The paper, once crisp and white, was wrinkled and stained from countless readings and although she could practically recite the words from memory by now, she began to read the letter once again.

Dear Miss (Y/L/N),

To say that I was pleasantly surprised by your letter would be an understatement; in all my years of research, I have never heard of a mutation developing at such a young age. I would very much like to meet your daughter to uncover more about her mutation but unfortunately, I am unable to leave my school and students unattended for extended periods of time. Would it be possible for you and your daughter to travel here? I know how complicated everything must seem to you now but I promise you, Miss (Y/L/N), I will do everything in my power to help the both of you in this challenging time.

                                                  Regards,

                                                  Professor Charles Xavier

Enclosed with the letter were two first-class plane tickets and in any other situation, (Y/N) would’ve rejected such generosity, but she was beyond desperate; Molly’s powers were accelerating with each passing day and becoming more and more noticeable, and they’d already been the target of threats from their supposed friends and neighbors. So, without a second thought, she and Molly found themselves on an airplane the day after the letter arrived. Professor Xavier seems like a very kindhearted old man, she thought with a hint of a smile, maybe the sort who wears patches on the elbows of his jackets and misplaces his reading glasses, or one who is even bald. No matter what he looked or dressed like, though, she was beyond relieved to have finally found someone who could possibly help her daughter.

“Would you look at that?” The taxi driver gave a low whistle. “That’s one hell of a house, huh?”

(Y/N) looked up from the letter and gasped in awe. In the distance stood an enormous mansion, similar to European castles and manors she’d only read about in books; the impressive stone structure was ringed with a manicured lawn and towering trees, and tendrils of ivy grew along the towering walls of the building.

“Molly? Molly, sweetie, time to wake up, we’re here!” Molly’s eyes slowly opened and she sleepily raised her hands to rub at them. “Molly-Bear look, doesn’t it look like a castle?”

Molly finally looked up and her face immediately brightened. “A castle, Mommy!” (Y/N) had to quickly stuff the letter into her purse and move it out of the way as the five-year old clambered onto her lap for a better look; she pressed her hands, which were wrapped in a pair of pink mittens, onto the window and stared at the mansion with wide eyes. “Is there a dragon in there?”

“I’m not sure, sweetie, you’ll have to ask Professor Xavier when we meet him.”

Minutes later, the taxi driver pulled up to the front of the mansion and stopped. (Y/N) thanked him and paid their fare before getting out and grabbing their two suitcases; they watched the taxi drive off before walking up several steps to the mansion’s massive front doors. On the stone wall beside the door was a modest brass plaque, which read Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.

“Wanna help me knock, Molly-Bear?” When the little girl smiled toothily, (Y/N) set their suitcases down, picked Molly up and rested her against her hip before raising her knuckles to the door. Molly placed her small fist against the door and they both knocked loudly, and (Y/N) silently hoped that someone in the enormous house would be able to hear them.

Much to her surprise, however, the door opened only a few moments later to reveal a tall man; he had a youthful face, with carefully styled brown hair and brilliant blue eyes behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses, and he wore a white laboratory coat over a dark blue button-down shirt and brown slacks. “Hello, how can I help you?”

“We wanna see Professor ’Zavier!”

The man’s bewildered look would’ve made (Y/N) smile if not for their serious situation. “My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N), and this is my daughter, Molly. We’re here to meet Professor Charles Xavier.” She reached into her purse, withdrew the letter and handed it to the wary man. “He sent me this letter several days ago.”

His eyes quickly scanned the words and he looked up, his guarded expression falling as he gave her a bright smile. “Of course, the professor’s been expecting you both, Miss (Y/L/N)!” Giving back the letter, he opened the door wider and gestured for them to enter. “Here, let me get your bags for you.”

“Thank you, Mr.…?”

“Oh, it’s Hank, Hank McCoy.” He shook her hand before bringing their suitcases into the house and nudging the door closed behind them. “The professor should be in his study, so if you’ll follow me…”

While Hank led them through the halls of the mansion, (Y/N) looked around and admired the beautiful interior. Everything from the mahogany wood-paneling to the slightly-faded ornate carpeting made her feel as though she were Nick Caraway from The Great Gatsby, entering the elaborate home of the mysterious Jay Gatsby for the very first time. However, she couldn’t help but notice a distinct lack of students roaming the halls.

“Excuse me, Hank, but where are all the children?”

Hank glanced down at his wristwatch. “Right now, they’re all in fifth period. It’s usually a lot noisier around here, but I think they’re all taking tests today.” They turned down another hall and continued walking. “I’m sorry for back there, by the way, we don’t get many visitors and sometimes the ones we do get-” He bit his lip and looked down before continuing. “They’re not all exactly fans of mutants like us.” Giving his head a small shake, Hank glanced between her and Molly out of the corner of his eye. “So, um…what exactly is her-?”

“Mutation?” (Y/N) finished for him. “I was hoping that Professor Xavier could tell me.” She looked down and frowned when she noticed how Molly’s face was pressed into her chest and how her mitten-clad hands were tightly clutching the sides of her head. “Molly? Sweetheart, are you okay?”

“My brain is itchy again, Mommy.”

Pressing a comforting kiss to her hair, (Y/N) glanced up to meet Hank’s bewildered expression. “Professor Xavier…” Her eyes prickled with tears before she rapidly blinked them away, putting on the brave face she had worn continuously for the past two months. “He’s the only one who can help us…I know he is.”

Hank gave her a small nod and they continued down the hall in silence. After taking another turn, they came face-to-face with a set of doors; before Hank could set their suitcases down and knock, a voice inside called out, “Come in, Hank.”

With a reassuring smile, Hank gestured to the door and she opened it; inside was a rather messy study, with papers piled high on chairs and tables and overflowing bookshelves along the walls. Behind an enormous desk sat a man writing in a journal, and he looked nothing like how she’d imagined. For starters, the man wasn’t bald or old, he had wavy brown hair that brushed past his ears and appeared to be only a handful of years older than her. He was dressed in a stylish grey suit jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a patterned shirt, and he sat in a silver wheelchair. When he finally glanced up from his writing, she was instantly struck by the intelligent blue eyes that bored directly into hers.

“Charles, this is Miss (Y/L/N) and her daughter…”

“Of course!” Placing his pen on the desk, Charles rested his hand on the arm of his wheelchair and used the joystick to wheel himself around the desk, coming to a stop before her and outstretching his hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss (Y/L/N).”

(Y/N) smiled politely and shook his hand, slightly taken aback by his distinct British accent and undoubtedly handsome looks. “Please, call me (Y/N), and the pleasure’s all mine.” She set Molly down and placed a reassuring hand on her small shoulder. “This is Molly. Molly, do you want to say hello to Professor Xavier?”

“Hi Professor ’Zavier!”

Charles smiled warmly at Molly’s enthusiastic greeting and shook her extended hand. “Hello Molly, and welcome to the school for the gifted. Please, make yourselves-oh,” He glanced around as if only just noticing the state of the room. “Hank, could you clear those papers off the sofa? I’m terribly sorry for the mess, my students just turned in their first major assignment of the year and I’ve admittedly been a little slow in grading them.” After setting their suitcases down, Hank gathered up all the papers strewn over the small couch and took them to another table. “Thank you; please, have a seat.” (Y/N) led Molly to the couch and they sat as Charles wheeled himself to them. “Do you mind if Hank stays while we talk? He helps me run the school and his scientific expertise may be helpful in unlocking Molly’s mutation.”

“Of course not,” Hank nodded in thanks and leaned against the wall. (Y/N) twirled the edge of her sweater around her fingers nervously and looked back at the professor. “So, um…what would you like to know first?”

“I’d like to begin by asking your daughter some questions, if that’s alright with you?” She nodded in agreement. “Thank you. Molly?” Charles asked gently and Molly, who had already gotten distracted by the window beside them, turned to him. “I was hoping that you and I could play a game, would you like that?” He’s very good with children, she thought with an inward smile, a sure sign of an excellent teacher.

Molly nodded. “Sure, that sounds fun! What kinda game?”

“How about…I ask you a question and after you answer, you ask me one? You can even ask Hank questions. Isn’t that right, Hank?”

The younger man looked bewildered for a moment. “Um, y-yeah, of course. Sure thing.”

“Alright, I’ll let you start.” Charles sat back in his wheelchair and smiled. “You can ask me anything you-”

“Do you have a dragon here?”

Her sudden question caused Charles to laugh and (Y/N) to crack a brief smile. “I’m afraid not, but we do have a student who has the ability to shoot flames out of her mouth; not quite the same thing, unfortunately. Now, Molly, your mother wrote me a letter and told me that something has been happening to you recently; can you describe it for me?”

Molly plucked thoughtfully at her mittens. “My brain gets itchy sometimes, and then I hear voices and see things. It doesn’t last that long.” Charles and Hank exchanged a look before Molly spoke again. “Why are you wearing a white jacket?”

“Um, well, it’s my lab coat…I’m a scientist.” Hank answered awkwardly and Molly looked up at him expectantly. “Oh right, the game. Um, so you…like dragons, huh?”

Molly grinned toothily. “Yeah, they’re really cool! Professor ’Zavier, what’s your mu…mu…?”

“Mutation?” She nodded. “Well, to put it simply, I can read minds.”

“Excuse me?” (Y/N) raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You’re a telepath?”

He only smiled at her. “You don’t believe me.”

“No, I believe you, it’s just…well…”

Charles shrugged, the smile still on his face. “I suppose it sounds a little fantastical, doesn’t it? Do you mind if I read yours? I promise I’ll only read surface thoughts, nothing too deep.” With his elbow resting on his wheelchair’s arm, he raised his hand to the side of his head and wiggled his fingers near his temple as he gave her a questioning look. She slowly nodded and without breaking eye contact, Charles pressed two fingers to his temple; after several moments passed, his face broke out into an amused grin. “I’m certainly glad to have all my hair and while I don’t have reading glasses or patches on the elbows of my jackets, I do have a silly habit of misplacing my pen.” (Y/N)’s mouth fell open in surprise but before she could say anything, Charles’ voice rang out in her head. “Perhaps this will help curb your skepticism.” Before her eyes, Hank’s carefully styled hair morphed into an exaggerated Elvis cut and his lab coat was changed into a black leather jacket; she blinked in shock and when she opened her eyes, Hank’s appearance was back to normal.

(Y/N) looked between Charles, who was smiling mischievously as he lowered his fingers, and Hank, who looked slightly confused, and she found her own lips curving upwards. “That’s an amazing gift, Professor! Are you able to communicate with everyone’s mind like that at all times?”

“Thank you and please, call me Charles. I haven’t yet met a mind that I wasn’t able to read and communicate with; however, I make it a case to never invade anyone’s mind without their express permission.” He turned back to Molly. “Which leads me to my next question; Molly, is it alright if I read your mind for a moment? I’d like to try and learn what those voices are saying.”

Molly looked up at (Y/N) expectantly, so she wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s your decision, Molly-Bear.”

The little girl nodded and Charles brought his fingers back to his temple. A heavy silence fell over the room and (Y/N) anxiously bit her lip as she watched the professor’s face. His neutral expression faded and was replaced with a look of wonder, with his eyebrows raised and his eyes widened.

Hank frowned and took a step forward. “Charles?”

“I’m fine, Hank, just a little stunned.” He lowered his hand and sat back in his wheelchair, the amazed look still on his face. “I’m terribly sorry, Molly, but I need to break the rules of our game for a moment and ask another question; why is it you’re wearing gloves? It’s a beautiful day outside, hardly the kind of weather to warrant wearing them…”

Molly raised her mitten-covered hands and flexed her fingers. “Oh, that’s ‘cause it stops the voices a little bit!”

“Well, Molly, I believe I know what your mutation is.” He glanced between Molly and (Y/N) as he spoke. “You’re a psychometric telepath. To put it simply, you have the ability to open a psychic link with anyone related to the object you’ve touched and read their minds; those voices you’re hearing, Molly, are the thoughts of all the people you’ve psychically connected with once you’ve held their possessions. I’ve never met a person with this mutation before, it’s truly fascinating!”

(Y/N) furrowed her brow in confusion. “So, Molly can communicate with another person’s mind just like you can, so long as she’s held something that belongs to them?” Charles nodded. “That explains-”

Just then, a bell rang through the mansion and (Y/N) could hear the muffled sounds of voices and footsteps. “Ah, fifth period’s over.” There was a knock on the study door. “Come in.”

A tall man with long blonde hair entered, also dressed in a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt. “You rang, Charles?” He gestured playfully to his temple as he spoke.

“Yes, I’d like you to meet (Y/N) (Y/L/N) and her daughter, Molly. Ladies, this is my former student and fellow professor, Alex Summers.”

(Y/N) stood and smoothed her skirt before shaking Alex’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alex.”

“Likewise; I’ve heard a lot about you from Charles.” Alex bent down and offered his hand Molly. “And I’ve heard even more about you. Nice to meet you, Molly!” The little girl only giggled and gave his hand a small shake.

“Alex, I was hoping that you and Hank would watch Molly for a short while, as (Y/N) and I still have to talk things over. That is,” Charles glanced back at (Y/N). “If you and Molly are alright with that?”

Alex crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. “We’ve got a pretty big playground ’round back, if you’re interested.”

Molly gasped in excitement and (Y/N) chuckled as she sat back down. “It’s fine with me. Have fun, sweetheart!”

“Bye Mommy!” The little girl gave her a kiss on the cheek before tugging Alex out of the study by the leg of his pants with Hank trailing reluctantly behind them. “Bye Professor ’Zavier!”

Once the door of the study closed behind them, Charles turned his attention back to her. “(Y/N), I need to know the exact circumstances in which Molly’s mutation first appeared. Don’t leave anything out, every detail could be important.”

“Well, it first happened around two months ago; I was at the kitchen table going through bills and Molly was playing in the backyard with our neighbor’s son, Randy. I had just finished up when I heard them shouting, so I went in the backyard to see Randy crying and Molly holding the baseball mitt his father had lent him.” (Y/N) looked down at her clasped hands before continuing. “Randy said that Molly told him his father was going to leave him and his mother so he could be with his girlfriend; I thought that she was lying but the next day, I ran into Randy’s mother on my way to work and she told me that her husband admitted to cheating on her and wanted a divorce. After that day, whenever Molly touched something, she would say things about people that she couldn’t possibly know about.”

“And then?”

(Y/N) stood and walked to the window, looking out at a beautiful lake surrounded by trees as her eyes stung with unshed tears. “People began noticing. I-I had her wear gloves because they helped control it a little – I didn’t know why at the time – but it was too late. People on the street called Molly a witch, we got these awful letters in the mail, my car was vandalized and…and someone even broke into our apartment while we were at the park. That was the final straw; I quit my job, packed our things, and drove us to another state where we stayed at a motel. That’s where I found out about you and your school and wrote you…”  How could people be so cruel to a child, she thought sadly, wiping away the tears as they streamed down her cheeks. “You have to understand, Charles, I’m not ashamed of my daughter’s gift. I’ve always believed that a person’s differences should be celebrated, but lately I live in fear that someone less understanding will see her gift as an excuse to hurt her.”

“I’m so sorry, (Y/N).” She felt something brush against her hand and looked down to see Charles beside her, offering her a handkerchief. She accepted it with a quiet word of thanks and dried her eyes while he gently continued. “No one should have to experience what you and your daughter have, but you can’t lose your hope in humanity. Humans have always feared and hated that which they couldn’t understand but one day, humans and mutants will be able to peacefully coexist. We just have to keep believing in that one day.”

(Y/N) nodded, took a breath and cleared her throat before looking back down at his compassion-filled face. “Now what do we do?”

“Well, now that we know exactly what Molly’s mutation is, we can discuss her enrollment here.” He gestured back to the couch and she took a seat as he continued. “If you decide to enroll her, she’ll be taught by myself to harness and control her mutation, as well as receive a normal education – English, mathematics, those sorts of things – from certified professors. There’s no tuition or rooming fee to be paid, and she can stay here from kindergarten all the way through to college if she wants.”

“And if I decide to enroll her, how…how often would I be allowed to see her?” At the thought of being separated from Molly, (Y/N)’s throat tightened and she blinked rapidly to stop herself from tearing up again; they were all each other had and while she couldn’t bear the thought of living apart from her daughter, she cared far more about her safety to be selfish.

“Well, I expect you’ll be seeing lots of her, since I’m also offering you a position here.” (Y/N)’s eyes snapped back to his and her mouth opened wordlessly before closing in stunned silence. “While I was reading your mind earlier, I noticed that you were previously employed as an English tutor and quite an impressive one at that; you’ve held positions at several universities, including your alma mater, and you’ve even had a research paper published in an academic journal. And as it just so happens, one of our professors recently retired and we have a vacancy needing to be filled.” While she continued to stare at him in shock, he gave her a sympathetic smile. “I would never dream of separating you from Molly, (Y/N), not at her young age. You both are welcome to stay here as long as you’d like.”

Surging forward, (Y/N) clasped her hands around his and let out a half-sob, the tension that had built over two months finally leaving her body. “Thank you, thank you so much, Charles, I-I really don’t know what to say!”

“I take it that you and Molly will stay, then?”

(Y/N)’s face broke out into a wide grin, the biggest she’d given anyone in a long time, and nodded. “Yes, we will.”

Charles’ smile matched hers and he gave her hands a small squeeze. “Excellent. Now, how about a tour of the mansion?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For nearly an hour, Charles led (Y/N) on a tour of the entire mansion; she saw both the wing of student dormitories and the wing of professor dormitories, the kitchens, the dining hall, several classrooms and finally, the massive library. It was difficult to contain her excitement upon seeing so many books in one place, so she was relieved when Charles encouraged her to look around while he spoke to a young student about his homework. I’ve never seen so many books in my life, she thought happily as her fingers skimmed over the old book spines. Based on everything that Charles had told her and what she’d seen over the past hour, she was entirely sure that she had made the right decision for her daughter.

“What do you think of our library?” Charles asked as his wheelchair came to a stop beside her. “It’s not as extensive as I’d wish it to be, but I’m working on purchasing newer books that the children would normally read if they were enrolled in a regular school.”

“I think it’s wonderful, Charles. Most of the books I’ve seen here you’d never find in a public school; I mean, how many students get the opportunity to study Molière outside of a private institution?” She turned away from the books to give him a smile. “The children are very lucky to have a professor who cares about them as much as you do.”

Charles grinned bashfully, his ears turning a vibrant shade of red. “It’s nothing, really, but thank you…w-would you care for a tour of the grounds next?”

After Charles switched wheelchairs, he led her outside and around the beautiful grounds. They visited the garden, where some students were picking fruits and vegetables and others were tending to flowers. They made their way across a stone bridge and down a path to watch an older woman instructing teenagers as they fired arrows at various targets, then made their way around the lake, where most of the children had taken advantage of the sunny day to swim. As they made their way around the grounds, Charles told her more about the school: the curriculum he and the other professor’s taught, the different students that attended and his dreams for the future of the school. She listened with rapt attention and interjected with small comments or ideas but mostly allowed him to keep talking. He’s a very ambitious man, she thought pensively as he talked about one day offering college-level courses and degree programs, and she couldn’t deny that there was something endearing about the way he spoke of his dreams.

“(Y/N), do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Tearing her eyes away from the stunning rose bushes she’d been admiring, (Y/N) offered the professor a smile. “Of course not.”

“It pertains to Molly’s father. Is he…?”

“He’s not in the picture, if that’s what you’re asking.” (Y/N) shrugged her shoulders and continued to slowly walk beside Charles’ wheelchair. “We’d only been dating for a couple of months when I got pregnant, and that’s when we realized that we both wanted different things out of our relationship. We went our separate ways and I’ve been raising Molly by myself ever since.” She furrowed her brow as a thought suddenly came to mind. “You don’t think that he might carry the mutant gene as well, do you?”

Charles, who’d been looking up at her with an unreadable expression on his face, shook his head. “It’s possible, but seeing as he’s no longer a part of your lives there’s no way to know for certain.” They fell into a comfortable silence but when they reached the end of the walkway, he stopped. “(Y/N), many of the students I teach come from families that only wish to hide their children’s differences, ones who’d rather send their children away than help them understand and accept their gifts. It’s rare that I meet a parent or guardian as caring and accepting of their child as you, and I just…well, Molly’s very lucky to have you for a mother.”

Feeling her face warm at his praises, (Y/N) ducked her head and smiled bashfully. She loved Molly will all her heart but being a single mother to a five-year-old didn’t provide too many opportunities for romance, mostly because of time constraints but also because the men she’d met seemed to lose interest in her the moment she told them she had a daughter. In the short time she’d known Charles Xavier, however, she’d become a little bit smitten with the handsome professor; he was an excellent listener, allowing her to ramble on and on as his gleaming blue eyes remained entirely focused on her, and the thoughtful care he took in answering all her questions coupled with the charming smiles he’d give her nearly made her weak in the knees.

“So, you mentioned that Alex and Hank help you run the school but, um…is there anyone else around to help out?”

The professor chuckled. “I’m not married or in a relationship, if that’s what you’re asking.” (Y/N) tilted her head to the side and Charles shot her an exasperated look. “I spend half the afternoon talking about mutant genes and super-powered abilities, and that’s what you have difficulty believing?”

“Charles, you’ve got hair like Barry Gibb, a smile like John Travolta and a mansion bigger than the whole apartment building I grew up in.”

“Mm, I suppose I see your point.” Running a hand through his hair, Charles shrugged his shoulders and let out a small sigh. “But restarting the school has been my top priority these past few years. And even if I did have the time to meet someone…well, I’m not sure they’d be willing to accept certain aspects of my life.” His fingers absentmindedly drummed against the armrest of the wheelchair as he spoke and she inwardly sighed at the implications of his words. “So, I choose to focus on helping my fellow mutants and so far, my work has been all the fulfillment I need.”

(Y/N) smiled to herself, his words reminding her of the mantra she often used in her own life, and she found herself replying before she could stop herself. “You know, a very wise professor recently told me that I shouldn’t lose hope in humanity; if I’m going to take his advice to heart, then maybe you should as well. Someone might come along and surprise you, but only if you’re willing to let them in.”

Charles hummed thoughtfully and they shared a warm smile, their gazes lingering on one another even as they continued down the path. “We should go and see what Molly and her new friends are up to; Hank’s hopeless when it comes to children, so we may have to rescue the poor fellow…”

Finally, they made their way to the playground. Since most of the children were swimming or playing soccer, the playground was relatively empty, save for three people; Molly was giggling as she went down the slide and the moment her feet touched the ground, she would clamber back up the play structure and slide back down. Alex was smiling but watching her with the cautious eyes of a skilled babysitter and Hank was preoccupied with scribbling something down in a notebook and didn’t even look up when they approached.

“Hey, you two! How’d everything go?” Alex asked.

“Well, Alex, I’m pleased to say that we have a new-”

“Mommy!” They all looked up to see Molly running towards them, a bright grin stretching across her face as she came to a stop before them. “Mommy, this place is so cool! The playground has swings and there’s a lake and everything’s humongous!”

“I’m glad that you like it,” (Y/N) smiled and knelt down so that they were eye-level. “Molly-Bear, how would you like to go to school here from now on? Would you like that?” Molly’s smile fell and tears began to form in her eyes. “Molly, what’s wrong?”

Molly suddenly threw her arms around her neck and buried her face in the crook of her neck. “Please don’t leave me, Mommy, I promise I’ll be good! I don’t want you to go!”

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay,” (Y/N) shushed her as she held the sobbing girl in a comforting embrace. “I’ll be living here too, Professor Xavier offered me a teaching job. We’ll still be together, Molly!” She pulled away and held Molly’s face between her hands, wiping away stray tears with the pads of her thumbs. “I promise you, Molly (Y/L/N), I’ll never leave you as long as I live. Okay? You and I are a team, we always have been and we always will be.”

The little girl nodded and looked at Charles. “Are you gonna fix me?”

“Molly, you’re not broken.” Charles spoke firmly and leaned forward in his wheelchair to meet her gaze. “If you really want to stay here, I’ll help you control and focus your power; you’ll be surrounded by children just like you, Molly, children with very exceptional gifts and I promise you that one day, you’ll be able to hear those voices inside your head only when you choose to. So, what do you say?”

Molly’s face broke out into a wide grin. “Okay!”

“Well, then,” Alex crossed his arms and smiled. “Let me be the first to welcome you both to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters!”

As Molly giggled and clapped her mitten-covered hands together, (Y/N) and Charles’ eyes met as timid smiles spread across their faces. Molly and I have always been a team, but maybe now’s the right time to add a new member to the line-up, she thought to herself and judging by the soft look in the professor’s blue eyes, he was thinking something along the same lines.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading! Like I said above, this was a one-shot I wrote years ago and I had a lot of fun looking over my old writing lol I hope that you had just as much fun reading it!

...Is Love, Sweet Love (Part II)

Story Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl​ @holb32​ @f1uveryysblog​ Marvel Tag List: @brooke0297​​​​ @deadlymistletoe​ Permanent Tag List: @ladydmalfoy​​​​ @momc95​​​​ @crowleysqueenofhell​​​ @resplendentlady​ @groovy-lady​ @yasmin12312 

[dearheartsproject]

THE DEAR HEARTS PROJECT: FANBOOK VIDEO

In 2020 The Amazing Devil Discord started a fan project to mirror back the love that our favorite band poured out towards us.

I decided to finally put an end cap to this beautiful project: A video compilation of what we had once hoped would be a physical book. At the very least, this can finally showcase the immense talent and outpouring of appreciation from just some of the dear hearts worldwide. 

You may also view the final pages on this tumblr for higher quality and reading ease, or download the public pdf HERE.

Thank you to everyone who submitted artwork and letters, and also for your endless patience! This wouldn’t be anything without all of you. Anyone that wished their content remain private has been edited out of the final public pdf, tumblr page, and video. All the best, Jackie x Song Used: Not Yet/Love Run by The Amazing Devil. (If the video doesn’t load, the direct link is here.)

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yourusername

liked by mbeniers10, cam.york and others

yourusername from the vault pt. 2

fanuser COLE AND ALEX CONTENT

fanuser why isn’t it all cole😟

yourusername i’m actually jack’s girlfriend, not cole’s!

quinnhughes_ top quality

yourusername thanks q i try my best🥰

jackhughes again, not in 50% of these

trevorzegras @.alexturcotte we look good

alexturcotte drool worthy

yourusername

liked by brockboeser, tysmith.14 and others

yourusername that’s my man🤤 (thank u ty for the endless supply of jack pics)

tysmith.14 glad to be of service

jackhughes baby… why the second one

yourusername ur so cute🥹🥹

fanuser y/n has all the dev’s working for her already? sounds like queen wag behaviour to me

nicohiscier team wag?

yourusername do i have to send orange slices with j now?

yourusername

liked by lhughes_06, patrickmoynihan_ and others

yourusername swipe for j’s reaction when he realizes this means insta posts 4 life

jackhughes you can’t even do a normal post for this?

yourusername i loooove u jacky

quinnhughes_ finally

mbeniers10 wedding szn about to be crazy

lhughes_06 took him long enough

fanuser IVE NEVER BEEN THIS EXCITED FOR A STRANGER’S ENGAGEMENT

fanuser the content we’ll be getting😵‍💫😵‍💫

yourusername plenty of alex, trev, cole pics will be posted ;)

fanuser QUEEN WAG !!!!!!

alexturcotte congrats, glad you’ll be there to torture jack for the rest of his life

yourusername love u alex

trevorzegras MRS HUGHES

yourusername 🥹

[gingerteaonthetardis]

for @flamesandpages 🌟 took a few liberties with my own theory here. also, no editing—first draft, only draft! hope you don't mind.

based on my tags on this post.

✨

He will always call it a coincidence, though Jackie believes otherwise, and Pete Tyler knows better than to disturb their as-yet-unbelievable peace by arguing with his indomitable wife.

"Right place, right time," he says in the days and hours after. "Just pure luck."

"Rubbish! You're a hero, plain and simple."

"Well, I'm glad I was there anyway," he replies humbly. And that, at least, is the truth.

✨

He didn't know what to expect when he went back for her; he certainly didn't anticipate the sight of her legs flying up off the ground, hair streaming behind her, her eyes wide and tear-filled from wind and terror.

Her mouth had been open in a silent scream, a voiceless call for help from her Doctor, who could do nothing but brace his own body against the pull of the void. "Rose!" the alien was shouting. "Hold on! Hold on!"

But he was close enough to do something about it.

It was just instinct. Pure reaction. Before his weight could shift and tip him backwards into oblivion, Pete's hands flew out, grasping the handle of the lever to which she clung. Her hands were cold, bloodless. He gripped her so tight he was certain it hurt. But he didn't think of that until later.

"Hang on!" he cried. "I've got you. Don't let go!"

She couldn't answer—not with words. She only barely managed a nod before a silvery arm whipped past them, and she ducked her head away. More came, some coming within inches of his own head.

He thought, in that moment, that this might be the end—and to his horror, he wouldn't even see it coming.

It felt interminable, the brightness and the wind. His fingers froze, and still he gripped tighter. But soon the flashes in his periphery seemed more white than silver. The wind was an uninterrupted scream, unbroken by the juddering howls of Daleks or half-issued Cyber commands. His eyes, now watering, left Rose, and turned to the abyss that seemed, almost impossibly, to be turning in on itself.

Closing.

"I've got to go," he said, turning his head back to his daughter—because she was his daughter, no matter what he'd told her before. It was impossible to look at her and not see the pieces of his Jackie, of himself in her stark jaw and soulful eyes, which blinked at him through tears and running makeup. "It's closing."

She seemed paralyzed by her horror. But he didn't have long. There wasn't time…

"I'll look out for Jackie," he said, speaking fast. His voice, usually so sure, was filled with emotion. "And I'll never forget you. How you saved two worlds. I'll never let Jackie forget either, as if she could."

His words earned him a smile, and Pete felt himself smiling too, even as the whistle intensified. His window was closing; his fingers loosened.

But he chanced one last thought. "I'm proud to have a daughter like you, Rose. In any universe."

A tear slipped down her cheek, so quickly he thought it might be an illusion. He wished he could wipe it away. It seemed the fatherly thing to do, and now he'd never get that chance.

"Dad," she said, voice breaking.

But it was too late. He was letting go, and losing his balance. He had only a second—just one horrible, endless second—to smack that big yellow button.

And he did, stumbling forward into a different world. Into Jackie's arms, which shook as they wrapped around him. It seemed dark without the pure light of the void. His legs bowed and steadied like he'd just got back from sea.

"Where's Rose?" Jackie had cried. "Where's my daughter?"

Pete Tyler could barely catch his breath, but he had enough in him to say, "She's safe. She's with the Doctor." He looked up, into Jackie's crystalline blue eyes. "She's safe."

✨

Time is a funny thing.

It seems an eternity between her letting go—or, Pete letting go of her—or the pull of the void letting go of them both—and when she hits the ground. But it can't be more than a second. Maybe two.

All she knows is when she lands, it hurts.

"Rose!"

The Doctor's voice sounds loud and clear and close, after the numbing volume of the wind. But that's because he is close. As she pushes herself up to her feet, wrists smarting, he is very close—running into her bodily with almost as much force as gravity itself.

They tumble backwards together. She hits the ground again, but this time, it doesn't hurt so much. It just feels like arms and legs and frantic hearts-beats, so fast and strong that she can feel them through his suit.

"Rose," he says, over and over. "Rose—Rose—Rose." Like he's been stripped of his entire vocabulary.

It makes her smile—makes her laugh, too, as she burrows into the welcome of his embrace, breathing in the scent of wool. "Can't get rid of me that easy," she rasps. Her throat is parched; she doesn't care. She tips her head up, or something like it. "Best not try it again, though."

"I won't." He answers so fast, there's not even an instant of hesitation. His arms go tighter around her. "Never, ever again."

He sounds like he means it.

She knows he does when the first kiss lands on her forehead—then her nose—then her chin. Before she can think better of it, she is returning the kisses. Little ones on his freckled cheeks, and his fluttery eyelids, and his permanently clean-shaved jaw.

One lands just right, and it's their lips, and she decides that all adventures ought to end this way.

Maybe a bit less sore. Maybe not rolling about on the floor.

But otherwise, just like this.

This, she believes, is the happiest of endings.

✨

"Did you mean it?" she'll ask, someday, in the future. "What you said, when Pete rescued me."

"I did. I'll never send you away again, Rose. I'll never leave you behind." They will be in a tight spot, when this conversation happens. The Doctor will be getting a bit shifty—a bit anxious about her safety and other such nonsense.

But he'll smile, and it will be a little guilty, because he'll have been thinking about it. Which is why she'll have brought it up.

She always knows.

"It never seems to stick, anyway," he'll add. Which will make her laugh, which in turn will make his smile a little brighter. "I've learned my lesson."

"Quite right, too," she'll reply, beaming away. "Guess that means you're stuck with me."

"Stuck with you," he'll say, "that's not so bad."

And that, she knows, will be the truth.