#hanging by a thread looping her songs

[halfstayed]

SASHA ALEX SLOAN via Instagram (December 27, 2023)

it’s the most ✨likely to have a depressive episode ✨time of the year

[ameagrice]

The Wanderer

chapter two: sugar cookies and christmas trees.

jeremy frazier x oc.

The clock above the board at the front of the classroom ticks away aggressively. Aggressively, because one of the hands is broken and hanging on by a thread behind the glass, while the other is half-snapped off entirely. It’s loud, and it would be a beautiful evening, if it were the only noise in the room. Somewhat peaceful, even! Except…

Jeremy Frazier sits beside her at the desk, turning the pages of his book every few seconds, and writing in the margins.

The clock says it’s almost five o’clock, and they’re waiting for their parents to arrive on the scene. Jeremy says his won’t come at all and it’s pointless him being there, but Sadie is sure when hers arrive there’ll be hell to pay. She almost envies Jeremy and his family, despite all that she’s heard about them.

They’re sitting in detention, because she launched a paper-mache airplane at his head in a fit of rage. Jeremy declared her tripping over his outstretched feet as an accident, when they’d been the last two in the classroom to pack up. To her, having had a rough week, it was the last straw.

Could you stop? sits on her tongue. But after throwing a hard object at him, and him having retaliated by throwing it back at her, it feels a bit mean to have a go at him for reading. Even so, the sigh that leaves her nose is enough to stop his page-turning.

“Is there a problem?” He drawls, irritation lacing the words.

“No,” she snaps. “Not at all.”

There’s a red and purple spot under her left eye that is sore to touch and tender. Truthfully, she hadn’t thrown his paper-mache airplane that hard at his head, but Jeremy saw red, too, and hit back twice as hard. He won’t bruise but she certainly has. The eye socket is tender and raw, and he has not apologised.

“Good.”

“Good!”

The clock ticks some more, until she can’t take it.

“What are you reading?”

Jeremy inhales deeply, and flicks the book shut to the front, wrinkled page. It's cover is simple, and the title rather boring.

"Crime and punishment," he offers the page to her. "Dostoevsky."

She hums in amusment. "You're one of those." Sadie looks down at the page of paper before her, scribbled all over in blue ink pen with the lyrics to U2's song 'Hold me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me'. Lily plays it on a loop every night before she goes out to work, so it loops around Sadie's brain in the day at school.

Jeremy tilts his head, his expression a little jarred. With a confused hike of a laugh, he says, "One of those? What does that mean?" Offence is sprinkled in his tone.

"One of those that thinks they're above all other readers because they read 'proper' books by old men.

"I'm sorry," Jeremy snaps. "Wasn't it you reading 'Make Lemonade' yesterday for our extended essay?"

Sadie flays a hand to say yeah, and? "Virginia Wolff rocks. Dostoevsky? That guy sucks. And anyway, 'Make Lemonade' is about getting into college and the trials of being a teenager. Crime and Punishment is something those old people who run the community centre would read for fun."

"Well, I think Virginia Wolff is shit, man."

"Did you ever give her a chance?" Sadie flings herself around in the seat, and startles; Jeremy's looking already at her, brows pinched together, mouth curled in distate.

"Did you ever give Crime and Punishment a chance?" he retorts.

No, she did not. And it seems her silence is Jeremy Frazier's answer.

When their detention ends, they leave the room in silence, dismissed by the ancient Mrs. Vaughn, in her heavy woolen coat and polished boots. In the foyer, down the hall in the midst of being renovated and decorated with bits of peeling plaster, Lily stands with her arms folded across her stomach, face plastered in makeup ready for her shift at O'Grady's, the bar downtown. Her skirt is pulled down to her knees so as not to give Vaughn the impression that she makes her money by having it higher (which, Lily would admit proudly, she does).

"Jealousy doesn't look good on you!" her voice rings in Sadie's head. "It isn't my fault you don't have anything to flaunt." Lily's classic and re-used phrase to starers and old people who think they owe her their opinion.

When she hears them approaching, pushing through the set of old, squeaky doors, she digs a hand into her coat pocket and produces a cereal bar, throwing it in Sadie's direction. She catches it with a cracking clap.

"Come on, then. Get in the car."

The Car is Lily's prized possession. It's painted blueberry-blue, and the inside smells of Fresh Pine from the blueberry-coloured freshener hanging from the front mirror. The seats are polished to high heaven, and God Forbid Sadie drops anything on the floor. Her life wouldn't be worth living. For Lily's twentieth birthday, their parents put together their savings and combined them with Lily's own, to buy the 1994 Dodge Ram.

The walk through the parking lot is cold, and their breath is visible in the air, clouds of mist and smoke.

"He do that to your face?" Asks Lily, leaning over mid-walk to take Sadie's face in her hand and turn it, inspecting it. "Hit him harder next time."

"Oh, I plan to," she vows. Lily swipes around the socket of her eye, and it stings like hell. "Ow."

"Oh, shut up," she snickers, and turns her blue eyes away. Her eyelashes are brushed with black mascara tonight, not brown. Although that could be because Sadie stole it, and consequently lost the tube... "Put some ice on it when we get home."

"I ate all the ice."

"Alright, then put frozen peas on it? You little weirdo, what are you eating ice for?"

"I was craving it!"

Four days pass before she sees Jeremy Frazier again, late in the evening on Saturday afternoon. The Sixth Sense has just been released on the big screen, and from the looks of the seating in the theatre room, the whole school has shown up for it.

"Okay," Abbie mumbles, walking along and leading the way down the dark aisle. The room is loud with yells and talking from teenagers excited for the movie, and equally as scared for the thrills. It's supposed to be the biggest movie of the year. "We're row C, seats seven and eight."

"I can't see shit in here!" Sadie squints at the letters stamped into the rows, going backwards from Z to A. "Is that a K? I think that's a K. Oh, wait, hang on, that's not a K."

"It is, that's a K."

"I'm sure that's an L." She throws popcorn in her mouth.

"Definitely not an L..AHA!" They both freeze on the brightly-patterned carpet, and turn down row C, squeezing past rude boys who refuse to move their legs, and girls older than them who pay them no mind, chatting amongst themselves. "Uhhh, here!"

Looking up, a voice is familiar, in seat number nine. It's a boy in a dark denim jacket, the sleeves rolled back in the heated room, head thrown back into the seat, laughing at the boys beside him. They're called Jacob and Daniel, and Sadie recognises them from biology class second period. The final boy she recognises from art class, and detention. Her shadow casts over the boy, his frame so tall the top of his hair is ever so slightly above the chairline.

Daniel's eyes raise from his friends to Sadie and Abbie, and his smile drops shortly but his words continue. Unfortunately, while Jacob keeps laughing at Daniel, Jeremy looks away, and turns his attention to an unimpressed Sadie, and a deadpan Abbie.

"Oh, you're kidding me," he sighs. "Of all the seats in here, you had to choose the one next to me?"

"It wasn't exactly a choice," she sneers, sitting down heavily, like Woody from Toy Story. "I'd never choose to sit next to you."

"Hey, watch your mouth, Sadie," Daniel leans forward to look her up and down. "It's fucking rude."

"Speak for yourself!" Abbie leans back into the chair, getting comfortable. "Now fuck off."

"Yeah? Watch it, or you'll be looking like her."

Boys. They always take it too far.

Sadie frowns. She can't help it, but leans back into her own chair and gets comfortable, knee over the other. Her mind turns to the blue-purple bruise under her eye, and from the corner of it, sees Jeremy, looking uncomfortable.

Thank God the trailers start. As the lights dim, the room cheers, and pieces of popcorn go flying over the rows of seats. Jeremy looks away, and the opening credits begin to roll.

Truth be told, it's a good movie! Creepy, as people yell out at certain scenes, but it's the best movie she's watched all year. Admittedly, she's a little cautious of having her feet on the ground, and wishes there was the space available to pull them to the chair. Even Daniel jumps in his seat once.

"I need to go to the bathroom," Abbie whispers during the tent scene. "But I'm scared, Sadie."

"Well," she swallows. "You ain't getting me out of this chair any time soon."

The boy next to her laughs quietly, a gentle exhale through his nose. His long legs shift, extended under the seat in front.

"Something funny, Jeremy Frazier?" Sadie mutters.

He tilts his head a little against the seat. "No, ma'am."

Hmm. The theatre falls silent, watching as the boy runs to hide in his tent. Everything is still as both the boy and the audience wait, watching and waiting. And then all chaos breaks loose, as the tent pegs begin to rip open one by one. Sadie averts her eyes, and then looks up again. Abbie is shrieking beside her, and the rest of the theatre does, too. When Sadie looks up, there's a little girl, waiting for the kid. It's unsettling, and quite frankly, awful.

"This is the worst movie I've ever seen!" she hides behind her hands. Abbie's own fly out to grip Sadie's arm painfully, screaming at the girl waiting outside the tent.

"She's in the tent! She's in the tent!" Abbie screams. Her terror blends with the rest of the room.

The cacophony settles down. Lifting her hand away, Sadie can't help herself from looking to her right...where Jeremy Frazier is mesmerised by the horror on-screen. Though his arms crossed against his stomach are relaxed, and his body lanugage doesn't give any fear away, his eyes are shiny and big, and they're absolutely glued to the image, the terrifying scene on the big screen.

"You look like you're enjoying a horror more than you should be," Sadie whispers into a quiet moment as the theatre noise lowers.

Those dark eyes slide in her direction, irises in the deepest shade of brown. Something cold trails down Sadie's spine, like icy water in the shower, but unable to look away, her own gaze is glued to Jeremy's. Her mouth parts just so, absolutely captivated by him. It isn't the first time; they've lived in the same town their whole lives, attended the same schools and teams, seen one another at church and community events. Jeremy Frazier is and has always been captivating, a looker in his own right, and every girl knows it. Sadie knows it, and their fight doesn't change the gaping feeling in her stomach, dragging down and down and down even further. Jeremy Frazier is one of a kind, and she'll never admit that she's admired him from afar.

"This isn't scary," he mutters calmly. He surveys her, gaze sidling from her bruised face to her nose, and across her cheeks. And then he leans his head back against the seat and looks away, like nothing happened.

The end of the movie is a relief. She feels somewhat weak from the constant on-edge feeling for the whole of the film. With half a tub of popcorn left over, she and Abbie take their time getting ready to leave, eating and talking as they pull on their coats ready to go out into the frosty November air. The theatre is loud again now, the lights turned on, but it's steadily emptying out, popcorn and wrappers left behind on seats and the floor disrespectfully. Jacob Jones, the boys' friend, leaves to get a ride home, leaving his two friends behind.

"So," an authoritve voice calls amdist the shuffling of people getting to their feet. "What did you think of the movie, Abs? Scary?"

Abbie scoffs loudly, not even looking up from her Ericsson T28, squinting as she read the screen. "Don't call me Abs."

"So?" Daniel pushes, the boy in crisp Nike's leaning forward in his seat on the other side of Jeremy, looking intently at Abbie. He is a contrast to Jeremy: his eyes are crystal blue, his hair a shock of yellow-blond. Abbie once told him that Hitler would have loved him, and he threw a book at her.

She huffs through her nose, turning from her phone and looking him up and down. "I nearly shit my pants. Happy?"

He grins, jumping his brows. Abbie gags. "Very."

"God, you're such a creep. Seriously now, get out of here before the cleaners clean out the crap. That’s you, Daniel, thicko.”

The seat Jeremy resides in creaks with age as he stretches out his long legs. He's tall without trying, without having to stand on his toes; it makes Sadie want to smack him out of sheer spite. She isn't short by any means, standing at full height at what she considers to be a beautfiful five-foot-four and a bit. But it's as if with every stretch, Jeremy is flaunting. God. Eugh!

Daniel and Abbie are arguing over her fear of the tent scene, when Jeremy sits up straighter, clearing his throat.

"Sadie!" Abbie cuts across, before he can get a word in. "Should we get going? It's nearly midnight already."

She's already ready to go, with her coat on and her bag across her body. Her own Ericsson is vibrating in the bag, no doubt her mom or Lily bugging her to come home.

"Yeah, I'm exhausted now, anyway."

Abbie bids a jokey fairwell to Daniel, although they'll see each other in class next week. She's set off down the row, the boy following after her pulling on her coat. Leaving Sadie to collect her popcorn bucket and shift from foot to foot, eyes sore in bruises, and tiredness.

"Um...I'll see you in class, then?" She attempts, unsure as to why she's bothering to say goodbye to the boy who hurt her face.

Jeremy, even if he is confused, doesn't show this. He nods, gathering his bits together to leave. "Yeah," he smiles politely. "We have gym together on Monday, right?"

"Unfortunately," she rolls her eyes. Then blanches. "No. I meant it's unfortunate that we have gym, not that I have gym class with you."

Jeremy just laughs it off. "It's cool, really. I knew what you meant."

Somehow that's even worse. She can only smile tightly, bid him a 'see you, then', and rush off after Abbie, who nags that her mom is waiting outside in the car.

At home, she fills in her mom and Lily about The Sixth Sense, and the boy who sees dead people. She spends an hour on the house phone racking up the bill, talking to Abby and Jane respectively, conversing about their planned trip out of town in a few weeks to the mall. She has work in the morning, waittressing for only three hours at the tiny diner downtown by the hardware store for a bit of extra cash. Her birthday is coming up, and she has her eye on the Dior perfume in the magazine on the coffee table.

She falls asleep that night, terrified of what might be lurking under the bed, and haunted by a red tent.

It’s hard to get up on time the next day. Lily is banging on her bedroom door at eight o’clock, telling Sadie she’s running late, but when she looks at her alarm clock, she’s two hours early.

When confronted in the kitchen, Lily simply shrugs, and smirks. “I didn’t want you to be late.”

She can’t do anything but shake her head in disappointment and pour some cereal into a cracked bowl.

By nine-thirty, she’s dressed for work, ready and out of the door, walking with her coat yanked so tightly that it feels like she might be strangling herself. It’s a quiet morning in town, but people will no doubt come for breakfast on a Sunday morning. Not always—some weeks, she doesn’t see anyone all shift—but others, there’s a good mix of regulars who come for a warm drink and cooked breakfast or pancakes, or visitors from out of town who want to explore the ‘quirky’ and ‘cute’ places to eat. They come in, ask Sadie questions about ‘small town living’ as she pours their coffee and serves their waffles and pancakes, and laugh obnoxiously about how little there is in the area. ‘Quaint’, they call it, ‘Interesting’.

There is nothing worse than tourists.

Luckily, there are none this morning. Fionnuala, the woman who so generously gave Sadie the sought-after job after three weeks of begging, has already set the place up when she walks in. It smells of sugar and breakfast, with a hint of bleach and Estee Lauder perfume. The bell above the door rings twice when Sadie enters, and Fionnuala herself comes out of the kitchen entryway, wiping her hands on a dish towel, expecting customers. It is in fact, Just Sadie. She beams nonetheless.

“Oh good,” Fionnuala winks, “I was startin’ to think you’d passed out at the theatre. Good night?”

“Craaaazy night,” says Sadie. “Never watching that ever again. Like ever.”

“Oh! That bad? Really?”

Sadie finds the energy in the early morning to slam her bag down on the counter, and stare down her manager. “Fionnuala—there is nothing worse than that movie in the world.”

The older woman throws her hands up in surrender at the attacking tone, allowing herself to turn around and head back into the kitchen. “I’ll take your word for it!”

Since it’s so quiet, Sadie spends the morning polishing cutlery that is already polished. Dipping the metal utensils into a pot of boiling water would have once burned her fingertips off, but after so long in the industry, her nerve endings are pretty much fried. It’s a slow and quiet morning, very relaxing after the late night out at the theatre, so she passes through all of the cutlery in an hour and a bit, moving on to pulling everything off of the shelves to clean and replace them shortly after.

Every little thing in the cafe is strategically coloured and placed—the walls are painted beige and pearl-pink, and the sconces holding the lights around the place are shell-shaped in the colour pearly-white. The floor is tiled black and white, an original feature from the nineteen-forties, and the tables are shabby-chic style in white and brown. They’re, most decidedly, awkward colours, but the overall feel of the cafe is that of relaxation.

She’s halfway across the tea and coffee shelving when the bell above the door rings. With one knee on the counter and the other foot on a chair, reaching for the top shelf, she casts a look over her shoulder.

A gust of cold air enters with them: Jeremy Frazier, and his mother, Sara. He’s in the same jacket from last night, black denim and a heavy black coat, blue jeans and Nike’s. His mom wears that navy skirt all the moms are wearing this season, scallop-edged, paired with a thick coat and boots. Those damn boots—they’re all Sadie’s own mom is talking about. Jealous, she is, because Jeremy’s mom can afford new winter boots.

“Hi!” She steps down onto the chair, and then the ground. Casting the cloth aside, Sadie tries to calm her racing heart. Serving Jeremy Frazier and his mom was not on the cards for a Sunday morning. Usually, it’s just his mom, so Sadie can’t help feeling a little self-conscious acting professional in front of her school mate. “Take your pick of seats, guys. I’ll be right over.”

Sara hasn’t looked at her yet, but Jeremy raises his eyebrows once in silent thanks, following his mom to her usual table by the window. The edges are a little misted up today, it’s so chilly on the other side. She’s chatting away to him about something her son very obviously is not listening to, throwing in absent ‘yeah’s and ‘I know’.

Digging out the notepad and pen from her pinny, Sadie rounds the counter and heads over to their table, going over the script in her head on the way over.

“So, what can I get for you?”

Sara looks up with eyes similar to her son’s. Her mouth is pulled up in a brilliant smile, slim-faced and stress-lined. Kind—Sara looks kind. That expression changes instantly when she looks at Sadie, dropping in horror.

“Sadie!” The gasp is sharp and short.

She shifts awkwardly. “That’s me!”

Sara looks between she and Jeremy. “You didn’t tell me it was this bad!”

“Oh, mom, stop—”

“He did this to you?” Sara demands, nodding at her. “My son gave you a black eye?!”

“Uh—” she taps the pen frantically across her notepad. “I started it, to be fair.”

“My son gave you that!”

She sounds wounded, and sick, as if the fact that Jeremy bruised Sadie’s face was a crime against humanity, or the worst thing imaginable.

Jeremy is red in the face. He’s sunken down in the chair, staring out of the window at the uninteresting scene across the street: the hardware store being repainted.

“You already knew this happened,” he rebutted. “When you picked me up from detention.”

“I didn’t think it was this bad! Sadie, you look like somebody’s smashed blueberries across your face.”

And finally, something Sadie can react decently to. She barks a laugh at the unexpected comment. It’s funny, the way she says it.

“Well, it’s a good job I like blueberries.” She winks. Sara inhales shakily and tries for a smile—it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “But, seriously now, it’s fine. It doesn’t even hurt that much anymore.” A total lie, but anything to not get fired. “Now, is there anything I can get for you both?”

Sara orders the usual, slightly distasteful given the circumstances, blueberry muffin and omelette. Jeremy orders toast and jam with a side of blueberry muffin. It’s put through the til. They get their food. Tension is high. And Sadie goes back to cleaning.

The bell rings again, David and Holland, husband and wife, come in for a visit. They take a sweet tea each, the elderly couple in worn winter jackets, with tired but kind faces and they express their concern for Sadie’s ‘blueberry’ face. She tells them a tiny white lie.

“Clumsy as hell, I am,” she giggles. “Walked into a door!”

“Be more careful in future, Sadie!” Holland chides, taking Sadie’s hands in her wrinkled pair softly, patting them like a grandmother would.

Fionnuala sticks on the radio for a little while, and the news filters through in the background.

It’s nearly twelve o’clock by the time Jeremy and his mom leave. She’s out of the door before he is; Sadie watches them from the corner of her eye, polishing tea pots at the counter side. Jeremy Frazier stands hovering by the door, but turns at the last minute, approaching her. Although she wants nothing more than to avoid him, she sets down the teapot in hand, clenching the rag with the other, and smiles politely, silently.

He has his hands in his pockets. Jeremy sighs. “I wanted to apologise.”

The rag is twisted between her hands. “What for?”

He scoffs. “What do you think, Sadie? My mom.”

The twisted rag is burning her palms. “Well,” she tenses. “Your mom wasn’t wrong. But neither was I. I did start our fight.”

“Just accept the apology and move on. My mom shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. And…I wanted to apologise too. For…doing that. It was an awful thing to do. I’ve been thinking about it since the movie last night.”

Sadie slaps down the rag, and sets her folded arms on the top. “I meant what I said. It doesn’t even hurt that bad, now. Case closed.”

“So do you accept my apology?”

“Will you read ‘Make Lemonade?”

Now it’s Jeremy’s turn to shock. He side-eyes her, turning back to look briefly outside, and huffs a confused laugh. “What?”

“‘Make Lemonade’,” Sadie repeats. “Virginia Wolff. If you read it, I’ll accept your apology, and we can start over. All violence forgotten. If not…I guess you’ll have to watch out for kamikaze dodgeballs in gym class.”

At last, Jeremy’s face turns positive. He nods his head slowly, considering it, before clenching his teeth together and breathing in deeply. “Okay.”

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

He raises his hands and pulls the collar of his shirt higher. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Is that a threat, Jeremy Frazier?”

He doesn’t answer, only chuckles and swings open the cafe door, out into the cold again.

Sadie feels warm, watching him go.

She’s got a truce with Jeremy Frazier.

They have detention together Friday evening.

“Why?!” Lily exclaimed at the wheel, throwing her hands up with every word. “Why, why, why, why?!” At pick-up, she’d gone insane.

The explanation to why: they had gym class. They were on the opposite teams. The hall was deafening with screams and shouting. The teachers had evacuated the area.

Sadie, bored, threw a ball so hard at the wall for fun that it bounced back, and smacked Jeremy in the face, standing behind her. He took that same dodgeball and launched it right back at her. She busted his nose.

“Look, I’m sorry.”

“You broke my nose.” He deadpans.

Sadie flays her hands out wide, leaning over the desk. Jeremy sits on the other side, reclining in the seat. “So we’re even. You busted my face, I busted your nose. We’re cool now!”

“We’ve never even been friends. How are we ‘cool now’. If anything, this should make us far from cool.”

Ouch. How can she make this event easier to stand? It’s growing late, Jeremy’s growing on her, but…

“Look,” he sighs. She shifts her eyes from the window to the boy. His curls have grown out, brushing his ears, dusting his eyelashes. “My mom said to tell you that she wants to talk to your mom about having you ‘round for Christmas. To make up for, well, nearly smashing your face in.”

She blinks hard. “That sounds violent.”

“So can you ask your mom?”

“Guess I’ll have to.”

“Guess so.”

“Does your mom know that I broke your nose?”

“Yes,” he quips, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“And?”

“And what, Sadie Fells?”

“Why does she still want us ‘round for Christmas if she knows I broke your nose?!” Sadie yells.

Jeremy practically flings forward in his seat, eyes wild. “How am I supposed to know? Ask my mom!” He grimaces, hands rushing to his plastered nose. “Stop yelling, it’s hurting my face.”

“You’re hurting my ears.”

“Sadie.”

By December, and the date Jeremy’s mom has set for the get-together at their house, the universe has thrown them together four more times outside of school. Once, at Sadie’s work. A second time at the Thanksgiving parade in the street, when his mother came over to compliment Sadie's on her new, identical boots. A third occasion at the movies, sitting with Abbie and Daniel. And the fourth?

Well, he broke her nose.

Accidentally.

With a dodgeball.

Together in the nurses office, holding an ice pack wrapped in a towel to her face, they rambled on about their mutual hatred for one another. In the music room during class, they laughed as a group with Abbie and Daniel about that sitcom they watched the night before. At the cafe, when he 'popped in' coincidentally on her shift, talking at the counter on a slow day.

By the time December comes around, they’re almost close friends. Close, because the universe has forced them together. Almost, because there's a part of Sadie that feels suspcious as to why Jeremy has been so accepting of their recent troubles. And friends, because they may as well be.

However, today feels oddly uncomfortable, because despite their recent closeness, she's never been to Jeremy's house. They're here because Sara invited them, and there's only so many times that Sadie's mother, Anya, can decline Sara's offers of a hot drink and cake. She caught them at the car in the parking lot the day Jeremy broke Sadie's nose, spluttering apologies faster than she could breathe, and absolutely demanded that the family come around for Christmas cake and a talk, mainly to make up for the constant fighting between their children, but also just for a get-together.

The Frazier house sits on Jefferson Street, number 125, right in town, a red, three-storey with arched and stained glass windows, a large home with christmas lights strung around the tree in the yard, where a large treehouse sits. The lights give the yard and the driveway a multi-coloured glow, perfect for the winter theme. The driveway is well-scrubbed, and the front yard free from any stray vines or ivy. It's a beautiful home, and Anya makes sure to tell Sara just that.

"Welcome!" Sara beams sprightly, opening the front door. It's painted a dark-brown colour, and has three diamonds of glass down the front. "Come in out of the cold, Sadie, that's it."

Her mom ushers her in first, and she flounders in the hall, waiting awkwardly. "You have a lovely home, Sara! The yard is gorgeous!"

There's Christmas music playing from somewhere in the kitchen, and people standing in groups, talking away about things Sadie doesn't care about, and sitting on the chairs in the living room, arranged just so that they're easily sociable. Fold-up chairs are scattered here and there around the ground floor, and the people sitting in them are laughing and talking and stuffing their faces. The Christmas tree, thick and full of life, stands proudly in the corner of the living room, directly in front of the door, blue and gold and red baubles hanging from its branches, with multicolour lights fading in and out. The Santa string lights strung along the banister of the stairs are singing a mechanical tune and flashing bright red.

Hands lay on Sadie’s coat. She jumps violently, turning, but it’s just Sara. She laughs like Sadie’s the funniest thing since sliced bread. “Oh, bless you! Let me take your coat, Sadie. I’m sure Jeremy’s around here somewhere. JEREMY!”

Her sudden shout makes Sadie cringe. Her eyes dart around for her own parents, but they’ve disappeared somewhere. She can’t see them, but she can hear her mother’s cackle.

“Jeremy!” Sara tries again. She’s drowned out by the Christmas music and guests voices. “Stay here, I’ll go find him for you.”

Sadie chokes. “Oh, that’s okay! I’ll go find my mom—”

“I’ll be one minute!” She smiles and pats Sadie’s back, sliding past her to start up the stairs. It’s a staircase that winds sharply, accompanied by yellow patterned wallpaper with dark-brown wainscotting underneath and a banister of the same colour. The kitchen, just around the corner, is full to the brim with people, but the same wallpaper is visible, and the lighter-brown cupboards and immaculate tiles. Along the top shelves, cookware and bakeware sit: a blending machine, a coffee machine, a couple of pots and pans, and cooking books. On the refrigerator stand magnets, but she can’t make them out; people keep moving in front of them.

It’s awkward being alone in someone’s else’s home. She’s almost glad when Sara returns to the ground floor with her son in tow, trudging with his hands in his pockets like he’d rather be elsewhere. It makes sense, really. She doesn’t particularly want to be here, either.

Sara claps her hands together and shrugs her shoulders once, ecstatically. “We’re all here! Wonderful. You two get along now. We don’t need any more broken bones, do we?” She laughs.

To be polite, Sadie giggles along and agrees, but honestly she would rather die than laugh at that, because it really hurts her face.

Jeremy must notice it pretty quickly. He watches his mom go, and then turns around, starting up the stairs. Watching silently, and a little hurt, Sadie frowns. He’s ripped off the bandaging on his nose, and it’s still a little discoloured but it’s getting there, more blue than black, spread under his eyes. It’s an awful sight. The bruising hasn’t come out of her injury yet, and she’s dreading it.

As if he can feel her eyes on him, Jeremy stops on the corner, rolling his eyes to her. He waves a hand. “What?”

She startles. “Well—I don’t know anyone else here. That’s what…why your mom went to get you.”

“You didn’t bring your sister?”

“She didn’t want to come.”

He sighs, turning around, and stomps back down the stairs. “Bring her next time.”

“Actually, go back to where you came from, asshole,” she scowls, crossing her velvet-covered arms over her chest, and making for the kitchen, where the buffet is laid out. “I didn’t ask to come here.”

She doesn’t hear a reply, so she assumes he’s left her alone. Pushing between gathered people, she makes it to the kitchen table, strong mahogany scratched with years of use. There’s a thin tablecloth running down the middle, tiny snowmen zig-zagging across. Jeremy’s parents have put out a huge display, more than enough to keep everybody at the party going, so she takes a place and gets together a great bunch of food, pouring a glass of peach schnapps and lemonade where the drinks are set out at the corner of the table. She’s a casual drinker, allowed only at events with her parents, and special occasions…also with her parents, and only ever three glasses. But since they’re not here in the room to supervise, she pours a bit more than a double, and a bit less lemonade than she should.

A shadow at her side casts over the food. His hands reach out for his own plate, and the serving tongs after.

“Look,” he begins. “That was rude of me. I’m sorry.”

Is he, really? Maybe not. Maybe he’s being polite because technically he’s being rude to guests, and Sadie gets the feeling that his parents aren’t the kind to take that lightly.

“Well,” she swallows back a mouthful of peach schnapps. “Thank you for apologising.” She doesn’t have the guts to look him in the face, especially with this giant plaster across her sore nose. Eyeing his outfit from behind her hair, he’s made an effort tonight: black pants and shoes, but a good-looking cerulean quarter-zipper sweater, rolled up at the elbows, and a white collared shirt undone at the buttons but folded loosely at the collar. He looks put-together, well-done.

“My mom made me wear it.”

Sadie jolts, heart hammering, caught out. “I didn’t mean to stare,” she coughs, and swallows her embarrassment in the drink. “Just—the colour suits you.” An even more embarrassing attempt at saving herself.

But Jeremy isn’t embarrassed or disgusted. He chuckles, Sadie raises her head, and he nods to the glass bottles of Budweiser beside the bottles of peach schnapps. “Thank you. Can you grab me a bottle?”

She does, setting down her own drink on the side to get his, and handing him the bottle opener after. He mutters a thanks.

Sadie searches her brain rapidly for some good conversation starter. “How’s your nose now?”

Jeremy tilts his head, but a grin comes to face. “It hurts. How’s yours?”

She snickers, and then gags, because holy hell it hurts to do that. And Jeremy knows it, cracking up at her mistake. “Hurts,” Sadie manages, and knocks back the rest of her drink to curb the ache later. She turns to face the rest of the party, leaning on the table, and Jeremy copies.

“I really am sorry about before,” he mumbles, paying full attention to the tiny salad sandwiches on his plate. “It was rude. I don’t know why I said it.”

She shrugs. “I broke your nose. I threw paper-mache projects at you. That’s why you said it.”

“No, it’s not that. I mean,” he meets her gaze, “if anything, I got you back. I busted your eye socket. I broke your nose back. Mine was an accident but with yours, I was just angry. And I’m sorry. Seriously. Nobody deserves that.”

It’s true! It’s so true that she can’t help nodding her head with his words although the people-pleaser inside is dying to correct him. For once, can she push that urge aside and just accept somebody saying sorry for hurting her?

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll accept your apology. Can we be even, now? No more broken bones or bruises? I’m tired of it.”

He bumps her shoulder softly. “Sure. Break even?” And then he holds up a pretzel off of his plate, offering it out to her with a sure hand.

She raises her own shaky one, and pinches the other side of the salted pretzel. “Break even.”

They each tear a bit off, and that’s that.

It’s late into the night when everybody leaves, but as usual, Sadie’s parents are the very last to leave. Her family and Jeremy’s are gathered in the living room after everyone else has gone home. Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree is playing for the tenth time, and Sadie is sitting beside her mom, curled into her side with Anya’s arm around her. Jeremy has placed himself on the floor in front of the electric fire, his parents on the opposite sofa.

His dad is very, very drunk. He’s spluttering some hate about a guy from earlier, a man he had been laughing with, and eight bottles of Budweiser sit at his feet on the floor. While he’s totally relaxed in the corner of the chair, Sara is plumping up the sofa cushions erratically, karate-chopping the top of each one for that added detail.

“Alan,” Ted Frazier slurs, sitting forward so suddenly it sends Sara into a frenzy of fluffing the cushions faster. “I mean it, that guy won’t be back in this house ever again.”

Alan Fells isn’t far from Ted’s state. Sadie looks past her mom’s shoulder to her dad on the other side. He smells of strong vodka all the way from the other side of the sofa. He hums firmly. “Good. Vile man. Vile.”

Anya moves, pulls her arm away from Sadie, and stands. “Let me help you, Sara.”

“Oh, that’s alright, you’re a guest! D’you want another drink? Let me get you another.”

Her mother waves Sara off. Her dress has wine splashes down the side, and her hair’s turned frizzy from the warmth and the alcohol tonight. It’s the same colour as Sadie’s in a dull brown. They share the same wide eyes, but Anya has an upturned nose just like Lily. Sadie got her father’s nose, straight at the bridge, small and buttoned at the end.

“Mom,” she quietly says, between Ted Frazier’s hate speech and her father’s agreeing.

“What, Sadie?” She hisses.

And that’s the end of it. Being alone with two extremely drunk men is terrifying enough, never mind it being in someone else’s house.

She and Sara leave for the kitchen, collecting dishes as they go, and talking about some tv show Sadie’s never heard of. She watches them go, around the corner down the hall.

The sofa dips beside her, but it isn’t her father. Ted is still on the other side. Jeremy has taken her mom’s place, reaching out his too-long legs across the carpet. He stinks of beer, but she smells of peach schnapps and secret gin, so they even one another out.

“I hate when he gets like this,” Jeremy whispers, and reaches behind them for the window ledge. When he pulls his arm over again, he produces a magazine for her, one of his mom’s. It’s a kind gesture to kill time and a good distraction, but she can barely make sense of the words in her fuzzy mind. “It puts my mom on edge.”

“It’s not nice,” she agrees, flicking to the first page. Things are starting to grow blurry with the tiredness taking over. How much has she drank? Four glasses? Five? Three is usually the limit, because it makes her feel unwell the next day. “He get this way a lot?”

The boy hums lowly; it lights a fire in her chest. “Most nights. Not this bad, though. He stops at about five bottles. Think the guy’s been through five crates tonight.”

“Mine’s the same.” She concedes. “He enjoys a rum nightly. Never gets this pissed though.”

“Are actually bonding over our parents getting drunk?” He huffs.

“Might be.”

“Hm.”

“Hm.”

Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree is playing for a final time when Alan gets to his feet. He’s a little wobbly, but not too terrible that he can’t pull on his coat. Sadie’s father is a tall guy, and his red hair is thick and straight, and when he gets drunk, his Californian accent rings loud and clear.

“Get up,” he tells her, heading for the door. “Let’s get going. It’s late.”

It’s actually nearly four in the morning, and she’s half-passed out on the couch with Jeremy in a slumber beside her, but she manages to find the heels she’s half-kicked off at some point and pull them on, properly, with her mom emerging from the kitchen to hurriedly help her with her coat.

“Thank you for coming! We’ll see you soon?” Asks a worn-out Sara, whose smile is exhausted.

“Of course!” Anya pulls her daughter into her side. “Same time next week?” She jokes.

All Sadie can think is, as Sara sticks sugar cookies wrapped in tissue in her hands, better not be same time next week.

chapter three ->

[the-blind-assassin-12]

WIP Wednesday...

...12 Days late and on a Monday (oops)

I was tagged by the lovely @sixhours - thank you so much! - to share a snippet from a wip, but here's the thing: I'm just working my way back into regular writing after unintentionally taking like two months off and after finishing up the latest Aphelion chapter with @something-tofightfor, I'm not even sure which wip to pick back up. So here are a few snippets from the things in my twisted wip heap, I would love if you all could weigh in on what I should focus on next!

*snippets and poll under the cut*

from Part One of The Grove, an Ezra x F!Reader series:

Shit, shit, shit. 

You crashed through the brush, desperately seeking the same path you took into the heart of the forest so that you could find your way back out. But even though it had been less than an hour since you’d trekked through those very same trees, you couldn’t find so much as one of your own footprints or a bent twig to point you in the right direction. Heart pounding, you spun in a slow circle, scanning the dense greenery around you. 

No, no, no. There’s gotta be… something. I’ve gotta be missing something. 

You squinted, straining your eyes against the dwindling light that made it down through the canopy. Trees and vines and short, leafy bushes were all that you could see, like the forest had grown around your footsteps to swallow up any trace of you.

from Part Four of Recall, a Jack Daniels x F!Reader series:

“Please, listen to me.” You have to listen to me, Jack. You took a shaky breath, trying not to move as you let it back out. “She wasn’t-” 

“Real? Yeah, you keep sayin’ that.” He gave the lasso a tug to tighten the noose around your arms and torso. You felt the synthetic threads of the rope biting into your biceps. “You say it one more time, darlin’ -” His top lip curled as he coated his words in venom. “And I’ll show you what else this thing can do.” Giving the grip another sharp yank, he pulled you a few steps closer. 

from Part Three of Unfinished, a Marcus Pike x F!Reader series:

You turned into the hallway just in time to see Marcus open the door to the guest room. As he froze in place, head cocked to the side in confusion, you realized you’d forgotten to address the one logistical hang up of his visit. He spoke your name, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Am I missing something?” 

“Shit.” You winced, fingertips coming up to rub at your closed eyelid before dragging your palm down over your face. I completely forgot about - you groaned. “I’m sorry, Marcus. I forgot to tell you. Bill took the guest bed when he moved out.” You gave a pathetic little shrug. “It was technically his, so…” 

Trailing off, your eyes widened as another realization hit you. Oh, fuck. Because of how the night had gone, the sheets for the pullout couch that you’d thrown in the wash that afternoon had never made it into the dryer. “Shit!” You half sighed, half hissed through another wince. “I fucked up, Marcus. I left the sheets for the pullout mattress in the wash and now-“ You clicked your tongue and threw up your hands. 

Now it was two in the morning and far too late to rewash and then dry a load of laundry.

from Kiss Me & Smile For Me, a Joel Miller x OFC series:

“I mean,” Emma went on, tongue flicking out to wet her lips as she playfully rolled her eyes. “It’s pretty much my fault that she’s so into this band anyway.” She laughed through her nose. “I was always playin’ their songs for warm ups, and then-” 

“You’d do that?” He breathed out the question, cutting her off. “You’d…” Swallowing, he hooked his thumbs into her belt loops, head shaking from side to side to send his hair askew. “You’d go with her? You sure?”

Emma’s answer came without hesitation, her fingers coming up to rake the rogue strands of his hair back into place. “Of course, Joel.” She smiled, cheeks rounding out and eyes shining up at him. “I know how much it means to you to be able to do this for her. And I want her birthday to be special, too.” She nodded. We’ll make sure she knows the tickets are from you, and that I’m just going with her. Besides, I already got her a gift, so- ” 

Joel didn’t let her finish her explanation though, suddenly overcome with the need to kiss her. Bringing his hands up, he cradled her face between them and swallowed the small surprised sound she made. It only lasted a few seconds, neither of them deepening it but both of them letting it linger so that when it ended and Joel spoke, his lips moved against hers. “I love you, Em.” 

[hamofjustice]

I don't want to just painstakingly copypaste my triple-layered self-QRT thread about it on Twitter and any other ones floating around but

I am very emotionally invested in seeing Penny, Arven, and (personally) especially Nemona again in the Scarlet/Violet DLC, after GF followed up the best 3 hours of Pokemon game story ever by having to abruptly cut it off the second these lonely kids finish opening up to you and say you can hang out with them anytime. Which you never do. It was some pretty painful whiplash, and I was sure the main point of the DLC was to relieve that, especially when their arcs don't seem quite complete yet. Very clever, evil marketing! But uh... well... about that...

It is very worrying that aside from a little "the story so far" montage, they have not been seen or mentioned in promotional material/footage whatsoever. Y'know, DLC for the game that's about how the real treasure was the friends you found along the way (literally, in Nemona's case), and even if your family and support systems fail you, you still have each other? Written from the heart by someone who said Arven's story is inspired by their own life? With the sappy Ed Sheeran song about reaching out for connection with others, that also seems to be named after Team Star? The game where one of the features the devs seemed most proud of was going on adventures and into boss fights with 3 of your friends? The game that ended with a fully functional and quite immersive bonding adventure with these characters you'd gotten to know and care about, that basically everyone thought was the best part of the game by a mile, and were left wishing the whole game was like that?

Yeah, I (and everyone else) have been driving around alone in that game for 8 months ever since finishing that story. 8 months of minor updates with a ton of the beloved characters functionally or literally gone, while we go around doing online stuff with nothing else to do in the world, with a single player postgame more barren than we had on Game Boy Color (thank god for mints and bottle caps though). I'm left just... wanting to go back to the way things were before I beat the game. Not to be overly dramatic, but this world I supposedly saved feels like one I failed to save. And I'm getting really frustrated. (The framerate hasn't gotten any better, either, but this isn't about that.)

It's like Game Freak (or whoever forced this thing out a year early, or both) never expected you to boot the game up again once you got bored of the Ace Academy Tournament, which the game acts like is the entire total of what you could want from being friends and "rivals for life" with your squad (I mean I'm the sicko that loves Tera Raids, so I'm not that bored, but still). It makes a bunch of implications that your adventure is just beginning, and then it totally just... isn't. Why is the E4 building closed? Why do you only rematch the gyms once? And most of all, for me personally: Why did we get access to our friends' rooms if there's nothing to do or talk about there? (Besides look for character study clues, which they have lots of)

All they could come up with when asked to write a newsletter email about what you can still do in S/V and why you should still be playing it was Raids. That was it. Remember when you had an endless challenge in the Tower/Maison that you could optionally take on with a bunch of story characters as your partners instead of alone, that motivated you to keep getting stronger bit by bit? Remember rematching gym leaders multiple times and watching their teams grow and evolve each time? Yeah, there's none of that here, because that would take more than a week to implement. If you want friends and you want battles, you'll have to do it yourself online now. They're not allocating any budget for that.

Your rival for life, who's so excited you're on her level now, who seems to have the passion and skill to be the your Battle Tower gameplay loop by herself if she wanted to, who battles you for hours offscreen with multiple teams, whose whole character arc is that she finally has someone she can do this with... is fully static, with one kinda mediocre team that never grows or changes. She can't keep up with you and doesn't know what items or EVs are. You have to get lucky to even see her at all. She is no more your rival than your Home Ec teacher is (no offense Saguaro, you're cool too). I think it's really, really sad.

I'm left nostalgic and pining to go back, having to cope through fanfic because my character can't spend the day with - or even so much as take a new trainer card photo with - the girl who said they might be her greatest treasure, without resetting my save, because she and the others are standing somewhere that the camera and internet features are both disabled.

Like, legitimately, I want to keep being friends with these kids the way we were before, and have the ability to do post-game stuff with them, like being able to go out and adventure together whenever in some basic, non-story capacity, or just, I don't know, maybe give them more than one line of dialogue in their rooms? I don't want a new region or new characters. Not yet, anyway.

I thought I was preordering the continuation of their story and rewarding the company for making me care about Pokemon so much again.

But, uh... I'm really worried that the people who own these characters do not care. And as I said on the trailer's comments before they turned them off (lol), I'll be pissed enough to not buy any more games if I'm right, and we're forced to abandon these poor kids. At the very least, it's some pretty garbage marketing to leave the possibility of that up in the air. If nothing else, that is a frustration that I'm going to keep talking about for a while, even if it ends up being fine.

I thought it was impossible, and I was being silly. Why not have our friends in cute new outfits as promo art when the DLC was first announced, and all they had was promo art? Seems like an easy slam dunk. Oh, they didn't yet? Well, I'm sure it'll happen eventually.

And then they weren't in the trailer either, months later. Are they trying to sell us on it or not?

The whole reason I want the DLCs. Still not a single word acknowledging them, just that little opening montage. Still no hints of how the DLCs have anything to do with Area Zero's ongoing story, either. How is a sea turtle linked with a landlocked crater?

So like... At this point I have to assume both DLCs start with you making your friends cry as they're left alone again, arbitrarily excluded from events they're more than qualified to be invited to, to make room for some new dweebs we don't need, who won't be given nearly enough time to be as compelling as Nemona, Arven, and Penny were, because that makes the trailer look more like a new game, and that's the only way they know how to advertise. More. New. Buy. Consume. Throw away. Buy. Consume. Throw away. I should assume this so that whatever we get can't be worse.

But they're probably not (self-aware enough / allowed / both) to write that. Your lonely / orphaned / anime-binging friends might just cheer you on for getting to go do something cool like being forced to train a new legendary because the story said so, then go back to being statues with as much relevance to your life as an NPC in a third story apartment that tells you what a hold item is.

Can't I just live in Paldea with my friends, in the version of the game we would have gotten if it was finished, instead of being pulled into these adventures for the sake of looking good in a trailer? (which it doesn't btw lol) It's not an unrealistic thing to want when that's what it briefly was, and I was so excited that it would keep being that I've been thinking about it this entire time.

...

I hope I'm wrong about all this, and next year I can look back on this post, happy that the DLC did actually allow us to continue to take care of these characters, conclude Area Zero's mysteries in a satisfying way, fix up some technical issues, let us relive some things that are currently once-only (including letting us see that photo album our character made but we had to screenshot ourselves), and make it fun to keep playing for years afterward, and let that be the model for games going forward, but uh...

They really are not showing me anything I care about in the game I desperately want to care about, that I saw - and wanted to defend - the heart in, despite the circumstances it was produced under, and that really worries and frustrates me. The surprisingly many great things about this game got my hopes up for an awesome postgame full of warm fuzzy feelings and cool things to do 8 months ago that just didn't deliver, and now, I'm not sure if they'll even let me pay for one, at this rate, because they're not advertising one.

Just throw us a scrap. If whoever's in charge here stops caring about this story, I won't care about the next one.

Anyone else feeling this?

[ghost-of-you]

#5sos5 is about one very intense relationship falling apart and I will write that post one day -> can that day please be today 🥺

i would love to hear your thoughts on how all the little album threads fit together!

Okay, sure, let's do this msksoakaala

Here's a Spotify playlist with songs in this order because I'm extra.

I will be using only the standard version of the album and considering that this is about a romantic relationship, I will be ignoring the 3 songs that are not about romantic relationships, best friends, take my hand and carousel. I will also be ignoring older, since it doesn't fit the narrative of the rest of the songs. For the sake of clarity I will also be using he for the narrator and she for the subject.

So, the album is about a relationship that's going in circles "we go around again we jump back in bed", "another glass until we come around", "we're going around again in the emotional blender" and we catch that relationship in the middle, since we don't have a song about falling in love, they're already there.

But it all starts in haze. They're still in that good in love, well, haze. The world only feels right when they're together. And there's no reference to the divide that's making them go around and around yet. The relationship is that easy thing that he'll keep chasing until the end. The love that made him feel human again after he's been through bad times, the person that makes him feel alright whenever they're around. Is chasing that high that keeps him coming back.

Then we go into complete mess. The relationship is no longer easy, she makes him complete, but she also makes him a mess. There are also beginnings of the divide between them "call it a lesson when I feel you slide away" and "I learned my lesson when I felt you slip away" and the relationship is no longer the easy "and I am human once again" from haze, he's questioning because he's "caught up in heaven but your heaven ain't the same", he's hanging on to the good moments through the confusion, because he loves her and she makes him complete but the relationship is not just the beautiful things anymore.

Then we have me, myself and i. The beauty of mm&i is that she fits in any of the off moments of the relationship. It's that desperation of trying to believe he did the right thing letting the phone ring. The song is a loop and lyrically it ends without really ending. He's alone, it's his fault and he's trying to convince himself he's fine with it. "I guess I got what I wanted" but at the same time "I never knew what I needed" and he has the same words running around and around and around. I did put this in the beginning over the "i know you wish me well" because the belief that she's still in it with him fades with time.

Then we go into easy for you to say. This song could be an attempt to make it right once they come back. She was someone who saw him through bad times and he's trying to explain how he got caught up in that bad side. But they're already stuck in a cycle. He lies then comes back to explain it and he promises that "each and every time I'll try and change my ways" but it's easier for her to make demands than it is for him to actually comply. Ultimately he's trying to get her to understand the darkness in him that makes him do stubborn things that might end up with him doing something to jeopardize the relationship but he will keep trying anyway.

Then we go into blender. Like mm&i, blender fits in the beginnings of any on period. But he's already tired. The song starts with him watching her across the room, so they aren't in the best place but "we just can't keep away" so it's starting again. I think the blender metaphor here is great because a blender spins things around while chopping them up, so no cycle is without consequence. Being trapped in this is bad for both of them and they know it but he can't stay away. He's still trying like he promised "I tried for you" but at this point he's questioning if all they're doing is hurting each other while going around "but all a hear is..."

Then we go into bad omens and caramel. I think they are the same cycle, the last cycle, from both points of view. I wrote this back when the album came out, you can read that if you want something more elaborate on why i feel like these two songs go hand in hand. But both songs are about holding on to something that's clearly beyond saving, but while bad omens is desperately fighting to keep it together, caramel is going through the motions in that failure. In bad omens he knows he's chasing something that's hurting him, but he needs to keep trying because that's what you do when you love somebody. There's also the "we go around again we jump back in bed" that goes with "all the things you said in my head ricocheting off the bed" in blender because they jump into bed just to ricochet right of off it and it's just creating more of a mess. And caramel he's chasing that easy, being in love and being known and being with that person that makes everything better he had with her in the beginning, but he can't find it, it's right there and he can't reach it but he's hanging on anyway because "it used to be easy" so why can't it be easy again? So he just can't let go.

Then we go into bleach. Bleach is the realization that maybe he's fighting for something he can't save. It ties back to bad omens and the "I'm still making sense of having nothing left to save" he's literally trying to make sense of watching "everything i want and everything i was spinning down the drain". "Brought a knife to a gunfight" he's not equipped for the fight that he's in. And he knows it's not easy and "it takes time to let go but i can't take it no more" it's the realization he needs to step out of the cycle to figure out a way to live with her.

Then we end it all with red line and you don't go to parties. Why am I grouping them together? They're both waiting for something to happen. They're both waiting for her to walk in. But red line is in that hopeless how many times can I come back if you keep pushing me out feeling and ydgtp is accepting the fact that she just doesn't fit in anymore, since "everyone I ever knew is standing in my house" but she's not there. Red line is actually him finally accepting that he has nothing left to save, going back to bad omens, and he did lose who he was while falling out of love, going back to bleach. And ydgtp is him contemplating all the times he intentionally lost his mind in the name of being passionate about something. I also like ydgtp as the last song for the relationship because it's the one where he accepts she's not there anymore. And that also ties back to blender because he was watching her across the room in blender and in ydgtp he's scanning the room for her even though he knows she's not coming back this time.

[halfseoulco]

Everything is Our: An essay on Korean Culture

Published Friday, October 13th, 2023 — In Charlotte Cho’s The Little Book of Jeong, she shares an anecdote I’ve thought about often since I first read it: “A few months earlier, during the 2010 Winter Olympics, Kim Yuna, known as ‘the nation’s daughter’, had executed a triple lutz-triple toe loop combination, a triple, and a double axel for the short program, which not only won her the gold medal, it broke records. […] At that time, my jeong for Korea was still growing, but theirs was overflowing. Tears streamed down their faces, and they held their breaths in anticipation and awe, as every movement was executed to perfection.”

I don’t know how to explain to non-Korean people the connection that we as Koreans feel to our culture. To me, that short passage from Cho’s second publication strikes me in the same place that I imagine it would strike in other Koreans—a place where community, pride, and love intersect tightly, so tightly that the slightest tremble would cause the entire thing to tip over and pour out. From the soft underbellies of our souls to the sturdy ribcages of our psyches, I think that all Koreans carry within them something that only Koreans truly understand. The foundation of Korean culture is a war-riddled history as a tiny country surrounded by enemies, but it is also layers of jeong—strong, intimate relationships—and a stone well brimming with han—a complex cocktail of deeply rooted emotions such as grief and resentment.

But above all, the strongest pillar of Korean culture is the unabashedly overflowing love that Koreans have for Korea and other Koreans.

As Korea has grown into a thriving tourist destination and a point of interest around the globe, it’s easy to pick out what other people think is Korean culture. Of course, the cornerstones of any culture are often the things we can most easily identify: the food, the historic buildings, the art, the lifestyle. But I think the most defining element of Korean culture is the unyielding defense of our—our country, our people—not my but our—and the shared responsibility to uphold this defense connects one Korean to another like a silken golden thread that only we can see. And because everything is our, that means everything is shared: joy, anger, sorrow, pride. Everything that can be shared is shared in the clink of two glasses after long hours at the office, in the heat of the overhead lights of Seoul Olympic Stadium, and in the salted air of the sea between Incheon and Jeju where the MV Sewol sank in 2014.

Korean culture is being able to trace your roots backwards through generations and finding everyone’s places in time via designated syllables in given names—always being aware of who came before you, who will come after you, and who is walking the same path with you now but also being aware of your own significance as told through the name your parents picked for you. It’s a language that knows no gender but instead knows your elders from your peers and more than one way to say thank you and sorry. It’s a society where everyone gives what they can without expecting anything in return, where people fight to be the one who pays the check at the end of the night, and where birthdays are opportunities for giving gifts as much as they are for receiving them.

But Korean culture is also the way I always leave the ends of the soondae for my mother because that’s the part she likes the most, the norigae hanging in my room to bring me good fortune, my order of rice cake soup every new year from the nearby Korean restaurant if the holiday falls on a weekday and I can’t go home to my parents. It's the way I cry when I see KPOP artists perform versions of their songs with traditional Korean instruments while wearing hanboks in front of significant historic landmarks like Gyeongbok or Kyunghee Palace; or when I watched ATEEZ perform “Wonderland” in Sungnyemun for Korea’s 77th Liberation Day on stage last year. It’s the way I only watch the World Cup when Korea plays while wearing my red tiger T-shirt from Korelimited, the water I pour into my parents’ drinking glasses before my own, the pendant with my Korean name around my neck, and the ink on my skin. It’s all of our dogs having Korean names as well as English names, and my mother writing all of them down in a notebook like it’s our very own jokbo for our pets—a genealogy book recorded through the generations—and it’s all of our dogs understanding Korean as well as English. It’s speaking to another Korean person in Korean and them wanting to help me immediately and the oftentimes long conversation that follows. It’s always choosing Pepero over Pocky—always—and it’s knowing that Korean food is and always will be the best-tasting food, the food I always want to eat because it tastes like home. It’s learning the fan dance and the mask dance and playing traditional Korean buk drums in elementary school, it’s the jar of yuzu tea in my fridge, it’s taking the black-and-white photo of my halmeoni that sat on the mantel above the fireplace in my childhood home—my halmeoni who survived a Japan-occupied Korea and then raised four children by herself post-liberation—and connecting it with my memory of her on her deathbed when I went to Korea in 1998. It’s proudly giving a presentation in my college Korean class about my most famous ancestor, Empress Min Myeongseong, and being upset that I never got to see the musical about her called The Last Empress.

It’s a profound longing for Korea after having not gone back for twenty-five years.

Moving from place to place, the comforting hand of our culture remains on my shoulder. It waves at me with sincerity and warmth wherever I put down roots, winks at me from the flag painted in red, blue, white, and black in its place by my bedroom door. It makes me pause whenever I pass the white silken scroll with my Korean name in hanja, adorned with ink paintings of a palace, a rabbit, and a crane that my parents had done for me in Korea when we last visited. I taste it in the meat my parents marinate for me before packing it up and sending it home with me. I see it in the shot-on-film photograph of my first birthday, my parents holding me between them, me dressed in a fuchsia and green hanbok, having just picked the money during my dol ceremony. I hear it when my parents sing “our Youkyung” when they sing “happy birthday” to me in Korean; or when we sing “our appa” or “our eomma” when it’s my stepfather’s birthday or my mother’s birthday. Not my but our.

My joy is our joy, my grief is our grief, my triumph is our triumph. Everything is our and hibiscus petals line the way to our home from wherever we are in the world.

[rappaccini]

arachnophobia; chapter 3 notes

chapter title

from 'dreamer', by pinkshift

pinkshift, fronted by ashrita kumar. newest band of the cohort.

relevant to the fic in that the song's about slipping away mentally and living in fear of losing yourself. the chapter's subject matter is gwen becoming a black sheep, stewing in the likelihood that she'll die, and trying to save another version of herself from that fate.

and i mean. lines about having nightmares about falling and being half ready to jump off a bridge are. relevant.

and yes, the song by the band fronted by an indian girl being the title of the chapter all about the indian gwen stacy is intentional. it just fit.

pretext quote

from the netflix series dark, about time travel, specifically time loops and alternate universes, and the doomed cycle a group of people loop themselves into while trying to indulge their most base desires for love and protection. the third season in particular follows the male protagonist's love interest as she becomes the protagonist, encountering her alternate selves, and finding herself standing opposite her love interest in the time war in order to save her world.

in context, this chapter is about gwen expanding her perspective-- meeting another version of herself (and prioritizing herself over that girl), realizing that the gwen stacy curse is endemic to the spider-man narrative, not just miles. and realizing that if she's going to stand a chance, she's going to have to adopt an antagonistic place in the story against spider-man.

gwen processes the consequences of the rejection

this is the anger chapter. it's gwen, having learned she'll die unless she takes one option, refusing that option, and coming to terms with how upset she is about it.

slowly, gwen is dissociating from being spider-woman. each chapter breaks the identity down a bit more. now, she's not sure what she is.

mattea murdock is a supporting character in spider-punk's miniseries; she's his world's daredevil. however given that comics-punk and movie-punk's worlds are vastly different, i didn't want to get too into depth. movie punk is a londoner from 1978; it wouldn't make sense for him to have an american peer group. anyway, mattea's a drummer, and in his comic hobie suggests she and gwen, his friend by that point, play together. within the bounds of this fic, she at the minimum lets her use her drumset.

gwen crying: this is a gwiles assassination fic, but it's the ship i have beef with. gwen would be upset about breaking up her friendship over it.

... and about some other things you'll learn about later.

those watches canonically have microphones and scanners on them. makes you wonder if they can be turned on remotely.

again, gwen and margo are not close. she has to have a limited presence as a result. but she does matter to miles's mostly-offscreen plotline, and her little microarc in atsv was great, so i wanted it here in some capacity.

"two loose threads that are all the more frayed" .... look. a relationship between gwen and miles is bad for their characters.

comics-hobie's band is called 'the spider-slayers' ..... or the spider-band, depending on the issue i guess.

"if gwen had been shown this future a year ago..." i don't like the ship, but i acknowledge the chemistry in this version; i can buy gwen being hung up on miles during her year alone, because he was that first other spider she met. if they never lost contact, i think they would have gotten together and been high school sweethearts. and if they did spend that year apart, but joined the society at the same time, the same is true.

but they didn't. gwen spent five months minimum hanging out with other spider-people, getting close to pav and hobie. why would she still be hung up on miles when she knows them better at this point? she and miles knew each other existed for three days, but probably spent a grand total of fifteen hours tops actually interacting. long enough to develop a crush, but not fall in love. and absolutely nothing in comparison to the months gwen spent with pav and especially hobie.

the in universe reason is that gwen's stunted emotionally. and if she's stunted, getting with miles can't help her grow. it'll just keep her in that same space even longer.

the out of universe reason reeks of 'the writers need gwen to be into miles, so they won't allow her to move on. she can't develop attachments to any other people, she can't progress in her plotlines. she can only tread water until miles laps her and allows her to swim after him.'

anyway. 'she blew it up.' at this point gwen's realizing that the only meaningful choices she can make are ones with negative consequences. also commentary on the tendency of the writers to scrub out gwen's less sympathetic actions. let the female character do the shitty thing.

no clue how far jess is into her pregnancy in canon. i figured now was about time for her to have the baby though, since she was visibly pregnant when gwen met her, and it's been six months since then.

earth-8 gwen canonically has brunch with other spider-women from other dimensions. just not jess.

spider-babysitting: what it felt like the comics were doing by cramming charlotte and max into gwen's storylines. the undercurrent has an unironic 'see how cute the spider-kids are? how smart and spunky and talented? wouldn't you hate it if they didn't exist, gwen? better go make them!' vibe that disgusts me.

who else is terrified gwen will have to meet her potential alternate future kids in btsv, and this shit'll repeat itself?

"they tangled the web" -- directly quoting earth-8's account of the gwiles wedding. i'm petty.

if gwiles get married in the comics, they'll batcat/kitty-and-colossus wedding that shit. huge event, tons of tie-ins, tons of variant covers, random fucking superheroes showing up for crossover. it'll be a spiderverse crossover where the guest list mostly consists of spider-people, and next to none of gwen's own cast. she'll be wearing a dress she'd never wear. there'll be some kind of bullshit enemy gwen and miles will Defeat With Their Love. and peter would absolutely be the one walking her down the aisle.

hobie gassing up the getaway car: because that's what he'd do if he were in character. spider-punk would hate this relationship.

margo getting stiffed: because the writers would forget her.

comics-gwen had an interesting vibe with kaine, one of peter's clones. both have a lot in common regarding being considered a replacement/copy of a 616 character. the same's probably true with ben, so i added that here. however, gwen being 16 isn't gonna be too interested in relating to him.

in the comics, em jay and glory grant are a couple. they are constantly breaking up and getting back together. idk if their film counterparts are, but i want it, so i'm including it.

and since in the movie it seems like gwen's really just part of the band and not the friend group, she pleads neutral.

randy robertson is a pal of the band during high school.

gwen and miles have to avoid each other for a while. they're teens who just went through an emotional unbreakup, and that's gonna have consequences on their friend group.

miles's offscreen for most of the rest of this fic. i still wanted to leave some suggestions as to what he's up to, and wanted to nod at his group-- peter b, who's mentoring him again (and using him for babysitting). the other mileses, because i can't not see him wanting to talk to them (perfect miles included, which'll come back). margo, because their little moment in atsv was great and i think they'd get along very well. and pav, who claims neutrality in the gwen-miles fallout.

hobie does too, but miles doesn't see it that way. as great as the potential for a mentorship to develop there is, at the end of the day, hobie knows gwen better, and any fifteen year old boy who just had his heart stomped on by his crush and thinks another guy is involved would not be interested in hanging out with him.

gwen as the center of the group: salt time! i hate how the fandom treats pav and hobie as Miles's Friends. they are, but that was gwen's friend group first. she's the one at the center, not him. it's a change to the typical only-girl-in-the-guy-group-is-only-tolerated-by-the-love-interest's-friends-bc-she's-his-gf dynamic that people sure did totally revert to.

and gwen being fearful about being replaced is indicative of her mindset. she's a gwen; it's in the narrative that she's swapped out for another girl. it follows that she's afraid miles will just trade out her for margo.

"everyone would agree about how horrible her fate was" look. gwen living and being spider-man's girlfriend isn't better than her dying. she's still giving up her life for his narrative. but the general fandom/audience don't seem to mind that. the most nauseating thing about this is that everyone's going to cheer as gwen's character is dismantled, and they're going to say it was a good thing.

hobie's tinkering will come back.

so will gwen having her shoulder dislocated.

notes on trans gwen:

gwen's trans coding in the film is one of the best new additions to this version of her. in the comics, she is cis, but has a lot of queer subtext, but nothing official yet, barring a 'meaningful look' between a tangential gwen variant and an mj, and an obviously censored queer romance between gwen goblin and her mj in an alternate world. hopefully we'll get there someday, but god knows if gwiles happens, that'll stop it.

the trans allegory here is used beautifully.

in terms of the fic, i thought it'd be interesting to explore the ramifications of gwen choosing to be a girl, and still choosing it while knowing the consequences.

but first she has to consider recloseting herself. there's no way she wouldn't at this point. and detransition is no different from denying her spider-senses or going through with the comphet.

also i have a headcanon for the timeline of gwen's transition which was used for this fic. gonna go ahead and dump it here.

so first of all, to state the obvious, gwen was raised and socialized as a boy for her entire childhood. it's canon that she played with action figures as a kid, and she holds her drumsticks like she was classically trained, so she'd have learned that in music class, where drums are typically a 'boy' instrument.

in my mind, gwen came out formally at around 11/12, in early middle school, right around when her mother died.

given the recent loss, her father was a lot more open-minded about it. because look: gwen's dad is a christian cop, and if her being spider-woman is an allegory for transness, then he probably wasn't thrilled when he first learned that she was trans either. having gwen as his only family left would've put things in perspective for him. so: he decides to accept it, but not without a lot of caveats.

caveats like: you need to behave like a girl if you want to be one. no more drumming, you're going to dance class. grow your hair out, and dress feminine, with lots of pink. no more action figures. (... and, some aspect of your birth name will remain in your legal one. hence, the middle name maxine.)

(... which makes gwen-8 having a son named max that they keep trying to force on gwen-65 all the more insidious. it's that literal.)

the family lost the forest hills house and moved to chelsea in particular because george figured it would be a better place for gwen.

by the time gwen's 13, when she's bitten by the spider, she's already publicly identifying as a girl. she's got her name changed, is going by she/her, is painting her nails, growing out her hair, and a ballet dancer.... and, longtime childhood friend peter parker has a crush on her that she has mixed feelings about.

i imagine around then's when the medical transition starts.

by 15, when she meets miles, she passes as a girl. the same way she passes as someone who belongs in his dimension.

when she joins the society at 16, she's made some progress in her medical transition, but hasn't had any surgeries. i get the sense that her dad wouldn't be cool with that.

but since nueva york's medicine is a hundred years ahead of whatever we have now, and probably free through the society, and combined with the super-healing factor, i imagine gwen goes for it. it's a way to get a little control over her situation and, as someone still sorting through how much of what's traditionally 'feminine' she wants and how much is imposed on her, she goes for everything. (the gwen at the end of this fic doesn't regret it, but probably would've transitioned differently in hindsight.)

so by the time we catch up to her in this fic, she's had and fully healed from top and bottom surgery and the hormones she's getting are different from the ones available today so they were a lot more efficient in a short amount of time. six years of progress in six months for a girl who's already six years deep into transitioning.

... as for the uterus, a few things:

1) it's a way to worldbuild nueva york's futuristic medical technology. why can't medical science 100 years from now be capable of growing and implanting new organs? and if it is... logically that includes reproductive organs. a natural extension of that technology would be incorporating it into gender affirmation surgery.

2) it's a part of the Gender Theming in this fic. society (and therefore the spider-society) treats fertility as the ultimate sign of True Womanhood. gwen's transness / inabilityy to get pregnant would be regarded as a flaw to be fixed. her not wanting to get pregnant would be too. (note jess's reaction. she's a woman who does want to be a mother, who's unable to empathize with or understand why gwen doesn't feel the same) and gwen sticking to her guns about it, despite the stigma, is another major step in figuring out what gender means to her. fertility doesn't have to have anything to do with femininity if you don't want it to.

3) spider-gwen (gwen stacy in general, tbh; anytime a gwen variant has kids, it just feels off. case in point, earth 8) isn't a character with any maternal interests or instincts. it's not because she's infertile, or emotionally closed off, or traumatized, or hasn't found the right guy yet. she simply doesn't want to be a mother. for some reason people, men in particular, have trouble believing this about women, fictional AND real. no surprise that the first chance brian michael bendis got, he wrote a Perfect Future for gwen where she pumps out miles's spiderbabies. ugh.

4) aside from the gross misunderstanding of spider-gwen's character, there's a more insidious side to gwen-8's status as a mother: it traps her with miles forever. people, men in particular, really suck at perceiving women, real AND fictional, as people in general and that perception walks off a cliff when they become mothers. in fiction, it's very common for female characters to stop being characters and start being Moms who take a backseat in stories they used to be the center of. it's especially bad in comics.

you know damn well the second gwen gets pregnant with Miles's Babies, she'll have to have them, and suddenly be written with a case of mommybrain that'll last forever. if gwiles date, they can break up; if they marry they can divorce; but if gwen gets pregnant, she'll have to stay with him forever, she'll immediately be demoted to the role of Miles's Kids' Mother and she'll never be her own person with her own stories again. and if she ever gets away from him, she'll be demonized-- if she takes the kids, she'll be hated. if she leaves them, she'll be hated (and the kids'll inevitably keep showing up to guilt her and drag her back to their father). by making gwiles parents in earth-8, bendis basically babytrapped gwen (... and wrote miles into the kind of guy who would do that to a woman he 'loves').

the spider-society's absolutely gearing up to do that to gwen here. she's just not entirely cognizant of that yet.

gwen goes to mumbattan

within this fic's timeline, miles's first alternate dimension was mumbattan, like the film. unlike the film, gwen just took him there to show him what it was like to jump dimensions right after he joined.

gwen meeting gayatri was one of the big reasons for this fic. bullshit that atsv introduces her and gwen both knows the gwen curse and does nothing when gayatri's in danger on that bridge.

gayatri singh is a model; you can see her face on billboards in the background during the mumbattan sequence.

wendy. another peter pan reference, along with gwen's group being a bunch of lost boys. and a play on hobie's nickname for her.

new amsterdam; if mumbattan's new york in this world, what's nyc?

gayatri's an original creation for the film. she's got the g.s. initials, the captain dad, the first-love status, yet she's a model, like mj usually is. interesting hybrid.

'the future looks good on her' is a line from catherynne valente's refrigerator monologues, written in response to gwen's death in the amazing spider-man 2

in the comics, gwen has such a big female support system. the mary janes are her friends, aunt may is a mother figure, jessica is her mentor, cindy is her friend... and none of that is in the film. the mjs are just a gig, and betty (65a gwen's roommate) is the first to jump at the chance to replace her; peter was her only childhood friend. jess is strict and manipulative. she has no female friends, and all the people she confides in and has positive relationship with are guys. i hate that. i wanted gwen to get to have at least one female friendship in this fic. gayatri was the right fit.

comics gwen is always interacting with her alternate selves. she's compelled to find them. it's such an important part of her narrative that i just find... odd that atsv totally ignores. not here though!

at this point, gwen just wants to be a teenage girl again before she dies.

gwen being trans-coded redeemed the ballerina addition for me; it changes the context from 'we're taking this punkish ambiguously-queer girl and femmeing her up for the mainstream audience as we introduce her as a love interest to miles/obviously as The Girl Hero she needs to have a graceful appearance and fighting style' to 'a trans girl went into ballet to access the kind of femininity reserved only for ballerinas, and once she got what she needed from it, she let it go.' more agency, and the subversiveness is back.

meera jain is from pav's comics. so is habi oberoi, the harry osborn. i'm assuming meera's still a party girl, just not a model in this version. also, ref to it taking a tragedy to get meera to grow up = that tragedy's gonna be gayatri's death. that's how mj matures.

hobie's probably the person who did gwen's hair in canon.

selfishness is a thread that'll pick up again soon. yes, it was selfish to turn down miles's feelings and not want to contribute to his narrative. there's also nothing wrong with that. why does the female character always have to give up her autonomy to support the guy's story?

spider-man india's doc ock does have six arms.

adjustment to canon: to accommodate gwen's narrative, everything happens slower. instead of shit popping off the first day miles joins, it takes a few months. his arc's still happening (vital that gwen not be his motivation, just as miles is not hers), just offscreen. hence, saving captain singh. in the context of this fic, singh dies in a confrontation with ock, not the spot; and gwen isn't in the fight at all, nor is gayatri. and miles in mumbattan is a problem because spiders are not permitted to fight each others' canon villains, only anomalies. ergo, the interference is still a huge faux pas.

presumably miles gets chewed out the same, but in the fic, gwen is not there.

the very sapphic vibe of gwen and gayatri's interactions is on purpose. comics-gwen is so clearly queer, and movie-gwen, while being trans-coded, lacks the sapphic interactions of her predecessor. i'd like to restore them. and to bridge that gap, movie-gwen's not entirely aware that she's into girls yet.

everything goes to shit

at this point gwen still thinks she'll die and that the narrative is unbeatable; but she is starting to look for ways to rebel within its limits.

and she does come to the very important conclusion that she should be able to save herself.

the train sequence was pretty much unoutlined. it's one of my favorites.

turning point here: gwen does not want to die, even if it means sacrificing herself. she doesn't want to placate the web of life and destiny, and she likes telling it to fuck off.

but adding some shades of gray to the situation is important. and so is preserving the part of spider-gwen's backstory where her white feminism bites her in the ass. in the comics, it's when she commits some police brutality against peter parker. in the movies, it's when she doesn't stick up for the black kid who she led into a situation that was going to hurt him. since gwen and miles are in different places in this fic, and that transgression doesn't happen (to the same extent; she still brought him there, she just doesn't participate in the chase), that fell to pav.

yes, this is a girl intervening on behalf of another girl to save her from a situation in which she has no agency, that's about fluffing her boyfriend's ego. and that girl has completely understandable reasons to expect the situation to end badly and want to step in.

but. this is also a white girl crashing into a person of color's story and hijacking it to make it about the white girl saving the day, rather than the girl of color being saved. it's a westerner disrupting the story of a nonwestern person, set within a nonwestern cultural context that she does not understand, because she assumes that context can't be different, or in some ways better than her own. and she's doing so without consulting the girl of color and asking her what she'd like to do about this. gwen absolutely does not deserve to be commended for what she does here, and she isn't. but she can't quite be condemned either. and she isn't.

the pav conversation

spider-gwen isn't a savior so much as she's a destroyer. she kills peter parker, she isn't particularly great at saving people, and her mere presence challenges the idea that gwen has to die AND that she can't have her own narrative. it's... odd that the movies don't seem to understand that gwen is just as necessary in breaking canon as miles. hopefully btsv gets it, but i'm leaning towards no.

the fandom's gone over this elsewhere but the theory that gayatri knows pav is spider-man and is playing naive is fun. i like it. another ripple in the web.

gwen's decided to seek and save herself, but she's still putting gayatri in a box, lying to her, keeping important information from her, treating her like an object to obtain in her narrative. she needs a wake-up call, and this is it.

and if gayatri's a gwen, she'd hate being shut out of her own narrative. this friendship was always gonna blow up.

gwen gets to be selfish, but she also has to reap the consequences of being selfish: ruining a potential friendship with gayatri, not at all realizing that hobie and pav have their own dynamic.

it's interesting that hobie and pav represent the two halves of miles-- the subversive, brilliant boy with a connection to the prowler and an intimate bond with gwen, and the green spider-man with an optimism and ease that hasn't been jaded yet. it's important to note that they are also their own people, and reducing them to that to imply that gwen is only friends with them because she was using them as miles replacement goldfish reduces everyone. especially gwen, because surprise-surprise, she can care about people who are not miles!

lady spider is from the steampunk universe. hard to imagine that the two guys who hate the british government would enjoy being around a literal victorian.

one of pav's few confirmed traits in the film is his ability to 'read' people. honestly i think he has it so the writers can hamfist in some "romantic tension" comments, but it's an interesting angle to his character. also refreshing that the girl isn't the empathetic one.

the fandom's himbofied him, but it's important to remember that pavitr is very smart. he has good instincts, and is tapped into the group's dynamics. also stands to reason that he can use his charisma to manipulate.

comic miles has canonically written romantic fanfic starring himself and his friends. pav has that vibe too.

miles's suspension: his arc continues off-page. in this fic, he isn't imprisoned or kicked out, because he needs to come back with the society later (excused via peter b pulling rank to save him). but he's still chewed out for interfering with a canon event, and his motivation is still saving someone's captain dad. difference is, here he's a member of the society already, his dad makes captain much later, and that triggers him into intervening-- suddenly his death feels immediate. therefore, desperation ensues.

pav being a gwiles shipper is a fun feature of his character... but it's not so fun if gwen doesn't want to be with him.

but he IS right that gwen and miles need to talk. they're both grappling with the restrictions of their narratives, and both have what it takes to break out.

gwobie glasses on: so if pav immediately susses out romantic tension between gwen and miles, one has to reason that him insisting on gwen clearing the air about hobie means something is or was going on between them too.

pav's a one-girl kind of guy. he probably doesn't get how to deal with a relationship anarchy situation. gwiles is easier to understand, not just for him, but for everyone else.

miles's dadsaving anxiety is compounded because he thinks that gwen believes he's a bad spider-man. he's still not quite at the right conclusion yet. since pav is in contact with him, he will be soon.

pavitr prabhakar is an alternate peter parker, and a spider-man. he is gwen's type. if she were the gwen of itsv, the gwen who could have been happy with miles if they'd stayed in contact after she went home, it stands to reason she might have also crushed on him.

pav doesn't seem to know about canon events. gwen and hobie do; ergo, they've been keeping them from him, probably to protect him. which was likely gwen’s idea, given how she keeps things from miles in canon. (… and hobie went along with it, so on some level he agrees that it’s necessary, or his soft spot for her is just that strong)

and pav, like any spider-man, is too optimistic and scrappy to believe he can't save gayatri. this issue runs far deeper than just miles; it's all of them.

people in the fandom have this tendency to neglect spider-man in favor of pavitr. yes, he’s sweet and romantic and goofy, but he’s also extremely smart and effective as a hero. dude joined the elites just a few weeks into his time as a hero.

learning that gwen fully intended to die freaks pav out. everything past that point is him trying to deescalate a situation he's judging as serious.

soulmate salt: that theory running through the fandom that the reason why gwen senses that miles is in another dimension and is drawn to him at visions is proof that they're soulmates who are meant for each other, with a destined love.... with all due respect that sucks. if the spiderverse movies are all about getting to choose your fate and define your own narrative, ending on a note of 'well, you're stuck together because of destiny' undoes all that.

and gwen being soulmates with a boy who's destined to either get her killed or totally consume her narrative and turn her into a side character in his own? in every single universe? fuuuuuuck that.

and not being able to hate him? always being doomed to love him, even when being near him only ever hurts her? terrifying.

gwen webs pav because he brings up jess. if he mentioned miles she would have run, if it was hobie she’d have stayed. but its jess, so she hits the panic button.

and pav brings up jess because he’s a fifteen year old who was essentially told by a friend he’s been worried about for months that she’s more or less contemplating suicide. he’s calling the adult who’s supposed to be caring for her.

that danger of falling into villainy is a constant for spider-people. gwen in particular spends her entire latour run in the comics right on that edge. movie-gwen is at that point in her development. (and there's really no worse person to talk to in this situation than pav, who's never had experience with that kind of temptation and therefore cannot understand it).

gwen still isn't ready to see selfishness as anything other than a negative. that plus her wrecking the narrative means she is very much entertaining whether she's about to turn into a villain.

that was the original version of this fic: a story about a gwen who concludes there's no way for her and spider-man to coexist, and becomes a hunter of spider-men whose gwens are still alive in order to tip the balance in their favor.

65a gwen killing peter is what fuels her reluctance towards killing and her empathy for her villains. 65b gwen never did that-- so that violence is still in her, and she hasn't seen its consequences yet. therefore it's a lot harder to resist. 65a gwen believes she's a bad person; 65b gwen falls into that line of thinking here.

gwen officially loses faith in the idea that she's Not Like Other Gwens. she's not more special than them. she's not more incorruptible.

gwen contemplating killing pav was something i hadn't planned on, but it came out while writing the scene. hopefully her managing to shut that impulse down makes it work. she's able to pull herself back from villainy just in time.

and finally, gwen destroying the wall with her fists is her trying to get out all that unspent violence she would have given to her peter. venting the rage, but in a way that avoids harming anyone but herself.

end quote

from seanan mcguire's ghost-spider run, the funeral issue. again, i can't recommend these comics enough, or this run enough, or this issue enough.

in context, gwen in this chapter is at one of her lowest points emotionally. she's blown up two friendships, potentially fucked up someone else's narrative, and she thinks she might be becoming a villain.

[discordapples]

PT. 15 Blissful Thirsts (PT. 3)

Word count: 2.7k (11 mins read)

Characters: Livia Novik, Ominis Gaunt, Sebastian Sallow.

Summary

The Collector exposes Livia's flaws before sending her back to her friends. Things get heated as Livia catches in the asperities of the Collector's illusion.

Read the next chapter below.

Song list: Living in Another World, by Lights and Darkstars (Scene 1) | Trainwreck, by BANKS (Scene 2)

Livia | Hogwarts, Late September, 1893.

First Leeching — Bliss

Livia witnesses everything. Sebastian's soulful smile when he holds his sister against him. Ominis' luminous eyes as he takes his first quavering steps out of his blindness.

Her fingers pressed to the glass, she watches from a pitch-black room, thirsting for the same joys, yet denied them.

What she would relinquish to hold her own mirage, to drink in its oasis and quell her thirst. What she would surrender to touch her brother and find him warm instead of dead-cold, or to see her parents sit around the breakfast room table, varenikis heaped high on their plates and cherry kvass drawing red iridescent circles on the tablecloth.

But the Collector has decided otherwise, and when the images fade from the looking-glass, Livia feels his presence like a gathering thunderstorm.

Every particle is charged with electricity. Each notch of her spine straightening as if tutored by his company.

In the congested silence, she can hear his twine dragging onto the floor, and her skin bristles with goosebumps at the sole idea of it being attached to her flesh.

But how could he feed?

He has refused Livia her share of bliss.

"Why am I not trapped in an illusion of my own?"

The darkness constricts around her, as if she is being pushed down a titanic esophagus. She cannot make the entity's flailing tatters, but she can feel the gusts of air they send against her.

"You are not like them, Livia Novik." The voice brushes against her neck, less and less disembodied with every word. "Unlike your friends, you ache to die." Her chest heaves, the oxygen in the room rarefying. "Since your brother's death, you have been sleepwalking through this life, hanging by a thread, eager to cut yourself away from this world." Weightless fingers scuttle along her clavicles and tears coalesce in the pocket of her eyelids. "You cannot feel bliss, Livia Novik, even in the grip of illusion. You would make for a scant meal." At last, she relinquishes her sorrow, and water scorches a trail down her cheeks. "I will not feed on you today."

If she speaks, she will collapse onto herself; slip her bones; slough off her own skin and reveal the decay beneath.

Her fingers press against the glass, as if traces of Sebastian and Ominis can still be found within, between two grains of compressed sand.

But all she feels is the cold. The ever-clinging winter that lives inside of her.

The Collector's bony hands coil around her shoulders, the pointed ends of his fingers like knives upon her skin.

How easy it would be to cut herself on them, to watch her skin weep with blood and let life trickle out of her.

She could leave Sebastian and Ominis to their illusions; abdicate everything she has—all of her rage and her fear and her misery—to keep them trapped in a loop of eternal bliss.

Take everything I have, she longs to tell the entity, but her lips tremble violently, her heart thrashing in her corset. Take everything away.

A finger lands on her neck and Livia's breath hitches. The Collector's voice is no longer discarnate. It is avid. "The hellscapes your mind designs to torment you are most... singular, Livia Novik. You walk the tightrope of life and death, indifferent to the side you fall into, but one day, you will, and on that day, you will repay your debt to me."

A drop in an ocean. She owes so much already.

"Will they remember how happy they were?" She asks.

"They will lose what tangible things they have gained, but the memories will persist. Nothing can be permanent—as you asked—and I can only affect what you can touch with your fingers."

The cruelty of her friends' ordeal knifes deep in Livia's heart. She sees now that her limitation is a double-edged sword.

What isn't?

"I want to see them..." she begs the entity. "I want to be with them when you feed, and I want you to feed on me, too."

A nail mountains the slope of her neck, prickling her chin. "You have nothing to offer."

"I have despair by the plenty, Collector," she hisses, her own nails sinking into her palms.

The entity's fingers close around her jaw, his ridged gait settling on the crux of her back. There is no breath sidling through the Collector's words. There is no heart beating against's Livia's spine. It is as if death itself embraces her. "You want to share a moment of bliss with them..."

"If I cannot have the whole bottle. I will settle for a swig."

"The leeching will be long and painful."

"You said it yourself," she replies, steeled. "I walk a tightrope, and I don't care on which side I fall. Pain or pleasure; what difference does it make? They are one and the same."

"Why would you choose pain if you could avoid it?"

She sheds a dry scoff in response. "If you were human, you'd understand, but I'm afraid this is a riddle you cannot solve."

His grasp loosens, and a garish gleam blooms from the mirror, radiating outwards. The static of the Collector's squall builds up, developing like a storm. "Suit yourself, Livia Novik, but remember: this doesn't erase your debt."

"You are welcome to collect when the time comes," she says in defiance as the tempest of light hums around her. "I'm sure you got this name for a reason."

The last thing she sees is her own reflection falling apart.

* * *

Livia finds herself amidst a different turmoil, one billowing with consonant sounds, familiar textures and cogent light. Around her, silk skirts whirligig liberally, lavishly dressed men smoke pipes, servants comb through clusters of dancers and gossiping guests with silver trays clinking with glasses of champagne.

Her silhouette is trussed in a navy laced dress that leaves her back open and her waist tapered. The sleeves run up to her wrists, the embroidered lace crawls up to her jawline, the hemline stops at her ankles.

The Collector intended for her to dance.

With whom?

On the mezzanine, an invisible band conjures an energetic waltz that warbles through the room. The place is all crystal chandeliers with shivering white flames, velvets tumbling down the walls like shimmery tongues, florid light wainscoting, checkered marble floor and sashed windows behind which the night presses intently.

And with this handful of familiar sights, Livia is brought back to her family home in the Pecherskyi district, where her parents used to entertain Kyiv's finest wizarding society.

She almost expects to see Laurence perched on a windowsill, legs folded against him, a book balancing on his knees.

But there is no boy in the window, no disinterested reader, just an assertive gloom.

"May I have this dance?"

She recognizes Ominis' voice and turns to face him.

Gone are his lactescent pupils. Gone is the concern clouding his features. Gone is his Hogwarts uniform.

Instead, he is nipped in a black suit, a green silken bow tied around his neck, a handkerchief silk-stitched with his family crest folded neatly in his front pocket, his aurelian hair slicked and shiny.

His lips stretch into a smile, revealing pearly teeth as he proffers a hand that she can only accept.

Ominis presses a hand on her back, and leads her amidst the twains of dancers. His footing is precise, his movements balletic, his mien poised, and it's obvious to Livia that this waltz is not his first.

As the violins break into an allegro, he pulls her closer, his eyes prowling about her eyes, her cheeks, her lips.

"You're more beautiful than I pictured..." he says. "Sebastian's description didn't do you justice."

A shy warmth thrives behind her cheek as he elegantly spins her around the axis of his hand. Beckoning her back into his arms, he entices her closer—close enough for her to breathe a noseful of his perfume. Vetiver, sandalwood, neroli, myrrh. Her head swims as she basks in his proximity, her mind cruel enough to remind her how it felt to have his fingers curled around her thigh.

He comes to a stop, thumbing her cheeks, eyes charting her ridges and valleys as if to commit them to memory. His scrutiny is emphatic, stripping her bare, and she shrinks under its incisiveness, aware now of each faulty brush stroke composing her portrait.

Can he see through the varnish of her illusions?

Will he recoil in disgust at the sight of her scars?

His thumb grazes the soft skin under her eyes. "How haunting your eyes are, Livia." He travels across the expanse of her cheek. "How silky your skin is." Bound ever downwards, he brushes his finger against her lips, parting them with a slight pressure. "How inviting this mouth is..."

She doesn't know if he is utterly snarled in the Collector's delusion or if his sentiment is candid, but when he inches closer, all she can think about is how sweltering the pocket of air they share has become.

His hand unfurling on her back, he entices her closer. Her blood gushes to her temples, the oxygen in her lungs turning igneous as her fingers tangle in his shirt to break her advance.

In her engrossment she hasn't noticed the air festering with black clouds, and she has little time to process what is happening when the Collector's twine wraps around Ominis' chest.

Instinctively, she takes a step back, and watches, her stomach churning, the spiny teeth of the twine burrow into Ominis' neck, right below his left ear.

Eyes rolling to the back of his head, Ominis' feet leave the floor as he is caught in the web of an uncanny levitation.

Color leaches out of his flesh. His lips turn waxen. The gold in his hair melts away. His pupils fog and his eyelashes flitter as he blinks away the last dregs of his eyesight.

How ephemeral and poisonous the Collector's gifts.

At last, the twine loosens, leaving behind a perfect circle of nicks weeping a tar-black substance, and Ominis slumps to the floor.

Livia scrambles to his side, and when he opens his eyes, they are, once again, frosted through. Despite the bounty that was wrenched from his grasp, a smile buds on his lips, and he disgorges an eerie giggle.

Livia's fingers go to his injured flesh as it swells with the invasion he just suffered.

"Will it heal?" She presses the Collector. "You said there would be no physical consequences."

"The second he crosses back into your world, the wound will vanish."

"Livia..." Ominis articulates, and she trains her attention back on him. His fingers stretch to her cheeks, and when he touches her, a rapturous moan spills out of his lips.

The words of the Collector swim up from Livia's recollection.

Once I have absorbed the emotion, the nourisher will experience a short period of euphoria, followed by a mild fatigue.

"You will find Sebastian Sallow in the maze," the Collector says, and her head whips to him.

"You're using me..."

Impassively, the entity tilts its head. "We are collaborating, Livia Novik. Your emotions for the Promissum Mortis."

Her lungs burning, she asks: "What of Ominis?"

"I will send him back to your world once you complete your task. I advise you to make haste in doing so."

Reluctantly, she stands up, glancing one last time to the Slytherin worming on the floor. His limbs writhe against his chest, a beatific expression slathered across his traits.

He bites down into his bottom lip, the moans he waives breathy as can be, but he otherwise seems sound enough to make it through the night, so Livia leaves him to the throng of evanescing dancers, bound for her final stage.

Strangely, she knows the layout of the mansion enough to navigate its entrails swiftly. Scrolling past a hallway decorated with empty frames and a stairwell where droops a lit chandelier, she finds the door to the garden easily enough, and comes to a halt before the nubilous mouth of a hedge maze.

The moon overhead is glabrous and swollen, the path ahead leaden and clammy with cold.

Inhaling deeply, Livia sets on the trail, the ribbon of gravel screeching underfoot. The spectral moonlight casts angled shadows from the greenery and shivers run along Livia's arms as she makes incremental progress through the labyrinth.

Left, right, right, left, left, right.

A languid breeze needles through the shrubbery, carrying the scent of English Yew.

Then she hears it, lilting from a location she cannot pinpoint.

"Livia..."

Sebastian's voice.

She freezes.

It isn't a supplication nor a call for help. It is... impish. Alluring.

Starved.

Her heart thrashes in its bony cage, and Livia's instincts tell her to run.

She picks up her skirt, then hurries along the path.

Right, right, left, right.

Behind her, the branches rustle.

Ahead, footsteps mistreat the pebbly path.

Making a sharp turn left, she speeds down the trail, but the row narrows, the bramble catching in her dress, lashing the exposed skin of her back.

"Livia, where are you running to?"

Sebastian's voice seems to be everywhere all at once.

She presses forward, ignoring the sharp pain lancing from her flesh wounds.

Why is she running?

Her blood gushes not out of fear, but out of...

Thrill.

A smile blossoms on her lips as adrenaline skitters to her extremities, setting her senses alight.

What if he catches her?

A familiar ache pools between her thighs.

"I'll find you," he drawls as if he can read her mind. "I always will."

Veering right, Livia speeds along the shadowy path and, before she can catch her breath, hands close around her chest, and an imposing frame trellises her back.

Sebastian is rigid against her rump, and when he moils even tightly against her, she yields a recreant whimper.

What is illusion and what is truth?

His chin settles in the nub of her shoulder, his stertorous breath blistering against her neck. The frenzy of the chase has turned his voice predatory. "What happens to the doe when she bleeds herself between the wolf's fangs?"

"Sebastian..." she appeals meekly.

He whirls her around, his eyes wild with adrenaline. "What's your plea, Livia?" He presses his thumb against her throat, rolling a strained exhale out of her mouth, and Livia finds herself shamefully slick in the clutch of his coercive attentions. She evades his stare, but he props her chin up, forcing the meeting of their gazes. "This was almost too easy. I know you to put up a fiercer challenge."

"Let me go," she enjoins him feebly.

He graces her with a smirk, then reels her closer.

An inch is all that separates them. The swelter of his breath gathers against her lips and, despite her good sense, Livia tilts her head up, her ventricles pumping her bloodstream full of trepidation.

What does he taste like? How much of his soul does he surrender in his kiss? How many fissures can he etch in her resolve in a single flick of his tongue?

The answers never come, for the Collector wrenches Sebastian away from her, his twine tearing through shirt and skin alike.

Sebastian's face twists in a fervid grimace as he soars from the ground.

Just like Ominis, he is left with a circle of bite marks on his sternum and collapses to the ground, all smiles, his eyes vitreous with pleasure.

Livia lifts her head, all too aware of her scripted demise. The entity hovers closer to her, rawboned hands closing around her nape.

Snaking around her waist, the Collector's twine parts her breasts, and ends its course between her shoulder blades.

Livia feels each serration bite into her flesh, and it's as if each of her cells coalesce to the suction site to be emptied of their vitality.

There is no pain, no fear, no anguish in the embrace, yet a blanket of shadows is pulled over Livia's vision.

The hedge retracts into the earth, the moon caves in, the night sky desaturates, and time tarries past the point of discomfort.

Livia has spent a lifetime, it seems, in the arms of the Collector before he lays her on a bed of shadows and lets hundreds of phantasmal hands pull her back into her world. 

[thesinglesjukebox]

JUNGELI FT. IMEN ES, ALONZO, ABOU DEBEING & LOSSA - "PETIT GÉNIE"

Unlike our past two songs, no relation to murder...

[6.69]

Nortey Dowuona: "C'est pas avec amour qu'on achète vêtements." It's a very cutting lyric once I found a translation of it ("It's not with love that we buy clothes"), and it's true. Jungeli, as a singer and as a presence (in the video at least), is a sweet, light-hearted kid who radiates joy in any room he enters. His voice is light and silken, and threads through the song even when he's not leading a verse. But it doesn't have gravity or weight, so everything he sings floats, including a Lingala verse close to the end of the track. His interplay with Abou Debeing, who also has a light tenor with a bit of bass, allows for a comfortable hand-off between the two. The lilting guitar melody that Jungeli mimics is light as well: it sidewinds through the drum pattern built by DJ Wills, who's produced for the likes of MHD, Bramsito, and Alrima. Imen Es brings a weightier heft to the chorus when she sings it. Her voice is the highest on the track but feels substantial and firm, a comfortable interpretation of the notes placed in the front of the mix. Lossa's deeper tenor can't do the same, simply dragging as the echoes placed below him fill the track to an uncomfortable and unengaging degree. (Imen Es's return is a blessing.) Alonzo has the deepest voice, the sharpest and most distinct flow, but it's such a short, sharp shock that Jungeli's looping verse lulls you back out of the abrupt switch in intensity. "Petit Génie" is so short that you think there's nothing more there for you, it won't put a career on Jungeli's back. But you listen again. And again. And once more. It's still at #1 — he deserves it.  [8]

Mark Sinker: Such voices. Everyone in the room seems to be making a gently scuffed, breathily perfect pop noise, high or low — but honestly I wonder if Imen Es hasn’t the most beautiful delivery I’ve ever heard, with a kind of folded shiver in it. I hurried off to hear what else she’s recorded — an LP last year called Train de vie – but I came back again, because I think this company is bringing out the best in her.  [10]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: That first warbled vocal sounds like something you’d hear in a Burial track. And really, this is a song about the pleasure of hearing vocals. Each new singer enters the track to revitalize. Best of all is Imen Es; she sounds like water, so pure and clear. [6]

Kat Stevens: It always amazes me when people release summer jams in winter. I can imagine Jungeli is hoping to get this track established well before the Paris Olympics to ensure some tasty beach volleyball montage royalties, but unfortunately it's way too late for a rhythmic gymnastics routine (that shiz needs at least a year of prep). The highlight is Imen Es piercing through the breezy beats like a territorial blackbird — a perfect accompaniment for a fluttering ribbon. Maybe LA 2028? [7]

Kayla Beardslee: “Petit Génie” mixes the frantic whistles and percussion stutters of gqom with sunny guitar and relaxed vocals that feel much more Afrobeats — but it’s all in French, with features from various hip-hop artists (and R&B singer Imen Es, who absolutely eats the men up). The result is pleasant, though the mix of influences feels less like stitching together a tapestry and more like throwing it all in a blender. [6]

Katherine St. Asaph: Groove is OK, but every vocalist here is about 66% as good as they needed to be. [5]

Taylor Alatorre: Am I wrong for thinking that this sounds like a Francophone nightcore remix of "Am I Wrong"? And am I wrong for thinking Nico & Vinz deserve a better one? [3]

Jessica Doyle: If I squint I can see something interesting in the tension between the stated text, pointedly superficial and unsentimental, and the musical atmosphere of friends hanging out and taking turns. I can see why this got popular: it provides a nice backdrop for an outdoor party. But I’m alone right now, so: [4]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: I really do love posse cuts. "Petit Génie" serves as a helpful reminder of their benefits – take a collection of middling hooks and verses, staple them together over a pretty but anonymous beat, and achieve something much greater than the sum of its parts. [7]

Thomas Inskeep: A lovely, breezy blend of Afrobeats, hip-hop and R&B, the epitome of ear candy. [7]

Ian Mathers: My French is nowhere near fluent (or remembered; it's been years) enough to keep up with all the different speakers and accents here, but there's a lightness of touch and group-level joy that comes through here, whatever the text actually is. Posse cuts like this can suffer from a lack of consistent quality on the one hand (cf. how annoying I found ArrDee on "Body (Remix)") and not having distinctive enough personalities on the other, but "Petit Génie" doesn't break a sweat threading that particular needle. [7]

Isabel Cole: Feels bigger than it is, in a good way — a sense of richness, lushness even, achieved not through maximalism but through the careful deployment of each component part. I was surprised when I looked at the length by how short it was, also in a good way, as if the song had created such a complete sonic world that time ran differently there. I like how each vocalist brings a slightly different emotional shading, even when they’re singing the same melody. [9]

Leah Isobel: Damn, life is pain. [8]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

[magnetic-regent-magneto]

In the hushed cadence of his breath, a primal growl reverberated, a symphony of discontent echoing through the depths of his being. How fitting, he mused, that her defiance mirrored his own, a reflection cast upon the turbulent waters of their shared existence. Did he truly anticipate her departure? A fleeting notion, swiftly swallowed by the inexorable blood they share.

Their powers, though tethered by a common thread, danced to the rhythm of divergent melodies. She was a fledgling amidst the tempest of her abilities, learning to play what he learned to force. Yet, beneath the surface, their essences intertwined, an intricate tapestry of magnetic resonance binding them together. Each thread a filament of connection, each chord a pulsating echo of their symbiotic bond. He can see frequencies hang onto one another, amplifying, his gaze tuned into the sight of electromagnetism devoid of colours.

Erik hears the core of the earth humming an eerie song of rage and unrest. They had woken a titan and try to bring the behemoth a lullaby to bring it back to sleep, all while forcing its eyes closed.

"Leave, Lorna, I am no longer asking."

Instead of feeding their shared energy back into the loop to control the molten earth, he was pulling it towards himself. A restless tempest. A behemoth of a force of nature meeting another. He attempt to take the mutant circuit from Lorna's hands. He would not allow her to remain here.

Using his powers was like a lifeline in a thundering storm on the ocean. If he grabbed the lifeline wrong, it burned his hands. Occasionally it gave air. And then it drowned him again. Now it made him lose the feel of his body, of his mind.

"Do not make me force you."

-- @emmatriarchy ||

-- @emmatriarchy ||

Heat thrummed in the air with such swallowing viciousness that Magneto could feel the melting rocks sing with metallic vibrations. He groans as his fists hold onto string and webs of electromagnetic fields with knuckle-whitening strength. A vortex of power drummed in his ears, his eyes glowing white.

And Polaris stood across from him, a mirror of him. Or perhaps he now mirrored her with his darker green suit. Their powers are intertwined, synched into the depths of the heart of Earth to stabilize the raging planet that threatened to eat Krakoa whole from where it was in the ocean.

He had to admit that bending the planet to their will was a natural power of Storm and Magma. He was not soothing, he was just telling the planet to do what he wanted. And nothing would deny him more than nature itself.

The magma and core of Earth was creating a feedback loop between the two masters of magnetism. Constant vibrations and frequencies rushed into their power net. It strengthened their control. And yet let the control fray viciously until it would snap. Magneto could feel the gamma frequencies in his fields. The way he was starting to glow with overexertion and sweat beading his forehead as he tried to hold onto the fields that ran through his fingertips like threads.

"Lorna, retreat back to Black Tom and Iceman."

He shouts over the roaring planet. Then he sees her hesitation. She was not bucking.

"Lorna, now!"

[sukirichi]

to second chances.

here’s to the things we couldn’t say to the people we loved. 

⊹ college au. angst. unedited. mitsuya is so perfect that i also think he’s the perfect person for heartbreaking angst. requested by my darling @mephiis​ 

⊹ my friend sent me this song and i think it fits so well !! there are english cc’s to those who don’t understand <33 reblogs, comments, n feedbacks are appreciated !!

Staring at the colourful threads hanging by your fingers, you release a dreamy sigh. It’s another one of the little gifts you plan to leave on his desk for another day – part of a routine where you surprise your crush with presents as the only way you can express your feelings. Your presents range from homemade baked goods to charmed bracelets like this one, and as always, your heart races in its chest at the thought of watching Mitsuya’s eyes sparkle over the gesture.

True, you’ve done this a hundred times, but this time you feel different.

There’s this heavy feeling sinking in your stomach, almost like an itch that couldn’t be scratched away. Despite knowing exactly what it is, however, it never lessens the anxiety away.

“So, there’s this guy I like,” you find yourself blurting out, rolling over to face your twin sister. “He’s really sweet and handsome. Pretty much everyone in class has a crush on him with how perfect he is, so I doubt he’ll even look my way or remember me if I confess to him.”

“You want to confess?”

“Yeah,” you nod, chin prodded onto your palm. “I think he deserves to know someone admires him with their whole heart.”

Beside you, your sister stops scrolling through her phone. “You know what, you’re right about that. I should confess too,” she announces with a bright smile, shutting her phone off when you raise a brow at her. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. There’s someone I like too! You can’t be the only one giggling over a boy in class.”

“What’s your crush like? How come you didn’t tell me about him before?”

“You didn’t tell me anything either,” she defends with her tongue playfully stuck out, “But yeah, I guess we have the same type of men. He’s also extremely kind and popular, though I think he’s not aware of it. He’s just cute like that.”

Nodding, you process her words. There’s a huge difference between you and your twin crushing on someone – with her having always been the more popular, liked one and you as the one who prefers to slink back in the shadows, much more comfortable in letting the world pass by in front of you – you can’t help but wonder: “You think they’re ever going to like us back?” blinking, you raised a finger at your sister’s open mouth. “Actually, don’t answer that. I know they’ll like you.”

She laughs at your crestfallen face. “He’ll like you too! Come on, you’re so funny to be with. Besides,” she pokes your cheek, “My baby sister is quite the charmer. You just don’t see it for yourself.”

“Says the girl who gets asked out thrice a week.”

“Whatever,” rolling her eyes, she offers you her a pinky. It’s been a tradition from when you were little that each time you decided to try something new, it had to be done together, the pact sealed with looped pinkies. Until now, the tradition’s never been broken. “Here’s to confessing to our crushes, yeah?”

“To confessing!” you tangle your pinky with hers, shoulders slumping not a moment later. “And not being rejected...hopefully.”

“Gosh, you’re such a negative thinker! Lighten up, will you? He’s going to like you!”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then it’s not the end of the world, baby sis,” she reassures, flipping her hair over her shoulder before plopping back down on the bed. “He’s just a boy.”

Once more, the great contrast between you and your sister shines crystal clear. Though you suppose it’s the fault in your wording by saying it’s just a crush, when in reality, he’s so much more. Mitsuya Takashi is so much more. Call it cringy if you must, but you’ve never quite felt this way for anyone before. The romance you’ve read about in the mangas? They can’t even compare to the way your stomach churns at the thought of him; those butterflies turning into a freaking zoo at the mere thought of him.

So she’s wrong. Your sister is wrong because Mitsuya Takashi is not just a boy.

“Not to me,” you mumble, more so to yourself than anyone else. Not that your sister hears, of course, but you figure the universe should stand witness to the depth of your emotions anyway. “He’s the whole world and more...”

And he is. Mitsuya Takashi, the dark haired boy whose smile makes the room light up in a second. Mitsuya Takashi, the best brother of two younger sisters who you’ve seen visit him on campus before, and he wasn’t the least bit flustered when his sisters flock over him like adorable puppies. Usually, people your age would be embarrassed to have their relatives dote on them like that, which is why seeing Mitsuya basically plaster all over his whole being that he loves his family with the entirety of his heart makes you only fall for him deeper. It makes you wonder, makes you daydream of how he’d be like as a lover.

You could list so much more things. There’s an endless amount of reasons as to why you love him, why your heart does these little back flips each time he’s around, or why the simple sound of his voice is enough to send your whole body on fire.

He’s your world. Your everything; your happiness, your hope, your light – but here’s one thing they don’t tell you about putting someone on such a high pedestal.

Here’s one thing they don’t tell you about turning a person into your universe; it’s that when the tides shift and change and unexpected events makes your whole world crash into pieces, it would hurt a lot. Especially when the person you loved most is standing in front your sister, of all people, Mitsuya listening intently to every word she said. I like you. I find you interesting. I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a while now. I like you.

Somehow, your own I love you pales in comparison to her words.

And you stand there, hiding behind a wall like the coward you are as you clutch the bracelet you’ve been meaning to give to Mitsuya in person this time, frozen and unable to move as Mitsuya chuckles in delight. “Wow,” he breathes out, “Uhm, thanks. Really. I wasn’t expecting this at all.”

Of course he didn’t.

Your sister wasn’t the one who left him a note this morning, asking him to meet up with you once classes are over because you had something to say. Not that your sister crushing on Mitsuya was impossible to even think of, but you’ve been too wrapped in your own head to even consider that. How could it happen? They didn’t share classes. They’ve never met before. But then again, your sister is the person everyone knows and wants to be friends with. She’s the one everyone loves because of her bubbly and caring personality.

It would make sense...even if you didn’t want it to.

“I made a promise to confess, so here I am,” you hear your sister say, along with the sounds of your own teeth gritting together to stop the tears from flowing. “So? Will you go out with me?”

You should leave. You need to leave. You won’t like what you’ll hear next, yet you can’t move. Can’t even feel a muscle until it’s too late, and your numb hands let go of the bracelet. “Yes,” Mitsuya responds, his usual calmness now barely hiding the excitement he’s feeling. “Yes, I’d like that very much, actually.”

When your sister laughs, you hear the ending.

And so, you walk away, shoving the bracelet deep into your pocket as fat tears cloud your vision. It doesn’t matter that people are worriedly looking your way as you push past them, a pathetic squeezing in your heart because you’ve never felt more humiliated in your life before. A part of you feels happy – you really do – for your sister. For Mitsuya. Both of them are good people whose patience and love runs deep for everything they care about. They would be good together, could make each other happy, so then why does it hurt so much?

In a way, you tell yourself, this probably can’t get any worse.

Your world’s fallen apart. This much you’ve accepted a long time ago when news spread on the campus of the newest couple, their names thrown into conversations pretty much everywhere. How they’re ‘couple goals’ or how ‘cute they look together.’

You’ve long lived the fact your universe is no longer yours – something you believed could be the most painful reason to stay awake at night – until that same, shattered universe builds itself up right in front of you. Now, you wonder what it would be like if you got where your sister is first. She’s cuddled up to Mitsuya’s side as he turns the pages of a novel for her, her boyfriend leaving kisses at the top of her head every now and then. And you? You stick out like a sore thumb as you third wheel the happy couple.

“You warm?”

“Hmm, you’re my personal heat pack, so ‘em good,” your sister mumbles at his bicep, nudging her cheek to his sides with her gaze fluttering up to meet his adoring ones. “Turn the page for me, ‘Kashi.”

Like the good boyfriend he is, Mitsuya complies.

It’s so funny – how she has him wrapped around his finger after just a few dates. Dates that you’ve had the honour to listen to in complete detail as your sister gushes on how gentlemanly he is or how romantic Mitsuya was the whole time. You want to tell her that you know; Mitsuya is the topic at hand here, of course he would be perfect.

Except he’s not yours. So technically, you shouldn’t know. You don’t know him aside from the long hours you’ve spent staring at him instead of paying attention in class.

You won’t know him the same way your sister does, and this fact eats away at you. Suffocates you until you’re closing your book shut, throat hoarse from another sob threatening to break through.  “I’m going to get a drink,” you tell them, desperately hoping that for at least just one second they’d look at you instead of each other. Surely, it wasn’t too selfish to ask for that... right?

“You guys want anything?”

They don’t. Your sister’s eyes are drooping lower by the minute, her falling head caught by Mitsuya’s gentle hands. Later on, he’s helping her lean onto him in a more comfortable position, smiling at you as he does so. “We’re good, Y/N, thank you.”

“Okay,” you nod awkwardly, sending one last glance at the serenity present on her face. She’s so peaceful, so at home that you don’t have the heart stay any longer and leave.

The moment you’re away from their presence, you lean against a wall next to a vending machine, helplessly clutching at your heart that’s tearing apart. All you want to do is forget the loving gazes he sends her way, wishing that it could be you instead of her. It’s selfish, stupid, and maybe even evil, but you don’t want to lie to yourself.

You’re shaking as your emotions overwhelm you the longer the memories play in your head, too lost in your own thoughts you fail to hear the sounds of approaching footsteps.

“Y/N.”

You jump at the hands landing on your shoulder. Coming face to face with the guy you’re hopelessly in love with yet can’t have, you take a step back, masking your agony with a forced, trembling smile.

“M-Mitsuya! You scared me!”

Mitsuya retrieved his hands to himself, scratching the back of his head as he too, gives you space. “Sorry about that. You looked like you were busy thinking about something, so I didn’t want to disturb you—” he pauses abruptly, gaze landing on yours intentionally averting his. Immediately, Mitsuya looks around the empty hall before whispering, “You alright? Your eyes are red.”

“Huh? No, yeah, I’m fine. It’s just, uhm, the cold,” you wave your hands in front of you, “Anyways, what’re you doing out here? Where’s my sister?”

“She’s fallen asleep already. Unmoving like a rock.”

“Oh, yeah, she’s always like that.”

“She actually asked me to come find you,” Mitsuya smiles, “You’ve been gone for quite a while now so I was worried about you.”

Glancing at the wristwatch Mitsuya extends your way, you realize quite some time has passed since you left. You can only wonder what else they’ve been doing inside the library while you were gone. Probably more kissing. More hushed whispers of sweet words that you could only hear in your wildest dreams that are directed to you. More touching and holding natural of couples; you’re almost relieved you left before it gets too much. Although the concept of too much was more a grey area at this point after everything.

“Oh. I didn’t know it’s been that long already,” you offer numbly, subconsciously rubbing your hands up and down your arms as you figure out what else to say.

Haven’t you always hoped for this? A chance alone with Mitsuya where you could get to know him better, hopefully make him laugh and make him remember you? Now that the opportunity is presented, your mind blanks despite the countless daydreaming of how your conversations would’ve gone. Now, it feels taboo. It feels wrong.

“You’re upset about something.”

Your head snaps upwards at his observation. “Huh?”

“I can see it written all over your face,” Mitsuya gestures to you, all traces of his smile now replaced with a concerned one. “Growing up with two younger sisters, it becomes second nature to guess what people are feeling,” he says, hesitating for a moment before he juts his shoulder in the direction of the doors. “Do you want to go outside and talk about it? I don’t think we can be too talkative inside the library.”

You don’t know what pulls you to say yes.

Maybe it’s his genuine offer – the sincere worry in his face that reassures you he will listen and try to understand you. That’s always been a character of Mitsuya Takashi; ready to offer a helping hand or a patient ear. It’s only one of the thousands of reasons you’re madly in love with him even when you shouldn’t be, and also one of the reasons why you follow him outside in the dead winter of the night, snowflakes coating your shoulders and hair as you both settle on a campus bench.

You would say it’s almost romantic, to be honest. Snowflakes, huddled close to each other for warmth, when out of nowhere Mitsuya takes your hand in his. “Sorry,” he glanced at your widened eyes, “Was that weird? You were shaking so bad that I acted on reflex. I can let go if you li—”

In an instant, you grasp at his fingers almost desperately. “I-I’m fine, thank you.”

Mitsuya nods in relief, his eyes trailing down your intertwined fingers where he begins to rub his thumbs all over your freezing knuckles. The action soothes you like his touch held magic in them, your shoulders easing the longer you spend time with him.

“So...I’m all ears if you want to vent. Maybe scream, although not too loud because we might get kicked out of campus.”

Right. You’re only here because he’s a concerned ‘friend.’ This scene is not ripped out of those romance novels you’ve buried your nose in since you were younger. You’re reminded once again that he’s not yours, you’re not his, and in all ways possible, your emotions should be the least of his concerns.

“It’s stupid, Mitsuya. It doesn’t really matter.”

“It does if it’s bothering you this much,” he insists, “There’s nothing wrong with feeling sad sometimes, Y/N. We’re all human. It won’t hurt you to trust someone every now and then. Plus, think of it as our getting to know each other process. You’re always with us but we haven’t talked much,” Mitsuya notices your silence and raises his free hand, almost as if to plead innocence. “I’m not forcing you, though. Just that your sister will kill me if she finds out you’ve been crying and I didn’t make you feel better.”

“She’s nice like that, huh?”

Mitsuya smiles adoringly in agreement. “Your sister is a kind person.”

Yes. Yes, she is, which is exactly why you shouldn’t ruin your happiness. Which is exactly why you shouldn’t stay out here any longer, holding her boyfriend’s hand and practically cuddling with him for the sake of warmth. Human kindness or not, it’s still wrong. You’re not supposed to be doing this to your sister. She doesn’t deserve it.

Slowly, you pull away from Mitsuya and scoot a few inches away from him, ignoring the slightly hurt and confused expression on his handsome face.

“Around a year ago,” you begin, breaths coming out in cloudy puffs from the cold. Although despite the freezing temperatures, you feel undeniably warm with Mitsuya.

You wish it wasn’t that way though. You wish it grows too cold, so much so that each fibre of your being would turn numb until you could no longer feel even a sliver of liking for him; for this boy you love with all your heart.

However, Mitsuya doesn’t need to know that.

“There’s this boy I liked. Freshman stuff, you know what I mean? New environment, new people, new experiences – the thrill of it all also got to my nerves. Until I met this guy. He was really nice; so sweet and patient when I lost my way. And, uh, I didn’t really know his name until we shared a few classes together, which is how I got to know him better and he’s—” you suck a deep breath in, nails dug into your thighs in an attempt to restrain the tears. “—He’s truly admirable. You have no idea.”

“He sounds like a nice guy.”

“He is!” you agree wholeheartedly, “So nice that seeing him lights up my day. It doesn’t matter that I’m in a bad mood. All he’ll do is walk in the room, greet his classmates, smile – then just like that. I immediately feel better. He just has that aura about him that draws people in. Makes me happy without even trying,” chuckling, you shake your head at yourself. Daydreaming and writing poetry about him was one thing, but confessing unknowingly to the receiver of your feelings was another. “This sounds weird because he doesn’t even know me, but he’s my comfort person. He always brightens up my day each time he’s around.”

Mitsuya lights up at your words. “I don’t think it’s weird at all. I have someone like that too – a comfort person, though I don’t know who they are.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods excitedly, “There’s someone leaving me little gifts in my seat each time I come to class. Sometimes it’s a snack, a cute little note, a handmade teddy bear or homemade brownies – Draken actually suggested I come to class earlier but stay somewhere else. That way I could find the mysterious gifter, but I told him no. I’m not going to do that to them.”

Your brows furrow.

“Why not? Aren’t you curious?”

“I am; I’m very curious,” he clears, “There’s been so many sleepless nights where I stayed up wondering who made me this charm bracelet,” rolling his sleeves up, Mitsuya shows you the bracelet you made him – the last gift you left on his seat the day after your sister asked him out. Sort of as a farewell gift, but you know better than anyone else you left as a lame attempt of closure.

A silent I’m going to let you go now.

Was it stupid? Definitely.

Did it work? Deifnitely not. But is your heart slowly mending itself back together after knowing Mitsuya’s been cherishing it the whole? Definitely, hundred percent yes.

“You’re wearing it.”

“I love it,” Mitsuya muses, holding the bracelet up until his eye level, his eyes crinkling into a half smile. “It fascinates me that I have a silent lover; someone who cares for me enough that they’d go this far just to express it. Which is why I didn’t want to come to class earlier just to find them. Because I’m sure if they wanted their identities to be revealed, they would’ve come to already. Until then, until they’re ready to talk to me, I’ll just have to wait.”

“You’ll wait...” you echo back to him, tilting your head to the side as the perplexity dawns on you. “But you’re already dating my sister. Do you still want to know them?”

“Yeah, of course, I want to thank them for everything. Their little gifts meant the world to me, but I also think it’s important I tell them myself that I can’t reciprocate their feelings. Like you said, I’m dating your sister, and I’m very happy with her. The least I could do is thank them for their kindness.”

Ah. Of course.

Silly you – did you really expect something more?

Unaware to your turmoil, Mitsuya straightens his back in realization. “My bad, you were supposed the one venting, yet I’m here telling you my story. What did you want to talk about again? That there’s someone you like?”

Yes, and that’s you.

“Oh, yeah, him. He’s uh...out of my league, you could say. I don’t stand a chance, so even if I did confess, I think I’ll just ruin everything.”

“Is he a close friend? Do you not want to lose the friendship – something like that?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Mitsuya offers you an encouraging smile. “Do you still want to tell him about your feelings? I think he’ll really appreciate it.”

“I know he will, but it’s pointless. I’ll do more damage than anything.”

It took a few seconds before he effortlessly pieces two and together – the distraught on your face a clear telltale you’re not looking for advice. So he nods slowly to let you know he’s listening, placing a hand on your shoulders without noticing how you stiffen under his touch.

“Well, whatever happens, I do hope you get to confess. It’ll be a huge weight off your shoulders, and you don’t know what could happen next. If it goes well, I’m happy for you. And if it doesn’t, then I’m also here for you. Me and your sister, both. We’ve got your back,” he drawls out in slow, careful motions as if afraid to unknowingly push a button, only to reel back once he sees you hiccupping and tearing up behind your hands. “Hey – you’re crying! Did I say something wrong?”

“No, you’re perfect, god, you’re – just take care of my sister, okay?” you ask rather helplessly, knowing full well you really don’t stand a chance anymore.

And even if you did, you could never take away something or someone your sister cherished.

For both your sister and Mitsuya, you’ll offer your undying support. Which is why you wipe your tears away and hug him in a more brotherly way, surprising the man when the both of you almost topple over. “You both look good together and I haven’t seen her this happy since she met you, so you better treat her good or else I’ll punch you in the face!”

Mitsuya’s chest vibrates with laughter. “You don’t have to tell me that, Y/N. I’ll be good to her.”

“I know, but I’m serious, I really will punch you!”

“You should!” his laughter grows louder, the sound of his happiness soothing your heart because he’s happy. Mitsuya, the one you love, is happy and the sound of his laughter is contagious – you almost don’t remember the pain anymore. Not when you’re blanketed by his warmth and promises, even if it’s not meant for you. At least, he’s happy.

“I wouldn’t ever want to hurt someone I love, so if ever I end up making her cry, I give you permission to land a solid one onto my face. That’ll be well deserved.”

“…For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part,” Mitsuya finishes, his gaze never once leaving the tear-stained face of your sister who’s shaking as Mitsuya coos at her. From afar, you could read their lips, Mitsuya brushing her happy tears away with the pads of his thumbs while saying don’t cry, baby, don’t cry!

Your sister, every bit the crybaby you are as well, albeit being better at hiding it, breaks out into uncontrollable sobs that makes the crowd laugh. Soon, they’re cheering the married couple at how adorable they are, chanting the same time the officiator announces – “You may now kiss your bride.”

Joining everyone in the thundering applauses, hoots, and congratulations muting the sounds of their kissing, you bundle up the hems of your dress and turn away.

Even though it’s been five years – five years of watching them fall deeper in love with one another at each passing day, to Mitsuya asking you for help on how to have the best proposal to your sister and to guiding his bride-to-be in choosing her wedding gown as she goes on and on how she’s living the dream, the happiest woman to be alive – it never hurt any less. The pain never subsided nor did it get easier with time.

Sure, there were times you’ve numbed yourself enough that you’re almost convinced you don’t love him anymore.

But as you see their relationship blossom, as you witness how Mitsuya goes out of his way to make it up to your sister at each argument, as you watch for yourself how he grows into an even more mature man who went from being designer and now into a husband more than ready to start a family with your sister, you can’t help but wish that it could’ve been you. That you should’ve said something before their feelings grew stronger. That you deserved the right to be selfish at least once.

Although like always, you don’t say anything.

You simply watch as Mitsuya forgets the bracelet you made him, probably disappearing into the pits of nowhere and into a random box thrown out when they move in together. You simply watch as things are too late and you’re left all alone, swinging back and forth while all your friends and loved ones gather inside for the celebrations, completely unaware that you’ve disappeared right before they kissed.

“Years later and you still have the habit of disappearing into thin air?”

Mitsuya suddenly shows up before you, handsome as ever in his own designed suit before he situates himself on the swing next to you. “You find me every time,” you tell him with a lopsided smile, too numb that you can’t even cry anymore. “Did my sister ask you to look for me?”

He nods, flattening his feet on the ground as he kicks back to be swung. “So what’s wrong this time, sister?”

Thankful that the music inside the hall is too loud for him to hear how your voice wavers at being called sister, you turn away from him and duck your head to the ground. “Nothing’s wrong, ‘Kashi. It’s your wedding. You shouldn’t even be out here when you’re supposed to be centre of the spotlight. Star of the night. Man of the evening.”

As Mitsuya tips his head back in laughter, you can’t help but watch in awe of his beauty. The same handsome man you’ve fallen in love with, and still madly in love with, slowly slipping away from your fingers.

The only difference is that after today, it won’t hurt anymore.

Your heart’s been bled dry enough.

“I’m neither of any of those things – your sister shines the most tonight. As she should be,” he nudges your shoulder, using his feet to stop himself from swinging. This time, you force yourself to meet his worried gaze, grip tightening around the ropes to stop your eyes from flitting down to his lips. Those same lips you’ll never have the opportunity to kiss anymore. Those same lips that will only speak your sister’s name. Those same lips who’ll utter everything you want to hear into the ears of another.

“Hey. As your brother-in-law, I’m worried for you, you know? You’re the only one who hasn’t been smiling much tonight.”

“You noticed that?”

“Hmm, years of being with your sister and your face kinda grew on me,” he jokes to lighten the mood, and you gently whacked him with your purse, rewarding you with his hearty laughter once more. “I’m joking, I’m joking! But seriously, Y/N. I’ve never seen you look this sad before… what’s on your mind?”

You, Mitsuya. You’re always on my mind and heavy on my heart.

“It’s nothing, ‘Kashi, I promise. I’ll move on eventually, you don’t have to worry about me anymore. We’re not the same kids we were back then, so I’m a lot stronger now.”

“I beg to differ,” Mitsuya implored, his lavender eyes shooting up into the star-filled sky, exactly to the universe where you once likened him with. “We’re still the same kids. You still have that unconditional warmth in you. The one that lets people know you’d love them and be there for them no matter what, with no price to pay or anything to ask for in return. That selfless girl who I’m now proud to call my family – that’s still you.”

Ah, yes.

You see, your feelings for him are like a loophole, a never ending cycle of yearning and hurting to loving once again. Before you realize it, you’re crying for what seemed like the nth time ever since you met him, chest wreaking in the (hopefully) final tears you’ll shed for him.

Because he’s right. You’re selfless, but goddamn, you wish you weren’t. You want to be selfish.

“But it hurts so much, Takashi. It hurts.”

Wordlessly, Mitsuya pulls you close to his chest, his warm hands rubbing up and down your back as you dab your tears with a handkerchief. “Don’t hate the situation you’re into. I promise you that one day this pain will serve its purpose, but until then, I can offer you my shoulder to cry on.”

“B-but your suit is expensive, I wouldn’t wanna—”

“I don’t want my baby sister to cry on my wedding. This is supposed to be a happy day for us, so I’ll be here until you feel better, alright? I’m here with you. You’re fine. Cry all you want; don’t hold back.”

“GROOM!” someone calls from inside the hall, “It’s time for photos – where the hell is he?”

Pulling away from him despite the pleads of your heart to stay a little longer, hold him a little tighter knowing it’s your last time to ever experience this again, you nod your head to the doors. “I think that’s your cue to leave, ‘Kashi.”

“Do you feel better now?”

“You worry too much,” you snicker at him, “Just go. I’ll be fine.”

Squeezing your hand, Mitsuya glances over his shoulder one last time before he’s disappearing into the crowd, surrounded by the cheers and playful back slaps given to him by his friends. A second later, the crowd parts a bit where you see him sweeping your sister down for a kiss. The entire audience celebrates in glee, drowning out the voices in your head until it becomes – silent. Muted. Just like that, there was no more longing, no more yearning, just a silent acceptance that this is where it ends. But it’s okay. Because Mitsuya is happy. Your sister is happy.

They are happy.

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

Whipping your head at the unexpected voice, you gaze up at a handsome, tall blond man. He’s oddly familiar… “Draken?” you greet both in surprise and recognition, “Ryuguji Ken from college? Mitsuya’s old friend?”

“We’re still friends, I was just busy with my bike shop so I haven’t been around much,” he corrects, swirling the drink in his glass before nodding at you. “You, on the other hand, you were always there. It’s you, right?”

“Uhm, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“The girl who always came to class earlier than the rest to leave presents in Mitsuya’s seat – you’re that girl, aren’t you?”

Your mouth falls open in a gasp. “H-how’d you know?”

“Figured if Mitsuya didn’t want you to come out yourself, then I might as well see for myself. ‘Had a feeling you’ll never show up to tell him anything anyway, so I wanted to hold your memory at least,” Draken keeps his eyes on you as he downs his drink in one go, staring at his now empty glass for a moment. “Sorry if it wasn’t my place to do so.”

“It’s fine,” you mumble yet turn away from him, eyes narrowed at the married couple having their first dance. “You must think I’m pathetic now. Having the guy I’ve always been in love with marry my own sister.”

“I don’t think it’s pathetic; I think it’s brave.”

“Brave?”

“It takes a huge heart to be able to handle all that pain,” Draken reckoned, following your line of sight as he too, watches Mitsuya nudge noses with your giggling sister. “You didn’t say anything because you wanted the most important people in your life to be happier; that’s not pathetic at all. There’s no shame in putting people’s happiness before yours, though I do think you’re a little too selfless you forget you’re just as important.”

“You don’t filter your words, do you?”

“Don’t see the need to,” he shrugs, swiping two glasses from a waiter passing by and handing you one. “Here’s to lost loved ones and new beginnings. Trust me when I say you’ll move on someday and be able to love again.”

Reluctantly, you accept the drink.“I didn’t lose him. Not like I ever had him in the first place.”

“That still hurts, though. A heart broken by losing someone or by not having the one person you want most of all is still a broken heart. Your pain is valid.”

“You sound like you’ve experienced it.”

Draken’s eyes cloud with something unreadable, so quick you almost wonder if you’ve seen it or it’s just a trick of the eye as it disappears just as fast as it came. “Lost a loved one, but their memories will carry on with me forever. That’s the great thing about love – that’s the one thing you can’t lose no matter what.”

“And if you fall out love?”

“The love still happened. It doesn’t change the fact you loved them at one point,” he gestures to Mitsuya – the perfect definition of a love once proven true but never spoken of - before lifting his glass with yours. “Here’s to giving love a second chance?”

You almost want to scoff at the idea. A second chance seems absurd, yet Draken is surprisingly good at convincing that you’re lifting your glass to clink with his, the both of you smiling in agreement.

“To second chances.”

[lightsovermonaco]

His Good Sweater: Chapter 12

Masterlist

Winding down from the frenzy of the last chapter... Thanks to @acollectionofficsandshit​ for being my bestie and beta reading! This would have never happened without her ❤

Word Count: 5.9k

Recommended song: "I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy

“Mon amour, wake up.”

Pierre’s sleep-heavy voice rouses you from the best sleep you’d had in a long time. You’d fallen asleep to the sounds of his even breathing under the soothing touch of his thumb tracing patterns on your side.

You crack your eyes open to see him silhouetted by the white light of the waning moon, his bare chest left uncovered by the blanket slung low over his hips. The sight alone has your mind instantly jumping into overdrive, fighting the need to sleep with the need to continue ogling the bare skin a foot from your face.

“I let you sleep as long as I could,” he says softly, reaching behind him for his phone. “We have to be on the M1 in about half an hour.”

“Mmmph,” you groan, snuggling back under the blanket and closer to him, chasing the warmth radiating from him. “The sun isn’t even out.”

His chuckle shakes the bed. “I figured you would say that which is why I made you breakfast and picked out your clothes. All you have to do is brush your teeth and get dressed.” 

You hum appreciatively and press a kiss to his bare sternum. “Is this how you’re going out today? Because I won’t complain but you might cause a few heart attacks.” A kiss to your temple is a small reward for your comment, as well as a concession.

"Don't worry, this is reserved only for you." He stretches an arm above his head, grinning when your eyes immediately are drawn to the way the muscles ripple and pull under his skin. You stare shamelessly as he flexes a little for your benefit, the action going straight to your head. 

"As it should be." You bite your lip and let your fingertips dance over his chest, memorizing the way it rises and falls so predictably with each deep breath. Against your better judgement you trail kisses up over his pectoral and spot them along his shoulder, dragging another light chuckle from him.

"My love," he warns, voice tinted with mischief, "we don't have time."

"Oh I think we do." You continue your path over his collarbone and to the hollow of his throat. Taking advantage of his biggest weakness, you flick your tongue over his prominent adam’s apple. The move has his hand engulfing your upper arm, giving you a warning squeeze.

"As wonderful as this is" -he sucks in a sharp breath when your teeth graze his neck- "if I'm late Horner will kill me."

"What's new?" You say, but draw back. The mere mention of his name made you see red and shattered the moment. "Do you really want to go back to Red Bull after how they treated you?"

"No," he admits, slipping an arm around you and tugging you up and into a sitting position, taking advantage of the momentary lapse of lust. "But if I want a shot with a top team when my contract is up, I don’t have much choice."

"Where do you see yourself going?"

Pierre studies you as you slip into the clothes he had selected for you. Nothing fancy, just an AlphaTauri branded navy and white hoodie and some light wash jeans. You don't miss the way his lips twitch upward when you notice it's his hoodie, his last name embroidered in block font on the cuff a dead giveaway even if the hoodie hadn't been ridiculously oversized on you.

Cheeky bastard.

"I think I would look good in sunshine yellow," he remarks. You make a show of looking him up and down under the pretense of imagining him in a Renault branded hoodie or their signature black race suit. Truthfully it was just another excuse to drink him in like the fine wine he was and recall how he had tasted on your tongue last night.

He would look good in any color on the grid but you don't grant him the satisfaction of pointing that out. Instead, you lean forward to toy with the waistband of the jeans he had hastily buttoned seconds earlier. "You and Daniel get along just fine." You snag him by the belt loops and yank him forward back onto the bed. "I think you should go to McLaren.”

“I’d still look good in orange.”

You wind your fingers under his waistband. “I think you’d look best wearing nothing at all, actually.”

“The time,” Pierre protests lightly when you pop open the button and undo the zipper. He groans when you yank the denim down around his thighs, finally submitting to your touch and lacing his fingers in your hair. Your lips explore the planes of his abdomen, any and all thoughts of speed abandoned on your end. "If you don't hurry up we're gonna be late."

"Maybe you'll just have to drive fast. I hear you’re good at that."

**********

"So how is it that they got your car all the way to London?"

"It's got its own private jet."

You roll your eyes and smack the hand resting on your thigh. His response is a light squeeze and a chuckle before he continues, "They've got a few spares they keep around for when drivers come to town. I can't be seen in a Mini or it would cause a scandal."

"Oh yes it would be quite tragic." His hand charts a dangerous path along your thigh. He knows exactly what he's doing as he slots a thumb between your legs and presses it tight to the apex of your thighs.

You snap your knees shut, effectively trapping his hand "Now you're just being cruel."

"Only dishing out what you did this morning," he points out and wiggles his hand free to rest on your knee instead. The message was clear: he had shaken you well enough for his liking and was perfectly content to leave you frustrated until he could get you home.

“So catch me up on what I’ve missed,” you say, determined to distract yourself from Pierre’s slight teasing. “What’s new in the life of the rising star in Formula 1?”

“Rising star,” Pierre mumbles and rolls his eyes. “Not yet, my love. Getting there, but not yet.”

“Please, you’re too modest. Last night when you fell asleep- you were out like a light as soon as your head hit the pillow, don't give me that look!” Pierre picks his jaw up off the floor and shakes his head as you continue, “I read plenty of articles that called you the next big thing, right up there with Max.”

The comparison didn't seem to sit right with him. He shifts in his seat, rolling words over on his tongue. “I’m sure you’re caught up then. I haven’t done anything really besides train and race.”

“I did notice you’ve beefed up a bit.”

“Yet another reason to thank Pyry.”

“At this point I should send him a fruit basket for his trouble.”

“Maybe you should.” Pierre grins, hand leaving your thigh for a split second to upshift. “What about you? How’s year four treating you?”

“Ugh, don’t get me started,” you groan. “My senior project is already killing me and I’ve only just started it. We have to design a building from the ground up- I mean I like architecture but I’m trying to be an engineer, not an architect. I dunno why I have to be the one to design a building! At this point it’s just a brick box.”

“Sounds challenging,” Pierre notes, flooring it when he merges onto the highway. Though the speed makes your stomach flip, you don’t miss a beat.

“My team doesn’t do much either, I’ve been doing most of it. I could rant for hours about it.”

Pierre glances at the clock, then back to you. The blue of his eyes is blocked by his signature purple tinted sunglasses, shielding them from the rising sun that casts him in a warm orange glow. “Humor me. We’ve got time.”

The hour and a half drive was by no means dull with Pierre's teasing touches and endless string of questioning along the way. He asked after every aspect of your life that had transpired in the last four months, only stopping you once in a while to interject with an opinion or anecdote.  He didn't stop at your life either, even asking after Ben's relationship. You'd been happy to report that he had indeed wooed his crush and had officially asked him to be his boyfriend.

"Those secret French lessons paid off," Pierre jokes as he pulls up to the imposing glass fronted building that served as Red Bull Racing's headquarters. The sweeping curve of the entrance was flanked on either side by two-story red and yellow bulls; proof that the team's dramatics extended far past the track. Anyone approaching for the first time would have been intimidated by the sheer size of them that suggested they were ready to stomp on their competition at a moment’s notice.

“Guess it’s time.” You sigh and undo your seatbelt and fiddle with the buckle, doing your best to stall. There was no reason to be this nervous. You were no one to these people; the focus would be entirely on Pierre. You would be an afterthought, not that you minded because it made it easier to fade into the background. 

Pierre picks up on your hesitation in a heartbeat. “I’ll keep them off your back,” he promises and you nod, the single sentence taking the edge off. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” You reach for the door handle but Pierre tsks and you pause.

"You know better." You bite your lip to keep back the grin fighting its way to the surface as he comes around to open your door. He offers you his hand and you gladly take it and are pleasantly surprised when he threads his fingers through yours and heads for the entrance.

The atrium serving as the lobby is breathtakingly gorgeous. You had to hand it to the interior designer; they knew what they were doing. Sleek white marble floors are accented by red and yellow leather chairs scattered in small groups throughout the grand space. A tiered circular modern interpretation of a chandelier hangs above to offer guidance to the accountants, engineers and artists that weave through the lobby on their way to their respective wings or offices.

A waist high, glass front cabinet of drivers helmets serves as the reception desk. The unmistakable scent of a fresh cup of coffee hits you as you approach and the secretary hands a steaming paper cup to someone before they scurry off, presumably to a private office if they were important enough to warrant special attention. The first rays of morning sunlight glint off the silver Red Bull logo inlaid in the black marble behind the woman at the counter, making you squint.

"Bonjour Monsieur Gasly," she says in perfect French. "Ça va?"

"Bien," he says simply and switches to English for your benefit. "Has Christian come through yet?"

"He has," the woman says, glancing sidelong at you. Whatever conclusions she draws about you are insignificant enough that she writes you off immediately, angling her body towards Pierre and resting her chin in her hand. The posturing puts her ample chest on display, nearly spilling out of her billowing blouse, but Pierre's eyes don't wander. "He's not expecting you yet. Voulez-vous un cafe?"

"I'm good." The woman may have been determined to alienate you but Pierre was having none of it. Pierre turns to you, a grin playing on his face. This was your first test as an official couple and he intended to see how you handled it. "How about you, my love? Coffee?"

The woman's eyes slip to where your hand remains clasped in his. She cocks her head so slightly you think you might be imagining it until Pierre's grip tightens, a silent encouragement. Your confidence soars. If this was how Daniel's girlfriend felt when the two of them were out, you finally understood why they didn't hide. It was a rush knowing that everyone wanted Pierre but he only wanted you. No matter how blatantly women threw themselves at him, there was no doubt in your mind that he would never give a single one of them the light of day.

It was about damn time you afforded him the same unwavering commitment as he had shown you.

"No thank you," you reply sweetly with a mocking smile directed to the woman. You lean in and drop your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You might want to fix your shirt though, it’s… slipped. I know I'd hate for that to happen to me and no one tell me, especially at work. I don't think I'd ever recover from it."

Her face immediately turns scarlet as she stands straight and folds her arms over her chest. "If I were you-"

"Let Horner know I'm here," Pierre interrupts and it's somehow the hottest thing he's ever said. His purely commanding tone leaves no room for argument. 

"Of course," she replies with a sharp smile in your direction that makes your spine stiffen. "Good luck. Christian is in rare form this morning."

"Just ignore it," Pierre murmurs and sweeps his thumb over the back of your hand as he leads you across the cold marble and down a carpeted hall. "You handled that well.”

“I may have gotten a few pointers from Daniel’s lover.” Your soft smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. The short interaction had sapped most of your confidence, leaving you on uneven footing. “I would rather not have to deal with that again soon though.”

“I can handle the women easy enough when I know I’ve got you to come home to.”

The tightness in your chest eases further when the hall opens into another startlingly white space, this time packed with rows and rows of navy cubicles. But that's not where your attention is drawn- instead, your gaze is immediately snagged by the case of trophies towering high along the back wall. Cups of every shape and size shine within, each one representing a different podium for the team achieved in various years and tracks.

"There must be over a hundred," you breathe, mesmerized by the glinting silver and intricate craftsmanship. The case was easily thirty feet tall and you had to crane your neck to catch a glimpse of the ones in the top row. Each one told a story of blood, sweat and tears, each one earned by a driver who had made countless sacrifices to be where they were and finish on a podium.

"A hundred and eighty five to be exact," he counters, laughing at your amusement. "Your inner architect is screaming isn't it?"

"Only a little." 

Pierre laughs outright at your white lie and tugs you along. "You can stare on the way out. I'll even show you which ones were Max's."

"Did you memorize what all his trophies look like?"

"Hey, meetings with engineers get boring. It's one of the more interesting ways to occupy your time when they are going on and on about fluid mechanics and thermodynamics- you know, stuff you understand but not me."

"Oh whatever, you enjoy those meetings and you know it."

"Only a little," he quotes.

People recognize him as you pass and some nod or give a simple greeting as they go about their morning but no one stops him to chat. The air feels a bit hostile, like no one knows what to do with him now that he's walking through the building after a nearly two year absence.

"Do you miss it?" You ask after he smiles at someone for the millionth time. 

"I miss the team," he admits, "but not the management culture. My team was great- they supported me any way they could but it didn't help that Horner didn't exactly encourage them to believe in me. It's hard to crank out results when there's no one on your side."

"I'm on your side," you point out, nudging him with your hip. "You've got me forever, no takesies backsies."

"I'm grateful for it," he murmurs and gives your hand a squeeze. He hadn't let go once; not when he had to open a door or the two of you had to walk single file to let people pass.

The building was a labyrinth and if it wasn't for Pierre you'd have been lost the moment you set foot inside. He navigates the twisting halls with ease, having no need for the countless signs posted along the way.

He leads you up a set of steel stairs after what seems like ages. When he knocks on a heavy oak door, his grip on your hand turns possessive like he suspects the office’s occupant would try to rip you away from him. 

“Morning.”

God, even the one word makes rage simmer in your veins. The voice precedes the man and Christian Horner swings open the door, a plastic smile splitting his face. He doesn't bother acknowledging you with a greeting, instead addressing his driver directly.

“I wasn’t expecting you to bring a guest.”

“A pretty face was needed around here,” Pierre snaps back without missing a beat. You bristle, free hand curling into a fist. If there was one person you didn’t mind teaching a lesson to, it was Horner. He had little respect for anyone he viewed as disposable- up to and including “underperforming” drivers.

Christian raises an eyebrow. “Sure. She can wait out here- you and I have terms to discuss.”

Fine, Horner wanted to play dirty? So could you. When it came to staring him down, you became fearless. He was the one person you refused to let intimidate you.  

Drawing on your newly minted confidence you smile up at Pierre and silence the protest forming on his tongue with a grin. “Gimme a kiss, race winner.”

Pierre doesn’t hesitate to press his lips to yours. Cupping a hand to the back of his neck you draw him in and nip at his lower lip. The hand on your hip tightens at Christian's scoff but Pierre makes no move to break away. You linger a moment longer than necessary to drive your point home: you didn’t care what Horner had to say about you, you were here to stay and he would have to get used to it.

Pierre gives you a small, blissed out smile before dropping your hand and following Horner inside. The door clicks but doesn't shut all the way, Pierre leaving it cracked for your benefit.

Uninterested in eavesdropping on small talk, you lean on the metal railing to observe the research and development garage coming to life on the floor below. Hybrid engines in various stages of disassembly dot the space, small teams of mechanics and engineers tweaking components to reduce weight or increase horsepower. Pistons and valves are scrutinized and exchanged before being placed under stress to test their strength.

An FIA official in a red jacket wove through the garage to observe and jot notes down on a clipboard. He looks over the shoulder of an engineer pouring over formulas on a whiteboard, startling him when the official asks a question. Someone calls your name from below and you search for the origin, finally spotting the woman and waving back at her.

Management may have their qualms with Pierre but it was clear there were still some within the team that had his back. They were likely the same ones that knew he would have to leave the Red Bull umbrella to find any semblance of success. They may not have possessed the guts to stick their necks out for him when Horner had cut him but they were at least happy to see him back around headquarters.

"You sure you'll rise to the challenge?" Horner's question drags you back to the mezzanine. 

"I'll take seventh. I'm only a few points away and we have plenty of races left."

He had five races to catch up to be exact. Pierre currently was comfortably ahead of the pack in ninth, Sainz was only three points ahead in eighth, and Norris ten points beyond in seventh. It would only take a DNF or two from his rivals and a few podiums to pass them up.

"Right," Horner starts. "There's a reason you've done so well this season and it's not luck. You've been racing exceptionally well and I don't want that to change."

"If there's something on your mind just get on with it." Pierre's voice is calm and collected in a way yours wouldn't be if you had been in his shoes. You've been dying to rip into Horner since the day he wrote Pierre off.

"There's been a fire in you the past few months since she has been gone-"

"Leave her out of this."

The tone sends a chill down your spine. It maintains the same level headedness that Pierre had perfected over the years and you had come to expect when he was backed against a wall, but it was laced with an unspoken threat. The intent was clear: he would walk out and abandon his chance for a seat at Red Bull if it meant protecting you.

You creep to the door to peer through the crack. Horner crosses his arms, a sly smile on his face. "You would sacrifice your chance at a championship winning seat for her? Everything you've worked so hard for, gone in a flash, because of her?"

"Without question," Pierre answers immediately. The conviction and commitment behind it nearly makes you stumble. "I'm sure there's plenty of other teams that would love to have me after the season I've had. She’s not going anywhere, so either you stop disrespecting her or I walk out."

You clench your fists, ready to burst in and demand Pierre stop being a fucking idiot. His long term plan saw him at another top team that would take care of him and nurture his skill- a long stint at Red Bull Racing was never in the cards. It wasn't an environment for everyone. Some people like Max thrived in it, letting the toxicity roll off their backs but for Pierre it was a cruel form of punishment. However, a seat at Red Bull for the 2022 season could mean the difference between an offer from Alpine and an offer from Haas when his contract was up for renewal. 

The idea of seeing his number stickered to the floor in a Red Bull garage excites and intimidates you. Last time he hadn't been given the chance to prove himself. Would they still hold that against him? Knowing Christian, he probably would. On the other hand, it meant that they admitted their mistake in cutting him mid-season, whether they said it outright or not.

Pierre's redemption day was on the horizon and you couldn't wait to see the look on Horner's face when he finally won. And the longer Christian stays silent, the more potent the urge to throttle him grows. 

Christian gives a slow clap. "Now there's the unwavering commitment that was missing during round one."

Your heart hammers in the dead silence as papers are shuffled. "Here's the contract. Terms are as discussed, you secure seventh in the world championship in 2021 and the second seat at Red Bull Racing is yours for the entire calendar in 2022. No demotions, substitutions, or shuffling of drivers unless medically necessary or mutually agreed upon by all affected parties."

"And the same spec car as the number one seat," Pierre insists, spine straight. "Same strategy." 

Christian waves a hand. "Yes, that's in there too. Feel free to take a moment and read it over."

He does, allowing Christian time to pour a knuckle of whiskey and set the glass before Pierre. He pours himself an identical glass and waits until Pierre signs and initials all the boxes before raising it in acknowledgement.

"Congratulations. Welcome back to Red Bull- conditionally."

Pierre leaves the glass untouched and remains silent, staring his potential future team principal down. He gives the man no margin to question his abilities further, conveying all he needs to with a look that would have had you shaking at the knees. Even if you can't see his face, wrath radiates from him in waves and you wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of it when it explodes.

"Right then." Christian lowers the glass, his fake smile vanishing. "I look forward to seeing what you can do."

"Don't worry. I'll deliver."

You step back and allow him to set the mood as he exits the office and slams the door behind him. Pierre sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. "You heard all of that right?"

You nod. "You wouldn't have really walked out, right?"

"I almost did."

He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like you should know that he would choose you over all of this, that all of his dreams and everything he had sacrificed to achieve them thus far meant less to him than you did. How many times did he have to prove his unwavering commitment before you realized it was true?

Pierre laces his fingers through yours, the heat welcomed by your ice cold skin. It was as much a comfort to you as it was to him. "I just have to grab some things from Max's office and then we can head out."

His jaw is still set after his stand off with Christian and you want nothing more than to ease his mind. Publicly comforting him with a touch to his chest or a kiss to his neck was out of the question so you settle on temporary distraction.

"Hey, you know what I want to see?"

"What's that?"

"That room full of all the old chassis. You know, the one that they hold all the fancy virtual events in? I wanna see those."

"I think I should be able to get you back there." He veers down a hall and you yelp, pulled along by his momentum. His attitude brightens a little at your laugh. The grin he throws your way is your own personal sun, warming your soul. 

"Hey- hold on." You pull him to a stop and lead him into an alcove. The inch of space between your chests is charged with electricity, begging to jump from one to the other.

"Can I help you?" He asks and grins down at you.

"No," you say nonchalantly. "Just wanted to be selfish for a second."

You rise up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. He melts into you, one hand coming up to cup your jaw while the other finds the small of your back. You side your tongue over his lower lip and he presses you against the door leading to who knew where and opens his mouth to you. You sigh into the kiss, arms winding around his neck and losing yourself in him.

Now that you had gotten over your anxiety, everything was so much easier. You know there's press roaming about the building and any number of them could pass by at any moment but you genuinely couldn't care less. Let them talk; you were over caring what anyone thought or said.

All that mattered was the man beneath your fingertips. You would endure a lifetime of insults if he was the one to soothe the wounds afterwards. As long as you both were happy, no one could come between you ever again.

Pierre pulls away when someone passes by and coughs quietly.  "You're trouble," he murmurs, leaving an arm propped next to your head and effectively caging you in.

"And you're dangerous," you tease, tugging on his hair and exposing his throat enough to nip at it once. "Together we're the perfect pair."

He groans and leans away. "Keep that up and I might have to stay in London an extra week."

You slip out of his grasp and give him an unrestrained grin. "Don't threaten me with a good time." You spin on your heel and set off down the hall, swaying your hips a little more than necessary.

"You know where you're going?" He calls after you.

"Someone will point me in the right direction, I'm sure."

"Someone like me." He catches up to you and once again takes your hand in his. He was enjoying showing you off almost as much as you enjoyed hanging on him.

"Maybe we should head right to Max's office and hurry home, huh?"

"Maybe-"

"Pierre, there you are."

You both turn to a woman hustling up the hall after you. She’s slight and her brown curls bounce as she jogs to where the two of you pause at a bend. You glance up to Pierre to see if he's just as confused as you are.

"Hey Mary," he says cheerily. "How are you? Sorry I didn't check in with you when I got here."

"Oh it's fine- why aren't you in the Alpha samples I sent?” The woman props a fist on her hip and tips her head to the side. “I think I got your size right now that I’ve laid eyes on you. I was hoping for a shoot today since you've finally come by."

It takes you a moment to register that she's addressing you. You shoot Pierre a look and he offers you a tentative, closed off smile. "Um, what Alpha gear?"

The woman's chocolate brown eyes go wide. "The ones I've been sending to Pierre. Hoodies, dresses, jackets. All the stuff from the new line. They have been sending the samples to you, right?"

"Um, yeah I've gotten them," Pierre says, rubbing his neck. "I haven't given them to her though."

"Oh, I see!” Pink tinges Mary’s cheeks. “I must have missed a memo. I just thought that you'd want to do a shoot with her today, since we already had a quick one planned for you. After all, you talk about her all the time."

"He does?"

Mary nods. "Oh yes, we've all heard plenty about you. You're lucky to have someone so enamored with you. I just dropped off some more samples in Max's office as a little thank you for letting us steal him so often-"

"Okay, thank you Mary," Pierre says abruptly. "I'll get back to you on that."

Pierre steers you away and down the hall. "What was she talking about? Why would they want me to come by for a photo shoot?"

Pierre runs a hand through his hair and pauses outside Max's office. The Dutchman must have been away because Pierre pulls out his key and fits it in the lock. "I just- come on."

He waves you inside and you obey, letting him close the door and grant you some semblance of privacy before continuing. 

"I never formally told anyone that we broke up. Most people came to their own conclusions once they didn't see you around for a while. Some people didn't get the message. Obviously Mary was one of them. I would still talk about you, I couldn't help myself. There was one shoot where Yuki and I were together and he mentioned off hand that you'd be a good brand ambassador. I tried to explain that it wouldn't work but Mary wouldn't hear it and she just kept sending me more and more samples.”

You draw a breath and interrupt his rambling. “But where-”

"I had it all in a box in my office but I struggled to concentrate with a reminder of you hanging over my head. I sent it over here to Max and that's where it's sat ever since. I used the excuse that Max was in town more often than I was and no one read too far into it."

"Why didn't you tell me?" You whisper. "I would've taken them. I'm sure you got an earful from Mary."

"Would you have?” Pierre pauses, your silence in the face of his frustration speaking volumes. “I waited four months to hear from you. Tell me that sending you thousands of dollars in unreleased merch wouldn't have made you even more hesitant to come back to me."

Not knowing what else to say, you let your gaze fall to the carpet. Sending you expensive things would have felt something like a bribe, like he was trying to influence you with fancy clothes.

Pierre shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, it’s in the past now. We can take it home today and you can wear it when I take you for dinner and Alpha will get the press they’re after. Everyone will be happy.”

He wasn’t happy. That much was plain to see. He hadn’t been able to stomach seeing something intended for you, even that minute of a reminder had been too much for him to bear. God, you had thoroughly wrecked him. You were lucky that there were still enough pieces of him left to heal. 

“I didn’t realize you were hurting so bad,” you say, voice barely above a whisper as you cross the cramped space to him, stepping over piles of strewn paperwork carefully so as to not disturb whatever random order they were placed in. You don’t dare reach out to touch him as his shoulders slump, any and all forward momentum he’d gathered suddenly sapped.

“It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever gone through.”

Unable to let him suffer alone with his thoughts, you wrap your arms around his middle and let your cheek rest between his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to alienate you. I was waiting for you, too.”

“You needed space and I gave it to you.” His hand rests on your arm with a gentleness you’ve come to expect when he lays himself bare like this. “There were so many times I almost gave in to the impulse and just messaged you but I made myself wait. I didn’t want to rush it and make things worse. You always need time to think things through- I knew you would come around eventually. It didn’t make it any easier though.”

You rub soothing circles on his side as you blink back the tears that spring to your eyes. “I’m sorry I put you through that. I’m sorry I took so long and I’m sorry I made you wait. It had to have been torture-”

He turns in your embrace and cups your chin, forcing you to look up at him. The pad of his thumb sweeps across your cheek, the metal of the ring on his middle finger biting into your flushed skin. “It’s alright. You had a lot to sort through and I had to respect that.”

“We lost so much time-”

“Hey,” he says softly, ducking his head to meet your eyes. “We’re together now. If there’s one thing I’m sure of it’s that you can’t let missed opportunities control you or else you’ll never be happy.”

You nod, swiping your sleeve under your eyes. “What did they send?” you ask, nodding towards the box overflowing with tan and navy threads.

“Pull up a chair,” Pierre suggests, “there’s a lot.”

You roll over Max’s desk chair and tug on Pierre’s arm. Once he gets the picture and sits, you settle in his lap. He winds an arm around your middle, the close contact already soothing your frazzled nerves.

“That better?” he murmurs.

“Much better.”

@seasidetom @flashcal @limp-wrist-max @sunshinesewis @lifeofzoemichael @ninuffi @perfectfantasies22 @lamboleglerg @ladyperceval @0forgottenparadise0 @evie-pr @avsensio @ninuffi @ricciartodododo​

If you have asked to be tagged in the past and I missed you I apologize! Just comment below and I’ll get you added for future updates. Thanks for reading ❤

[percabethfeelsfandom]

Writing Prompt AU: Childhood Best Friends to Lovers

PART 5: Age 16 

Luke and Thalia break up on homecoming night. 

It’s only an hour into the night when Percy watches Luke drag Thalia out of the hall and into the parking lot. Even though it’s been months since Percy has hung out with either of them, he keeps an eye on the two, watching as their silhouettes point accusatory fingers at each other. 

Annabeth and Grover, who he came to the dance with, are swaying playfully on the dance floor, but he waves them over and nods to the open door that Thalia left, exposing her and Luke as they shout at each other. 

“Should we check on them?” Grover asks, biting his thumb anxiously. Percy shrugs and watches Annabeth. Well, at this point, he’s always watching Annabeth, especially tonight because she’s in a dress he’s never seen before, and it’s the colour of the sea, his favourite. 

“Annabeth?”

“It’s not our business,” she says softly, but her eyes never leave the couple. Percy nods, and keeps his eyes trained on them, worry growing in his throat as Thalia steps closer to Luke, getting in his personal space. 

Even from here, Percy can feel Luke’s anger, it’s potent and vile and he almost doesn’t recognise it on his old friend’s face. He’s about to tell Annabeth that they should intervene when someone lightly taps him on the shoulder. He whirls around, surprised, and forces a smile onto his face when he sees that it’s Rachel Elizabeth Dare. 

“Hey Percy.” 

Her voice catches Grover and Annabeth’s attention and they both turn to look at her as well. She doesn’t buckle under their gaze, keeping her bright eyes on Percy like she’s on a mission. 

“Hey Rachel, what’s up?”

“I was wondering if maybe you wanted to dance?” She says it confidently, but as soon as she’s done, she bites her lip and starts swaying back and forth on her feet like she can’t stand still. 

Dread fills Percy’s body and he struggles to come up with a nice way to say no because he really does not want to dance, not right now. 

Rachel must see it on his face because she gives him a sad smile and nods slowly. More dread fills his body and he glances anxiously to his friends at his side who are also waiting for an answer. Annabeth is frowning deeply and Grover has this sort of amused look on his face. 

“Right, that’s okay, uh, have a nice-” She starts and begins to walk away. Percy sighs and quickly reaches out, grabbing her wrist, when she pulls back he lets go quickly and holds his hands up in surrender. 

“Wait- Rachel. Sorry,” he stutters unsure of why he stopped her. He can feel his friends gaze on him as he speaks to Rachel but he doesn’t turn, “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Rachel asks, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. 

“Yes, I’ll dance.” Her face instantly brightens and he holds out a hand, which she takes. 

Before he properly leaves, he quickly turns to Grover and Annabeth, whose mouth is wide open. 

“Come get me if something happens with Thals and Luke.” Grover nods but Annabeth just stares after him like he’s speaking another language. He ignores the tight knot in his stomach and lets Rachel lead him to the dance floor, placing his hands lightly on her waist. 

“What made you change your mind?” 

“Hmm?”

“You weren’t going to dance with me, what made you change your mind?” Percy blushes at the bluntness of her words and tries to come up with another excuse. As they’re swaying to the music, he steps back and spins her a bit as the song reaches the chorus.

When he can’t think of an excuse he tells the truth. 

“I wanted to see if I would feel a difference.” Rachel frowns and tilts her head at him confused. “I- uh, like someone else, and I’ve been trying to stop. I thought maybe if I danced with someone else I would feel different about them.” 

“Why do you want to stop liking them?” Rachel doesn’t even seem fazed that he’s just confessed he likes someone else. 

“Because she, I don’t know, I think she likes someone else, but she doesn’t realise it. So it’s just easier if I don’t like her.” Rachel loops her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, so close he can smell her floral perfume. It matches the brightly coloured flowers on her dress. 

“Well if I’m not mistaken, Annabeth hasn’t taken her eyes off of us the entire dance so I think you’re all good Percy.” 

“What?” Instantly he pulls his gaze away from Rachel and turns around wildly to look at where he last saw Annabeth. She’s not looking when he sees her, but he does catch sight of her flicking quick glances at him in between her conversation with Grover as the song ends and as Rachel walks him back to them. 

“How’d you know?” He asks Rachel, trying to figure out what gave him away. 

“Just a feeling. You should tell her.” When Percy doesn’t answer Rachel smiles and wiggles her fingers as a goodbye. “Thanks for the dance Percy, I’ll see you around.” 

He lifts a hand up as well, still too surprised at how easily she was able to read him. 

“Have fun?” Annabeth asks with pursed lips. 

Percy shrugs, “Yeah I guess. She’s pretty cool.” 

“Hmph.” 

Annabeth turns back to facing the door so that she can watch Thalia and Luke (who are still fighting) while Percy turns to Grover behind her back and tries to ask Grover what her problem is via extreme facial expressions. Grover scrunches his shoulders up and shrugs, saying he doesn’t know and Percy sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

Out of nowhere, Annabeth’s hand slaps his wrist. 

“Hey!”

“Stop messing up your hair.” She says, without turning to him. 

“Who are you, my Mom?” He asks and keeps messing it up because it feels weird all gelled down and sticky. 

“No but you never have your hair like that and I want nice photos of us later.” 

“I look like an idiot.”

“That’s because you are, Seaweed Brain.” 

“Whatever.”

“Oh shut-”

A loud crack catches both of their attention and they both turn to the direction of the sound and see Thalia standing at the doorway, her fury tangible in her stance as she walks towards them. Behind her Percy barely glimpses a look at Luke who is cradling his face, blood seeping from his nose, where Percy assumes Thalia has just punched him. 

He doesn’t even fully register that she’s come up to them until she’s talking. 

“I know you probably hate me right now, but I can’t be here anymore. I’ll explain everything, but can one of you take me home please.” 

Annabeth is already opening her purse and handing the keys to Percy. He’s the better driver out of the two, and she’s already wrapping her arms around Thalia, who is fighting back tears. 

In less than 5 minutes the four of them are packed in Annabeth’s Dad’s old car and Percy is carefully pulling out of the parking lot and taking them to Annabeth’s house. 

Thalia doesn’t speak until they’re all situated in Annabeth’s room. Percy has taken off his second-hand suit jacket, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, and Grover is pulling clothes from Annabeth’s drawer, throwing pieces at Percy so they can both change into comfier clothes. 

As he’s about to change Annabeth pokes him sharply. 

“Photos Percy!” She reminds, and he rolls his eyes, rebuttoning his shirt. 

Thalia waits for them to settle, Percy and Annabeth on her bed, and Grover on the window sill before she speaks. 

“Okay, so I want to start by saying sorry. It’s been months since I’ve spoken to any of you and I totally get if you hate me for that, but I do have a reason, but also it’s okay if you don’t forgive me because I wouldn’t forgive me either.” 

“Thals,” Annabeth whispers. She looks like she’s about to cry and Percy can see her hands fidgeting like they want to move and grab something. He reaches over to her bedside table and gives her a fidget toy, and then carefully takes her other hand, rubbing soothing circles around the top of her palm. 

She doesn’t say anything, but she squeezes his palm in thanks. 

“Let me talk first Annabeth before you say anything. I want to make sure I say this all right.” 

So she talks. Thalia starts from the beginning, how she’s always loved Luke, and how when he moved, she called him each day, and they never lost contact, and how him turning up wasn’t a surprise to her because they’d been talking about it for months already. She talks about how it was her first relationship with someone ever, and she’d never liked someone this much in her life, so she didn’t realise that spending every breathing moment with him wasn’t normal. At one point Thalia takes off her suit jacket and loosens her own tie. Annabeth offers a change of clothes but Thalia shakes her head, determined to continue with the story. She continues to say that Luke started acting differently when they officially started dating, started telling Thalia not to hang out with them because he only wanted to spend time with her, and that they were saying things about her behind her back. 

“I knew it wasn’t true, but I didn’t want to fight with him, everything felt so perfect when we were together. I just wanted us to not fight. So I let him pull me away from you guys.” 

This time when Annabeth squeezes Percy’s hand, it’s in warning, because he realises that he’s using her hand as a stress ball. He apologises silently by letting go, and loosely threading their fingers together so that he doesn’t accidentally hurt her. 

“It didn’t get bad until last summer when I told him that I missed you guys and that I wanted to be friends with you again. It got even worse when I told him that I might like girls as well as guys.” 

Percy sees her hold her breath as she says the last part and feels his face split open into a grin. 

“Me too,” he says simply and the smile that Thalia gives him back is enough for Percy to forgive her of everything. I’m proud of you, he mouths so that he doesn’t interrupt her story. 

“I don’t know why it was such a big issue, but he kept bringing it up. He never went a day without saying something about it, and it was never nice. I hated it. He made me feel like I wasn’t allowed to like both, and I realised that I just wasn’t happy with him. I was so sad all the time, and all I wanted was to talk to you guys but he was always there. At the gym tonight, I knew that the only way he’d actually let me break up with him was if it was public. So that’s what I did.” 

Annabeth pushes off the bed and throws herself onto Thalia. Percy and Grover are quick to follow until they’re a tangle of limbs, suits and dress (in Annabeth’s case) on the ground. Grover and Thalia are crying and holding each other tightly, and Annabeth has wrapped her arms around Thalia’s torso. It kind of reminds Percy of a koala and he pulls out his phone to take a photo of the three of them, immortalising this moment. 

“So what did he think when you showed up wearing that?” Percy asks, nodding at the fitted suit Thalia wears, “Looks awesome by the way,” he adds.

Thalia scoffs. 

“I thought his head was going to explode.” They all laugh and Percy rejoins them on the floor, ending up laying in Annabeth’s lap as they all hold onto each other, making up for time wasted. 

“I can’t believe Luke is such a jackass,” Percy says with a shake of his head. 

“Do you think he had a particular reason why he was like that towards you Thals? Is there something happening at his home?” Annabeth asks and Percy turns to her with an incredulous look. 

“Wise Girl, come on, no matter how crappy a person's home life is, that doesn’t mean you can project that onto someone you care about. Like look at me, you don’t see me being an ass to you just because Gabe was the worst step-father in the world.” 

“What happened with Gabe?” Thalia asks, sitting up abruptly when she hears his name but Percy waves her off. 

“Nothing important. He just wasn’t a good person, but we don’t live with him anymore. Mom’s dating Paul and she’s happy and that’s all that matters to me.” 

Thaila looks like she wants to say more but Annabeth cuts in. 

“I’m not trying to make excuses for him, I just wanted to ask because that really doesn’t sound like the Luke I know,” she pauses when she sees Thalia’s face fall, “That doesn’t mean I don’t believe you...I really do. I just- I want to hear his side of it too you know? But I’ll stand by you no matter what.” 

Thalia nods slowly and takes Annabeth’s outstretched hand. 

“The Luke you know is very different to the Luke that I dated Annabeth. He’s changed a lot. He pretends he hasn’t, but he has and none of it is good. Even if you get his side of the story, I don’t think he’d tell the truth. I swear, on my brother and on my Mom, everything I’ve said is true. But if you want to ask him to double-check, I won’t stop you.” 

Annabeth does end up asking Luke for his side of the story, and her decision still baffles Percy to this day, but Thalia reassures him that it’s for her own sanity. 

“Luke and Annabeth were a lot closer than you remember I think. It really hurt Annabeth when he stopped talking to her. I think it hurt him too, I never knew why, but I think he had a thing for her at one point, but he chose me.” 

That old familiar sting of jealousy holes up in Percy’s stomach as he waits for Annabeth to come back and meet them at her car. 

“Do you think he still does? Like her, that is?” The words are like cotton in his mouth, suffocating and hard to speak around. 

“Maybe. Wouldn’t be surprised if she does too. She never told me, but I always had a feeling.” 

Oh.  

Percy nods, unable to bring himself to say anything and waits in silence. Annabeth comes walking down the steps, wiping her eyes and Percy’s instincts kick in, and he’s running to her, pulling her close to his chest and holding her there. 

“What did he do? Are you okay?” He asks when she finally pushes him away slightly. Her eyes are still watering but she smiles and pokes him in the cheek. 

“I’m okay. Let’s go home.”

She lets him lead her into the car, he drops Thalia off first before pulling up at Annabeth’s. 

“Come in?” 

He nods and follows her soundlessly to her room. He unwraps his scarf and hangs his jacket on a hook, like he has many times before and sets himself on her bed, playing with her old stuffed toys as she slowly undoes her coat, clearly distracted.

“Thals was right. Luke is- I don’t know who that Luke was.” Annabeth admits. 

A selfish part of Percy sighs in relief, and he holds out his arms as a peace offering to Annabeth. She smiles and sits down with him, not quite in his arms, but close enough that Percy isn’t complaining. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.”

“Because you’re sad and I don’t like seeing you sad, especially when I can’t do anything about it.” 

“Seaweed Brain you can’t make everyone happy.” She says with a teasing smile.

“I don’t want to make everyone happy, just you.” The words come out before he fully processes thinking it and he swallows thickly when Annabeth stares at him, slightly dumbfounded. 

Finally, she moves, and leans down, ever so softly pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“You do make me happy. You always have, don’t doubt that.” Percy can’t help but close his eyes and relish in the warmth she gives him. When he opens his eyes again she’s staring right back at him, like she can see into his soul. He secretly wishes her eyes weren’t so beautiful, because then he wouldn’t have such a problem with looking away, but they’re not, they’re the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen and he never wants to stop. 

“You make me happy too.” More than you’ll ever know.

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

PART 4

[sunmoonandsandsoundtracks]

you're a mean one, mr. grinch

day two! score.

here's proof that i can draw inspiration for a story from a song that will probably leave you scratching your head. i wrote this while listening to the title song on loop for over two hours.

anyway, this is a first time for me! i've never written obito in my life, but @whatshernameis (doing her own monthly challenge, and it's super cute) and @half-baked-biscuit (check them out, they're awesome) got me thinking about him and... well, i tried. i need to invest in his character more if this is going to ever happen again.

i think that's pretty much all i have to say.

disclaimer: the plot and unnamed character only are mine to own, so if you feel inclined to sue me, fuck off and leave me alone.

song

word count: 1105

enjoy!

You swore you were going to paint the man green and cover him in fake fur so his appearance matched his attitude. Why you thought he of all people would be willing to help you, you’d never know.

“Come on!” You urged. “Obito, I have too many decorations to do it all by myself!” “And whose fault is that?” He questioned, not looking up from his phone.

“But they get cuter decorations in the stores every year, and people keep giving me homemade ones!”

“Then start tossing old ones out.”

“I’ve already tossed out everything that’s not sentimental!” You pouted.

“Have you tried alternating which years you put up which decorations?”

“That’s sacrilege,” you scoffed, crossing your arms. “Look, I’ll see if Kakashi and Rin can come help, and when this is all done, I’ll make you dinner and bake your favorite cookies. Is that enough of a bribe?”

He eyed you with a faint smile and light sigh as he stood up from his seat. “Those cookies better melt in my mouth.”

“Yes!” You cheered, throwing your arms around him. “I’ll text the others, you can decide what Christmas music we start with, and then we’ll get the boxes out. Let’s hurry and find the mistletoe. If we get it up quick, you might be able to snag a kiss with Rin!”

As soon as you released him, your thumbs were flying over your phone screen, sending a message to the other half of your close friend group. When you had done that, you looked to Obito, who was standing there, in no hurry to do anything.

“Do you have the music picked already?”

“Christmas music really isn’t my thing.”

“Great,” you grumbled. “Somebody call Dr. Seuss to let him know his Grinch is loose.”

He gave a low chuckle and playfully flicked your nose. “I think if you rhyme enough and throw in a few made up words, he’ll magically appear. You’ve already got a good start.”

You felt your cheeks warm a little and quickly turned away. “Fine, go get the boxes while I get some Christmas cheer going.”

That first hour dragged on as the two of you worked around each other.

“Are they coming or not?” He asked as the two of you set up the small, artificial tree.

“They are, but Kakashi was in the middle of doing something for his dogs, and Rin was just starting out her Christmas shopping.”

“...So they’re not coming,” he sighed, earning a gentle whack to the arm.

“Is being alone with me really so bad?”

He sent you a faint smirk. “You don’t want me to answer that.”

“Dick,” you huffed. The two of you didn’t talk as you set up the lights and tinsel. Then you were getting out the little ornaments. “Please, be extra careful with some of these. They’re old and falling apart. I haven’t figured out the safest way to repair them yet, or if they even can be.”

“Then why are you putting them out?”

“Because it wouldn’t be Christmas without the memories attached to them. Nearly every single one of these was given to me over the years by someone I greatly care for, or are attached to a special event. Like this one my grandmother bought for my very first Christmas. It’s extra special since she passed away a few years ago.”

“I remember that,” he said, watching you delicately handle the ornament of a baby sitting on a cartoonish looking reindeer, hanging by glittering gold threads from a sign that read ‘Baby’s 1st Christmas’. It was clearly at least twenty years old, with little chips in the clay, and some paint peeling away. “We didn’t know each other well then, and I thought you were the most depressing person ever, but then Rin told me.”

“Can’t blame you for that,” you spoke softly as you set the ornament in a designated place, one of the most visible spots on the tree.

The rest went up, one by one. Occasionally, he would remark on some of the crazier ones, and you’d laugh as you told him the story behind them. The last one, you had set aside, making sure it wouldn’t be bumped by the others. It was a clear glass ball that started with some sort of artistic design, but became messy and reckless when the painter got bored.

His eyes widened a bit when he saw it.

“That’s the one I did two years or something ago.”

“Yep. You let Rin drag you along with the rest of us to make our own,” you said as you placed it in a gap, perfectly completing the arrangement. “You didn’t care about it, but it broke my heart to think of you tossing it, so you gave it to me.”

“I figured you would have tossed it by now.”

“I might have, but a certain Grinch became someone I deeply care about. So it joined the ranks and will stay until I decide it’s not something I need to keep, or the Grinch in question decides he wants it back.”

He softly smiled, touched to hear you talk about him so fondly. The two of you had been friends for years, but it never got to be an intimate friendship. You’d barely grown closer in the recent few years than you had in the first month. At least, he’d thought so.

“Well, we better get that mistletoe up, if you want to get that kiss,” you said, clearing your throat of sentiment. You glanced at him, and the emotion in your eyes did something to him. The tenderness in his did something to you.

“Obito, I-” you spoke barely above a whisper, but cut off when he gently pressed his thumb to your lips and hooked a finger under your chin.

“The Grinch never cared for any Christmas traditions, so forget that stupid decoration.” Then he moved his thumb and gave you the softest kiss you’d ever received. It was the gentleness of a snowflake landing on your face, the satisfaction of a spoonful of Christmas pudding, and the warmth of a low-burning fire.

A light, content sigh followed the end.

“Still the Grinch?” He questioned with a grin.

“The Grinch was still the Grinch after he saved the Christmas he stole,” you teased. “So yeah, you are, but you’re the Grinch that everybody loves at the end of the story.”

“Everybody?”

“Yeah, everybody.”

Later that evening, as the two of you cuddled and watched the movie you’d been referencing all day, it wasn’t only the Grinch’s heart that felt like it grew three sizes.

[altcvnningham]

strings | johnny silverhand

summary: a storm passes through night city, but it isn't that which wakes her. it's the soft sound of guitar strings, being plucked by chrome fingers.

words: 1280

pairing: johnny silverhand / fem v (my v vana, but i avoid physical description, so read the name as whatever you like!!)

content: fluff, mild angst, Yearning™️, johnny plays guitar and it's rly therapeutic

warnings: SPOILERS, death mention, johnny shuts up for once so maybe mildly ooc, idk how guitars work

misc: soooo after listening to this on loop for the last forever, i just needed to vent and get this outta my system. i do use my v's name (vana) in this, but there's no physical description of her, so feel free to imagine v as your own!! also, it's been almost 4 years since i've officially posted any of my writing online, so while this is a little rough and not as detailed as i'd usually like, please be kind, and please enjoy!! (also ao3 link soon maybe but i'm lazy)

***

V doesn’t know what day it is when she awakes, but she does so to the quiet twang of guitar strings.

The metal blinds slide open, aware of her waking, and the morning spills into the room, dim and grey. Rain patters against the glass, and V, with her eyes still closed, curls deeper into the bedsheets to fend off the cold, away from the light towards the dark shelter of the wall. Night City can wait. She’ll enjoy this strange, soft music while it lasts.

Fingers pluck on quietly, nary a breath nor sigh to indicate the person playing. It’s a somber melody, a blue tune teased with the vague, cruel implication of hope, heartbreak, contentment. There‘s something in the way the music seems to move around the room and still the world, something timeless and calm yet so tenderly desperate about it- she feels sad and happy all at once, and suddenly, to be alive- to be dying- seems... a simple, given, painfully temporary thing. It’s a sweet, naïve tune. A fool’s song.

It cuts short.

Razor-sharp static screams in search for a signal. The strumming abruptly stops in response. The radio. It’s automated to switch on when she wakes up.

Then comes a final telltale sigh from the foot of her bed, as some garish pop song resonates brokenly through white noise. Must be a storm, she thinks. Howling wind outside her window confirms it.

A weight rises from the mattress- one that wasn’t there the night before, and V furrows her brows, braving the daylight and turning onto her side to see the figure lifting from the bed.

Chrome fingers curl around the neck of the cheap electric guitar as they prop the instrument back against the bed. A swelling ache closes around Vana’s chest. Loneliness. Separated from him by inches. Feeling without the one bound to the inside of her skull- it's agony.

Johnny. He crosses the room towards the radio in an aimless stride, and he staggers, tired. Vana briefly wonders- occupying her maddened, longing mind with something else- if he’s even capable of feeling that way, or if it’s her own waking lethargy that he feels, that clings to him. It’s usually like that with most things. And he switches the radio off, back arched downwards to reach it. Static finally turns to silence. She sees the thick lock of hair hanging in his eyes, and how he moves it with a careless jerk of his head before sauntering back to the bed again; peculiarly, he’s not wearing the bulletproof vest over his Samurai tank- the projection of the exact same faded shirt she wears now- and without the seemingly invincible façade, he almost looks... normal. Himself, maybe. Of course, when he descends back down to the end of the bed again, the blue glitched fragments of his engram form give him away. Yet somehow, unlike most times, seeing it puts her mind at ease. Not dreaming, at least.

With his back to her, Johnny picks the guitar back up and slings it weightlessly over his knee again. Out of thin air, he materialises a cigarette in his mouth, which wavers absentmindedly between pursed lips as he tunes the guitar and tests each string; Vana watches and remains completely still in her warm, blanket cocoon, not intent on interrupting this rare moment of peace. The rain drums on smoothly. Johnny pauses to pull the cigarette from his mouth. Exhale. Smoke joins in dancing alongside dust motes around the room, and Vana is happy to be alive today.

Johnny adjusts a silver ring on a flesh finger before touching the guitar’s strings again. He hesitates, stops, then straightens himself out before strumming the first note.

And then, it’s as if he loses himself to it- effortlessly playing that same melancholy tune from before without fault, without a sliver of uncertainty. His ‘ganic hand glides along each string with meticulous ease, metal fingers sliding and spreading along each fret, and the bleak light of the storm glints off of each chrome knuckle as he coaxes the music out to fill the quiet. And it's just this. The way in which he messily perfects such a common, mundane art. An ageless, timeless thing. No ugly, restless hand of Night City can snatch this away from her. The way his wrist flicks back with each note, how his hair crowds his face again as he nods slowly along, the heel he fails to notice he’s tapping in rhythm on the floor. For a moment, Johnny Silverhand’s real name lingers like a song in the back of her mind, as distant and unknown as this one, and she wonders if the person at the foot of her bed is him, that fragmented man lost in time.

Alt had said that Soulkiller does exactly by its name, that the soul dies the moment the consciousness is extracted. But watching him now, Vana refuses to believe that the glitched apparition at the foot of her bed is void of that, that same soul that inhabited the real Johnny Silverhand, that this engram isn’t as tangible and complex and real and feeling as she herself is. This projection of him, an amalgamation of every conscious want, need, thought and whim of a man who once existed- and this projection, he wakes up before her, on a morning as cold and grey and miserable as this, and plays a song for no discernible reason at all other than simply wanting to. Feeling like it.

No soul. She could weep- there's soul in every string.

Vana jostles free of the blanket and pushes herself forward, shifting to her knees. Johnny’s old dogtags, a relic of his past that dangle around her neck, clink together with each steady movement she makes towards him- terrified he’d stop playing for even a second- and she sits cross-legged behind him, facing the slender, flexing muscles of his back as he strums. She hugs herself, cold, shivering. He keeps playing. It’s bliss. She’s overcome with a sudden indescribable fondness, so much so that were she any braver in her vulnerability, any kinder to her feeling self, she’d let it bring a tear to her eye.

But Vana can only muster turning her head to the side, and resting her lonely cheek against the center of his back, desperate to feel every single breath that comes and leaves his vague, digital body. Perhaps it’s her own warmth she feels, reflecting back at her from Johnny’s feelings and senses, but she swears she feels him, hot beneath her cheek as though he were flesh and blood. The illusion is just enough that she doesn’t slip through him entirely. Perhaps, this will simply do.

Yes... fleeting as it is, as all things are, this moment is just... okay.

The song ends. Johnny plucks the final string. The chord fades out into a low, droning hum, until all that’s left is the rain on the window, the torrid rolling of the storm, and his calm, firm breaths, moving against her.

She forgets she's dying. And she would happily fall asleep again, right here, with the very thing that kills her, drinking in the song he’s let steep in the silence around them. But he slowly lowers the guitar, his body shifting beneath Vana’s unflinching cheek. Eyes fluttering shut once more, she feels him twist as he turns around, and how he catches her body in slacked repose, and finally- almost as if he wants to, as if he cares- the tangled threading of cold, metal fingers through her hair, towing her under the dark dwelling of sleep once more.

“I got you.”

[alittlebitmaybe]

i’ll stay warm

for @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo​!

Prompt: ice skating

Relationship: Geraskier

Rating: G (with very mild language and a tiny bit of blood)

Warnings: None

Other Tags: Fluff, Companionable Snark, Already Dating But Too Dumb To Notice, First Kiss

“Let me get this straight,” Geralt says.

Jaskier waves him on.

“You’re going to tie those—,” he gestures to the slim planks of iron on Jaskier’s kitchen table that have leather cords threaded through holes bored into either end, “—to your shoes, and you’re going to go down to the river and stand on it.”

Jaskier, unperturbed, says brightly, “Uh-huh!”

Read more on ao3 or below the cut!

“Let me get this straight,” Geralt says.

Jaskier waves him on.

“You’re going to tie those—,” he gestures to the slim planks of iron on Jaskier’s kitchen table that have leather cords threaded through holes bored into either end, “—to your shoes, and you’re going to go down to the river and stand on it.”

Jaskier, unperturbed, says brightly, “Uh-huh!”

Geralt says, “Why?”

“Because Priscilla asked me along, and it’s good fun, and you can do all sorts of loop-de-loops and swirlies and spinnies and whozits and, uh, whatzits. I dunno, Pris knows all the tricks, I never got the hang of it. But, Geralt, people have been doing this in Oxenfurt for years. It’s the only way fashionable and exciting persons such as I pass the winter these days, gliding as an angel over the ice, cheeks chapped fetchingly pink, you know, it’s all very attractive, one may say winsome—”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Geralt crosses his arms over his chest as he leans back in the small chair and tucks his shoulders in. He takes up too much space in Jaskier’s quarters, and already he rues the day he agreed, in a fit of insanity, to pass the season in the city instead of trekking up to Kaer Morhen as usual. “You’re going to die.”

Jaskier hacks a laugh into his steaming mug and nearly spills tea all down his robed front.

“Nonsense!” he cries, once he has recovered himself. “We go every year once the freeze is hard enough, me and Pris and all my many other dazzling friends, which I absolutely have.”

“And if Priscilla told you it was fashionably good fun to walk yourself off a cliff…”

“I’d do it, obviously,” says Jaskier, not missing a beat. “Haven’t you ever had to cross a frozen river on your travels, Witcher? How’d you go about it then, if not on skates?”

Geralt levels him an incredulous look. “How would I get a horse across a frozen river?” he asks, and Jaskier frowns in thought as he takes another sip.

“I mean, you could just—,” he mimes pushing outward with one palm, “—give ‘er a good shove and see how far she gets.”

“Could give you a good shove. Bet you wouldn’t make it far.”

“I’ll have you know, I have the grace of a, a, er…elk? Are elk graceful?”

Geralt nods and says seriously, “Especially the newborns.”

“There you have it. Graceful as a tiny baby elk with those on my feet, I am.”

“Maybe you should wear them all the time.”

“What good would that…” he starts, and then comes, “Hey. Rude. Remind me why I wanted you here?”

Geralt grins and shrugs. His own mug is on the small table, and he sniffs the steam coming off of it. Floral. He takes a sip. Carefully does not spit it back out. Sets the mug back down farther away.

When he has successfully resisted the urge to spit on the floor to clear out his mouth and looks back up, Jaskier is still holding his own mug gently in the curl of his long fingers, and a lock of rumpled hair has fallen into his eyes. His robe hangs open at his collarbone, down the line of his chest. He wears a strange expression that lies between the exasperation Geralt expected and something startlingly softer.

“So you’ll come with us,” he states.

“Someone has to take your body back to your mother when you break your neck,” Geralt says.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You jest, but Mum would be thrilled to see you. Likes you better than me, I think. Her only son! But you’ll come, eh?”

Geralt ducks his head quickly to hide the smile creeping across his face, grabbing his boots and yanking at the laces before acquiescing, “Yeah, I’ll come.”

“There now,” Jaskier says, appeased, “that wasn’t so hard, was it.” He knocks back the dregs of his tea, then stands and pads to the sink, talking on. “You should’ve known I wouldn’t let you stay cooped up in here all winter. I’ll have to see if I can dig out my spare pair of skates, they’re older—animal bone, not iron—but they might be big enough for your witcher feet, and it really works just as well. Or maybe Pris knows someone…I even heard they’re renting the things out down at the river now. Industrious, isn’t it, the ways people come up with to make some coin?…”

Geralt half-listens as he ties neat knots, lost somewhere in the midst of mulling over what Jaskier has described, trying to give it the benefit of the doubt despite its obvious frivolity. Based on the day’s weather it will be a clear night with a brisk breeze, a bright moon. The wind chill will have them each bundled up in furs, and the tip of Jaskier’s nose will go pink as he rubs his gloved hands together for warmth and glances happily over at Geralt. The river ice will be torchlit and smooth as glass, and they’ll strap on their skates and step out onto it. They’ll have a good hold on each others arms, for balance, but then as they gain their footing they’ll find their fingers threaded together and neither will let go. Geralt will listen to the quickened beat of Jaskier’s heart as they pick up the pace, and eventually Jaskier will break their hold to skate backward and taunt Geralt with a small twirl that ends only a little unsteadily. Geralt will smirk and give chase, chuckling when Jaskier squawks and takes off at speed. It’s no use, of course, even with Geralt’s inexperience; Geralt will anticipate his movements, head him off, catch him by the wrist, by the shoulder, and they will collide chest to chest with a huff, the momentum from the chase sliding them a few more feet across the ice before they come to a halt. Their cold noses will almost be touching, there will be frost on the riverbank, there will be a distant owl hooting its nighttime song. Jaskier will quirk his lips and say, “Gotcha, Witcher,” and Geralt will lean in, feel his hot breath, press their lips together—

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, tapping him on the shoulder. A hand waves in front of his face. Geralt keeps his expression carefully neutral as he comes out of his sudden reverie, though he’s been caught red handed. “Are you meditating? We’ve got to be off to the market. Have you even been listening to me?”

“Never,” says Geralt, and Jaskier scoffs and whacks him gently upside the head.

*

The riverbank smells like dead fish.

Geralt knew this. He doesn’t know what he expected. He doesn’t know where the pine-scented idyllic winter wonderland from his earlier distraction even came from, because it couldn’t be farther from reality.

Besides the fish stink, his boots squish and stick unpleasantly in the muddy ground, and the place is teeming with cityfolk, the crowd so thick that you can’t see the opposite bank even despite the abundant torchlight.

“Are you sure it’s frozen solid enough for this?” Geralt asks sourly.

“Of course,” Jaskier replies.

Geralt’s frown deepens. “Couldn’t we go around the bend where there’s not so many people?”

“And where’s the fun in that?”

“Breathing room.”

“I asked about the fun, Geralt. Ah, there’s my girl!”

Priscilla pushes through a group of loitering teenagers and throws her arms around Jaskier’s neck, only her toes left on the mud. “Jask! I see you got your…friend to join us.”

She pauses before friend, eyeing him overtly, but Geralt doesn’t notice because one of the teenagers has been shoved, giggling, into him by another of the group. He steadies her, and does not react when she turns to apologize, catches his unnatural gaze, and stifles her laughter. He doesn’t see Jaskier watching him past Priscilla’s ear, the fond crinkling around his eyes when Geralt gently straightens her and returns her to her place in the circle, which subsequently puts a few feet between itself and the newly-noticed witcher.

“It was either this or die of boredom in the dark, wasn’t it, Geralt?” Jaskier says finally as he releases Priscilla.

“I chose the dark,” Geralt lies, and Jaskier sticks out his tongue.

“Well,” Priscilla says, straightening her skirts, “shall we?”

Geralt pulls both sets of skates from his deep cloak pockets and passes the iron pair to Jaskier, who hops around indelicately while securing them over his boots, rather than plop himself on the soft ground—which is, of course, what Geralt does to put on his own. Priscilla and Jaskier waste a few minutes on a tiff over whether it is polite or belittling for Jaskier to insist on helping her with her own skates whether she wants it or not, but eventually they are all ready to go.

Geralt is the first to the ice. He tests the toe of his bone skate against it, judging the friction of it, deciding if it is likely to hold his weight even with the evidence of the dozens of people currently gliding and spinning past him. It seems stable. Stepping out, he finds it surprisingly easy to get a feel for balance, the minute shifts of weight that send him one direction or the other. He swings himself wide and turns around to see Priscilla and Jaskier also stepping out onto the river, Jaskier clutching tightly to Priscilla’s sleeve, face white and eyes trained on his feet.

“It’s okay, darling, you’ve got this. You made such good progress last time, come on now,” Geralt can hear Priscilla murmuring under the loud chatter of nearby skaters.

When Jaskier sees Geralt watching them, he bodily removes Priscilla’s hands from his person and says, “Please, Pris, I’m a capable man.”

She bristles immediately, leaving him to stand on his own. “And I wasn’t a capable woman when I was putting on my skates?”

Jaskier ignores her to begin shuffling awkwardly across the ice, his knees locked straight.

“Jaskier?” Geralt says apprehensively.

“Doing peachy, thanks, it’ll come back to me, just need to recall how to, um—oh no—” Jaskier starts with a strained voice before he promptly stops, because he has begun to slide inexorably forward. Priscilla and Geralt both reach toward him, but they’re too late; Jaskier’s arms wheel wildly, he tilts on wobbly ankles, and he faceplants onto the ice.

“Ow,” squeaks the Jaskier-shaped lump.

*

“I think your nose is broken,” says Geralt. He dabs at the blood on Jaskier’s top lip with the edge of his own cloak. They are safely back on the bank, and Jaskier is, this time, sitting in the mud. “I guess you were right,” he goes on wryly. “You’re exactly as graceful as a baby elk.”

“I knew you were making fun of me,” Jaskier says thickly, due to the nose injury. “I also knew you’d be a natural. Bastard. I could never get the hang of this stupid bullshit.”

Geralt hums and wipes off the last of the blood. At least it’s clotted quickly. Maybe it’s not a break.

“You didn’t need to lie about your abilities. Who are you trying to impress?”

Jaskier snorts, then winces in pain. His fingers twist in his lap. “Oh, that’s funny.”

Now, Geralt is often joking, but he’s fairly certain that that wasn’t one. Did Jaskier also hit his head? He pushes back Jaskier’s fringe to check his forehead for signs of bruising and doesn’t find any. “Um,” he says, “what is?”

Priscilla skates past holding hands with a woman that Geralt thinks she met approximately three minutes ago. She calls, “All right, Jask?” and in reply, Jaskier gives her a bitter thumbs up. She winks and swoops away as quickly as she came.

“Because I was trying to impress you, obviously,” he answers, gazing after her, before he turns his eyes back to Geralt.

Geralt pauses. “Why?”

“Because I’m actually always trying to impress you. And everyone else, constantly, but…mostly you.”

“You don’t do a very good job of it,” he says, and regrets it when he hears how it sounds coming out of his mouth.

Jaskier smiles. It’s genuine, if a little wistful, like Geralt has amused but not surprised him. “I am well aware, thanks.”

He reaches for the words that will take that edge of resignation off Jaskier’s face, feeling like a fumbling fool. “That’s not what I meant. I meant you don’t need to try to impress me.”

“Yes, I know it doesn’t matter, but I can’t help—”

“No,” Geralt interrupts, “I mean you don’t need to try because you do.” He clears his throat. “Impress me.”

“Oh,” says Jaskier, and then nothing more. “That’s. Okay.”

“Yeah,” says Geralt. He has never been so exposed in his life. He thinks that’s probably a bad thing. “How’s your nose? We could try again, if you want.”

Jaskier looks around at the laughing crowds and shrugs. “Came all this way, got all bundled up. Might as well! I’m sticking with you this time, though.”

They find a spot at the farthest reach of the torchlight where the ice is less populated to step out. Geralt goes first, as before, and finds his footing even faster this time. He returns to Jaskier’s side after a moment of testing the reliability of his newfound skills, and presents his forearm as a handhold.  Jaskier does not protest about his capability this time and takes the offering. With a long preparatory exhale, he puts one foot and then the other onto the ice.

“I’ve got you,” Geralt says quietly.

Jaskier replies, “I know you do.”

“Can’t let more harm come to the money maker. I’ve gotten used to staying in inns.”

“Good gods,” says Jaskier, “I’ve broken him.”

They gradually move farther from the bank. “Loosen up,” Geralt tells him. “Don’t lock your knees. It’s like you’re trying to fall over.”

Jaskier grumbles but takes the advice, and eventually he gains the confidence to move a little faster, though not to stop hanging on to Geralt. They stay on the fringes where they are less likely to be run into by a distracted stranger, gliding along at pace, with Jaskier remarking on the who’s-who of Oxenfurt society who are also out tonight. Geralt recognizes some of the more powerful names, but mostly he lets Jaskier chatter on so he doesn’t think too hard about his feet.

Priscilla passes by and greets them a few more times with her new companion, who at one point proclaims, “You two are so cute together!” before Priscilla drags her back into the mob. Geralt glances over and thinks Jaskier might be blushing, but that might also be due to the swelling around his nose.

“Should ice your face,” says Geralt.

“Sure, later. Hey!” He swings around to face Geralt, stopping their progress. “Spin me!” At Geralt’s no doubt dubious expression, he pouts. “Geralt, I demand to be spun. It’ll be fun!”

“Fine,” Geralt sighs.

He takes Jaskier’s hand, and has a flash of his daydream. There’s too many people, and it does still smell like fish, but this isn’t too far off—

He collects himself, holds their joined hands over Jaskier’s head, and gives him a little push to start him spinning, not too quick, but Jaskier takes it upon himself to propel himself a little faster. Jaskier laughs and maintains his balance remarkably well, until he exclaims “Oops—dizzy—!” and topples directly into Geralt, succeeding in knocking them both down, Geralt on his own back, Jaskier flat on his chest.

Geralt, trapped between the frigid ice and Jaskier’s weight, looks up as Jaskier starts to laugh. The steam of his breath hits Geralt’s cheek, and his knitted hat has gone askew, and his nose is turning purple, and Geralt puts his hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck and pulls him down and kisses him.

Jaskier leans away. “What?” he asks, eyes wide, then continues, “oh, who cares,” and leans back down.

*

Later, with an ice pack pressed to Jaskier’s face and two more hot mugs at the kitchen table, Geralt watches Jaskier rummage through his cupboards. He comes back with two packets, one matching the floral tea from earlier and a different one. He hands the latter to Geralt.

“Black tea,” he says, “for you. Noticed you didn’t like my herbal stuff. I don’t either, to be honest, but I already spent the coin on it.”

“Thanks,” Geralt replies, oddly touched.

As Jaskier passes Geralt to take his seat, he leans down and pecks him on the cheek. Smiling faintly beneath the ice pack, he says, “You know, Witcher, I’m glad you’re here and not up in some weird lonely castle,” and Geralt finds that he is, too.