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bratbarzal · 4 months ago

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On Your Side (NH13) / Prologue

Pairing: Nico Hischier x Fem!OC Poppy Jensen

WC: 13k

Chapter Warnings: angst, miscommunication, ghosting? maybe, some cursing, mentions of OC having nephews (gross), being broken up with over a text, allusions to anxiety, my oc being argumentative and avoidant (she's me), and nico also being avoidant and a poor communicator (he's a man) (he's also a capricorn) (sorry capricorns)

Summary: Poppy Jensen’s job with the New Jersey Devils was supposed to be her first big step into adulthood - a way to prove to herself and her overbearing parents that she could make her own way in life. She was never supposed to become involved with any of the players. Becoming best friends with their captain was stupid. Getting her heart broken by him was tragic. Getting knocked up with his child was just plain messy.

Series Masterlist

A/N: is a 13k prologue excessive? probably. is the mixture of tenses in this part going to grind your gears? most definitely. am I going to do anything about it? no.

I've never actually published any writing before so go easy on the girl. if I need to tag any warnings just let me know. if you like the fic let me know. if you don't like the fic I beg you I'm having a bad month spare meeeeee.

TW for british english spellings because shock horror I am unfortunately british, get used to u's and s's where you least expect them, I will change my spell check settings for no one!! nico's facebook aunt shenanigans have lit a fire within me today and I was writing a later chapter for this fic and thinking if I don't actually put this out into the world I never will so here we are hi my name is maggie I hope you enjoy

Poppy

New Years has always been Poppy Jensen’s favourite holiday. The dwindling aftermath of Christmas - lights and decorations still hung throughout the city, everyone decked in the hats, scarves and ugly sweaters gifted by distant relatives over the Christmas period, and the six days of limbo usually spent drinking and eating copious amounts of leftovers before the new year, new me resolutions kick in - and experiencing it all in her hometown surrounded by the people she loves the most, there is no other time like it.

This year, she feels like the festive period has been one, long, strung-out horror show.

Self-inflicted, of course, like all the other tragedies of her life, she does know she only has herself to blame for how pathetic it has turned out.

She had prepared herself for Christmas to be a dud. The one time of the year that she and her family put aside their differences, and this year she had opted out - or, so her mother had dramatically concluded; she actually just had work commitments. But, this would be her first spent alone due to the fact her parents had decided to go and visit her older brother, Oliver, and his family in San Francisco.

They didn’t have to fly across the country - Oliver has more than enough money to book his clan on a flight back to his home state, but obviously as the golden child, the Jensen’s must bend to his every whim. Of course, Poppy had been invited. Her relationship with her brother wasn’t mutually acrimonious, but the aforementioned work commitments got her out of that bore-fest.

She does love her brother. Sometimes. Christmas, especially - he’s a great and expensive gift-giver. And she loves his wife, Kimberley, and their two sons - her nephews, James and Lucas - but spending the holidays with them would have been a lot. Her family is hard work on the best of days, and the only reason Christmas is ever bearable is because her mother hires help, and it’s impossible for the stress train to leave the station if Priscilla Jensen is given enough wine early enough in the day to dull her usual wicked demeanour.

Kimberley, God bless her soul, maintains a sober house, and Poppy, as much as she respects this, would not go anywhere near that train wreck if you paid her a million dollars.

There’s also the fact that the holidays were invented to unwind, and Poppy somehow always gets lumped on nephew duty. She had long grown out of her boys are gross phase, but lord, do those two try everything in their power to bring it back. She has lost count of the amount of their bodily fluids she has had wiped all over her best clothes over the years. If she had agreed to fly out, she no doubt would have ended up being the one to watch the kids while everyone else had their version of a good time, and so she’d successfully managed to avoid all that with a half-assed promise of visiting at Easter, instead.

Her brother hadn’t been too upset - one less place setting at the table for him to worry about - but her mother had been livid, and there was no chance Poppy would live it down without owing her.

God forbid she, as an adult, actually got to choose how to spend her time.

She hadn’t actually been completely alone on Christmas, not all day, at least. Her best friend Nia had invited her to eat with her and her dad, but they were hardly putting her in the festive spirit with their constant snipes at each other, and so she’d given herself stomach ache stuffing herself full of corn bread and roasted carrots and dipped out to make it home for the Giants game - because there’s no better tradition than watching your team lose on Christmas Day. At least she wasn’t there to watch her dad and brother yell at the TV and get all grumpy for hours after the fact.

She’d watched Love Actually with mulled wine in hand and fallen asleep on the couch - waking up in the middle of the night to the muffled sound of her neighbours screaming at each other through the walls.

Poppy had the 26th off, and spent the day preparing her apartment for New Years, knowing she wouldn’t have any other opportunity to get her big clean done. She’d cleared out half her wardrobe - done several loads of laundry so that she could donate clean clothes to the women’s shelter a few blocks over - rid her kitchen of all the outdated tinned foods in the backs of her cupboards, dusted every surface, vacuumed every floor, colour-coded her bookshelf to look more aesthetically pleasing and then within an hour put it back in alphabetical order - all in a day’s work.

By the time the 27th rolled around, and she had to return to work, she had tired herself out completely. She had been drained, and the worst part of it all, she didn’t even actually need to be there.

Sure, December was a crazy time to work in the NHL, their schedule unrelenting when the season got into full-swing, and the holiday events that Poppy’s team had to organise seemed never ending, but she had technically been given limbo-week off. Not that her mother had to know.

The Youth Foundation team had all wrapped up work for the year on the 23rd, and if Poppy was a truly good daughter/sibling/aunt, she would have booked herself on a red-eye after the home win that evening, but the second the opportunity to accept an actual real excuse not to change her plans arose, she took it with open arms. Her guilt of lying to her family diminished, along with her will to live at the fact she had - self-inflicted, as always - put herself down to work her favourite time of the year.

Her career with the New Jersey Devils had started with an internship in her final year of college. She had worked with the digital content department for her first year, quickly being sniped by the Foundation in the middle of her second year and working her way past content creation to helping co-ordinate and run some of the community events.

When her friend Jessica had approached Poppy and begged for her to cover her spot in the department they had started out together in for limbo-week, spending it with the team at their games, she had jumped at the bit. She knew no one else would agree to work last minute after having their time off approved, and was pleased to relay to her mom that she had to prove herself as a team player if she wanted more responsibility at work. It was all in the name of bumping up her performance and getting her name out there, and definitely not avoiding her family and that whole shit-show.

Poppy loves her job, and is more than happy with her career, but she could sing about it until the cows come home and her parents could not care less. They rarely ever acknowledged her successes because her life didn’t fit the mould they had set out for her - another reason she hadn’t wanted to spend this Christmas hounded with questions of why don’t you come work for your dad? Or why didn’t you accept the interview Ollie so kindly got for you? She doesn’t want a non-sensical, nothing job made up to keep her under her family’s influence. She has forged her own path, one that many dream of in one of the biggest industries in the country, and no matter how much she disappointed her parents in comparison to her lackey brother, she is content with where she is.

She had completely forgotten, however, that the devils played away on the 29th and 30th, and if she was going to be tagging along with the bare-bones limbo week media crew, there was no way in hell she was getting out of joining the team’s New Years celebrations.

She had done her fair share of dodging team events already this year, and despite the fact she could appease most of her friends within the organisation, there was one person who would not let her off so easy.

This year is Jack Hughes’ first year hosting the big Devils New Years party - he’d, in her opinion, stupidly volunteered pretty much last minute after the venue the team had booked flooded in November and cancelled their reservation - and he would not let Poppy get out of coming, even if that meant scuppering her own annual tradition of getting shit-faced with her girls in their perfectly planned New Jersey bar crawl.

She’d done her best work to convince him - had almost sold him on the dream - she and her best friend, Nia, always start at the bar below Nia’s apartment in Hoboken, and then dot to the bars closest to their other friends apartments until they end up by Poppy’s, which has the perfect little rooftop set up where they get to watch all the fireworks across the Hudson. It’s how she’s spent the holiday every year since she and all her girls turned 21, and it was her favourite day, her favourite way to ring in a new year with her best friends in her favourite place in the world.

Jack’s argument was that he also had a great view across the Hudson from his Jersey City apartment, and that she was less likely to catch hypothermia this year because his view came through floor to ceiling windows and the luxury of central heating.

She’d tried to argue that she had all intentions of meeting her future husband on her adventures through New Jersey, and he gave the quick rebuttal that he had plenty of single friends she was yet to meet.

There was no excuse she could give that he couldn’t counteract, and so she’d eventually given up with the resolution that when he is 3 drinks deep, Jack Hughes can barely remember his own name, let alone keep tabs on where Poppy is, or if she ever showed up in the first place. She can always just say she’s running late until he stops asking.

And then she’d somehow gotten roped into helping him set up.

Jack had cornered her on their flight home from Boston, where they had just lost to the Bruins and, all of a sudden, no one was in any kind of mood to party.

“I swear,” he had said, throwing himself down into the vacant seat beside her as she attempted to clear her inbox on the short journey, swiping away messages and storing others to review when work started back up in the next week, “If I mess up this party, and my name goes down in Devils history tied to the biggest depression session this team have ever seen, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“How the hell would that be my fault?” She had scoffed, kicking at his feet when he had tried to man-spread next to her and they had quite abruptly knocked knees. The staff seats toward the front of the plane weren’t quite as spacious as the player seats further back.

“You brought some serious negative energy with you on this trip,” he shrugged, reaching for the bag of skittles she had stashed in the pocket on the seat in front of her and stealing a handful, “And I can’t blame you for us losing, so I’m gonna blame you for constantly trying to abandon my event and making me feel so insecure about it that it turned into a complete bore-fest because I didn’t have my literal professional event planner friend to help me set it all up.”

Jack Hughes had joined the New Jersey Devils at the same time Poppy had started her internship. There had been some corny ice breaker session for everyone new to the organisation that season, and they’d bonded over their shared love for country music. He’d become dependent on her as a local to the area for recommendations for everything - food, sports bars, coffee, grocery shopping, running routes - and they’d quickly developed a friendship that had lasted them thus far. No fallouts, no drama, no issues. Being friends with Jack is easy.

Poppy is older by near enough 18 months, and considers him as close to a little brother as she will ever find - annoying, teasing, loud and somewhat of a know-it-all, but he cares deeply, and he’s loyal, honest and open with her, and she loves him for it.

“I’ve done my part even helping you plan the thing,” she had to snatch the bag back from him before he finished the skittles off, needing the sugar to keep her awake for the quick drive home when they landed. Jack had been on her back about this party since he had first put his name in the hat to host, and she had been gracious, helping him arrange food, drinks, decorations and DJ equipment in the hopes it would lessen the blow that she didn’t want to attend. “I didn’t bring negative energy.”

“Do I have to kidnap you when we deplane or are you gonna come around tomorrow morning and help me?”

“Kidnap me?” she couldn’t help but laugh, casting a quick measured glance over his figure. “Real cute, Jack, you’re nothing without your stick.”

“I could take you.” He attempted to throw a skittle up into the air and catch it in his mouth, not accounting for the fact they were on a moving, somewhat turbulent plane, and he barely had enough finesse to pull that off on the ground. The candy landed and bounced off his cheekbone, and he watched it fall to the floor with a child-like pout.

“It’s fighting talk like that that would lose you another tooth, Hughesy,” she had threatened in jest.

“I’m a middle child, I don’t start fights I can’t finish, Popcorn.” He also has a track record of giving Poppy the worst nicknames she has ever heard in her entire 24 years on this Earth. “Luke’s already said he’ll help me on the kidnapping front, we have a plan.”

“Your plan is nothing without incentive, Jack. You come at me with weak threats when you could just offer me something in return.”

“Like what?” His eyes narrowed toward her, shuffling in the seat until he was facing her fully.

“I want to bring Nia.” If she was going to be subjected to this, she was bringing back up - and she had thought this would be a good trade, knowing how protective the boys were of their private events, especially those thrown in their own homes.

Poppy hadn’t liked the way his lips curved up immediately, like she had fallen straight into his trap. “Done.” She should have known better. He stood up, edging back into the aisle and sending her a wink. “I’ll text you details on when and where I need you. Your hot friend is more than welcome to offer a hand, too.”

And that is how Poppy has ended up spending the day of New Years Eve, her favourite day of the year, rushing to set up Jack Hughes’ apartment.

Her first task had been to go round to Jack’s and accept the deliveries that came while he and Luke were out picking up the decks for the DJ. Drinks arrived by the crateful, the boxes of paper plates, cups and other table wears took her several trips up and down from Jack’s apartment to the building lobby until she broke out in a sweat, and she had done her best to hang all the decorations, her last call being to pick up the bigger decoration delivery from downstairs.

Poppy, with the help of Lionel, the building’s concierge, loads the elevator full of decor, ranging from golden helium balloons that spell out ‘Happy New Year’ and ‘2024’, a large roll that should hopefully unravel to reveal a backdrop for a makeshift photo-booth, as well as a deconstructed balloon arch that gave her PTSD from the amount of events at the Rock she’d had to put them together.

Lionel offers to come up with her to help unload everything upstairs, but the thought of cramming another person in there with all the stuff makes her feel claustrophobic, so she politely declines - though, when the elevator doors open and she bumps face first into a firm chest, her nose smushing against a khaki t-shirt she wishes she had someone else with her to buffer the tension that stiffens her spine.

A large, calloused hand wraps around her upper arm to steady her, and another reaches out to keep the doors of the elevator from closing in on where she stands. She looks up into eyes swirled with the colour of warm, melted chocolate, and her throat feels just the slightest bit drier than it had 5 seconds ago.

“Hey,” Nico Hischier’s voice is deep, scratchy like he’s just woken up - he probably has given how late the team got in last night - and trickles down in static currents from her ears to the base of Poppy’s back.

She takes a short, startled step back, and gulps down the dryness in her throat before she gives a quick, “Hey,” in response. “Sorry, I’ll just take a second to unload all of this then the elevator is yours.”

“I’ll help,” Nico doesn’t phrase it as a question, as if knowing she would immediately decline. Not, let me help, or do you need help? He’ll just do it. “You get everything out and I’ll take it inside?”

She nods, despite the voice in the back of her head telling her that he’s only helping to get the job done quicker, and be able to get downstairs. She makes a conscious mental effort to drown it out while the two of them work in a silent tandem, her lifting the decorations into the hallway and him towing them down and into Jack’s apartment.

She makes another conscious effort not to watch when he lifts things, the flex of his arms, the rippling muscles of his shoulders.

“Is that the last of it?” He asks, gesturing to the rolled up backdrop leaning on the side of the elevator and propping it open.

“Yeah, but I got it,” Poppy gives a tight smile, lifting the roll but staying in place so the doors don’t close behind her and she doesn’t get stuck any longer in Nico’s presence on her own. “Thanks for helping.”

There used to be a time she couldn’t get enough of being around Nico, but those days are long gone.There is a permanent frigidity between them now - it’s been there since the summer just gone - and she’s overstimulated enough having spent her morning being Jack’s lackey while he no doubt slacks off with his brother grabbing brunch out. Her patience is beyond wearing thin, and so the last thing she needs is prolonged contact with the Devils captain where she will no doubt end up blowing up and making everything worse.

No one wants to ring in the new year with an almighty fallout.

She can’t help the frown that befalls her features when he makes no effort to occupy the elevator. He makes no effort to do anything, only looking at Poppy with a pensive pout. “Jack said I should come help you out.”

Of course he did, she thinks.

For the past four months, Jack Hughes has been acting like it’s his greater purpose in life to bring Nico and Poppy back together - like the demise of their friendship was the greatest personal inconvenience he has ever faced in his life.

He has orchestrated one too many ‘accidental’ run-ins just like this one, and Poppy isn’t going to entertain his childish games any longer.

Nico doesn’t want to be her friend - she knows this for a fact - so Jack’s schemes are becoming a waste of everyone’s time.

“I’m alright, Nia’s on her way, you don’t have to hang around.”

Nia was due at Jack’s apartment two hours ago, but is no doubt still asleep after she was out last night for her pre-New Years celebrations. She’ll come over soon enough, though, and so Poppy doesn’t feel entirely deflated to turn down help she actually might currently need.

“I don’t mind waiting until she gets here.” Nico shrugs, again not giving her a natural opportunity to say no. He nods towards the apartment, gesturing for Poppy to start making her way over. “We both know she won’t take the stairs.”

Something about the way he so casually recalls information about her best friend plucks at her nerves, just a little, reflective of the part of their lives they had once shared with each other like it was nothing, but she shrugs it off, beginning to head towards the apartment with the roll tucked under her arm.

“I thought New Years was your favourite holiday?” He asks once they’re both inside, the sound of the door clicking shut behind him and somewhat trapping her in his presence echoing throughout the room. He doesn’t allow for any kind of prolonged silence between the two of them. If Nico Hischier is good at anything, it’s getting people to talk to him.

It’s not entirely that she doesn’t want to talk to him.

She does.

She’s wanted to talk to him every day for the past 4 months that they hadn’t talked - has been craving even mundane, casual conversation about the weather or traffic on the way into work, but now, as he yet again indifferently recollects such personal details about her as if they have remained close, she begins to feel uneasy.

“It is,” she gives a half-hearted, dismissive response.

“Then why are you all grumpy?”

“I’m not.” She frowns, eyebrows furrowing and arms crossing as she turns to face him, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue.

She’s not trying to be difficult. Or maybe she is. She is in a particularly bad mood, but she had thought she’d done a good job at masking it. He’d been around her all of 2 minutes and saw right through her.

“Jack said you’ve been off all morning.”

Like he cares, she thinks, her mood souring further at the fact he doesn’t see through her or even care at all, he’s here at the request of someone else. Following up on his duties as a captain and fulfilling a favour for one of his actual friends.

Embarrassment floods the pit of her stomach, and rears its ugly head in the form of her biting tone when she replies, “Jack’s been out all morning, how would he know?”

“He left you to do all this on your own?” Nico frowns, gesturing around to the half-way set up apartment. All that’s left to do aside from put up the decorations she’s just lugged up is set up the food and drinks, and Poppy figured she could leave that task to Jack so that it all remained fresher for longer.

“I do this kind of thing for a living, remember?”

She cringes inwardly at the venom in her voice, turning away from him with a huff and missing the way his posture deflates.

“You run events, Poppy, you’re not an assistant.” She can hear his heavy footsteps follow as she moves to set up the photo-booth area. “If I’d known he had you running after him all morning, I’d have-,”

“Called someone else to come help me so you could carry on avoiding me?”

She really is wound up now. Jack bailing on her to do God-knows what while she sets up his party had been one thing - there was a rational part of her brain that would tell her there would no doubt be hiccups in trying to source a bunch of DJ equipment in New Jersey on New Years Eve and he hadn’t actually bailed - and she could write off Nia’s disappearance due to the fact Poppy had sprung the plans on her last minute when she got home and called her last night, and she was bound to show up at some point. But Nico implying she is letting Jack walk all over her and needs anyone’s help to get through setting up a basic party is downright offensive. At least, in her stressed out state, it is - and so she can’t find it within herself to bite her tongue about their situation any longer.

If it drives him away and brings back her solitude to finish setting up without him occupying any precious mind space, so be it.

She almost forgets a key fact about the man before her. He doesn’t give up so easily.

“I’m not avoiding you.” He bites back, stepping into her space and helping her lift the backdrop roll to fit into the brackets she had set up earlier when the structure for the booth had arrived. “I would have come to help you, myself, Poppy.”

She wishes he would stop saying her name.

4 months of radio silence and he’s thrown it at her like a dagger twice in the span of 30 seconds, the way his it rolls of his tongue in a low, smooth rasp scratching an itch she didn’t know she had, and now she can’t shake it.

“I’m fine,” she huffs, reaching as far as she can and pressing until she hears the brackets click into place. At the brief noise, Nico catches on to what he needs to do at his side and manages to click it into place, barely lifting his arms. She moves into the middle of the structure, pulling at the velcro tab holding the roll together until it cascades to the floor and unveils the backdrop in its entirety.

“What else needs doing?” He asks, his tone gentler this time.

“Nothing,” she mutters, winding the velcro in between her fingers to occupy them, before moving to pass him and make her way to the next task on her list. It’s only small things now. Arranging the balloons, setting up the arch, clearing table space for the equipment when Jack finally arrives home. “You can go, I’ve got it.”

“Mohn,” Nico sighs lowly, warm hand clasping around her forearm as she attempts to pass, holding her in place beside him.

She really wishes he wouldn’t call her that.

If Jack is the prince of childish monikers that make her insides curl, Nico is the king of making her melt.

The nickname takes her straight back to the days before the waves of the summer break washed their friendship away. The times where he’d give her a ride home from the Prudential Center after work, whispering a, “Goodnight, Mohn,” in her ear as they hugged goodbye over the centre console in the front of his car. The times she’d meet up with the team to celebrate a win at their favourite bar, and he’d throw a never-casual, “Looking good, Mohn,” her way with an appreciative once-over.

And it takes her even further back to when they had met, and she’d first offered her name.

“I’ll be interning with the content team, my name is Poppy,” she had offered a bright smile, reaching her hand out for him to shake, and making sure to keep a firm grip, just like her father had taught her, when he places his hand in hers. As she had done since she was a child, it was instinctual to follow up with, “Like the flower.”

“Mohnblume,” he had uttered, a smile so deep his cheeks dimpled into deep valleys.

“Huh?” She had been only a little bit caught out by the way his eyes shone, forgetting her manners as her head tilted to the side in confusion.

“Poppy flower, that’s what it is in my language.”

“Oh,” she had exclaimed, furrowed brows raising, a soft flush warming her cheeks, “Pretty!”

“Very.”

She had convinced herself for a long time that it was just his way of remembering - an aid in blurring the lines between the two languages that, especially back then, he often found himself mixed up in. And then, after a while, using it seemed to bring a protected familiarity between them - like an inside joke - and he’d use it less in front of others and more in the times it was just the two of them.

Years down the line from hearing it for the first time, and months down the line from hearing it for the last, her heart still thumps the same erratic beat at the sound.

Nico’s eyes still shine the same way when he looks down at her, and she fights every fibre of her being not to think too much about it. Or not to think about the touch of his hand on her arm, still holding her in place, the two of them closer than they have been in a long time, now.

It’s painfully easy to forget the months of distance after only seconds in his immediate company - to wipe from her memory the reason for her reticence and to push down the stubborn desire to push him away.

Her lips part to speak, and she doesn’t know if she’s about to turn him down or take him in, because another voice fills the apartment before any words get the chance to spill out.

“I come bearing gifts!” A sing-song lull breaks the silence as her best friend makes her presence known, entering the apartment with a drinks carrier in one hand, and a to-go back over the other wrist.

Poppy steps away, shaking Nico’s grip from her arm, and turns to give Nia her full attention, hoping that she is either too hungover or too focused on herself to see or care about the obvious tension between her and the captain. She manages to bite her tongue from letting a Thank God slip out, and makes her way over to retrieve a much needed drink.

“They were out of chai so I got you an iced tea,” Nia holds out the drink to Poppy, and then the to go bag, “And half a cinnamon roll.”

“Half?”

“What? I was hungry too.” Nia scoffs, turning her attention to the brooding presence on the other side of the room. “Sorry, Nico, I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Would you have only eaten a third if you did?” He trials a joke, and when Poppy sneaks a peak back toward him, he looks apprehensive - scratching at the nape of his neck as if anticipating a bad reaction to his attempt at lighthearted humour.

“I’m sure Poppy doesn’t mind sharing if you’re starving,” Nia makes her way to the bar set up by the kitchen, placing her own cup down and shrugging off her purse beside it.

“I wouldn’t dream of depriving her of half a cinnamon roll.” While his words are directed to her best friend, Nico looks at Poppy with a wistful smile, and she can practically see the memory of an old shared routine wash over his eyes.

A weekly ritual of meeting by the PATH station close to both of their apartments on a free morning for a run, and then catching breakfast to go and grab a juice or a smoothie for the walk home - abandoned just like all the other little traditions they once had together.

Nico and Poppy had been close, before. Closer than she is to Jack, now - closer than she’s been to anyone else on the team, ever. So close that Nico knows her best friend enough to joke around with a familiar ease; so close that they’d even hung out as a three before, back when the girls shared an apartment in Poppy’s first year with the Devils, and he had been the only person that Nia had ever been happy to share her childhood friend with.

And now, Poppy stands between them in a silence so uncomfortable she feels like the room is shaking.

She hasn’t talked to Nico in months, and hasn’t talked about him in just as long, but she knows Nia can read her like a book.

The girls had grown up together - been through everything side by side, pinky fingers intertwined with an eternal promise of friendship and understanding. The demise of relationships, friendship group implosions, familial hardships, Nia’s goth phase, the time Poppy wrecked her hair dying it a vibrant cherry-red because her high school crush said Ariana Grande was hot - she still shudders thinking of how her hair glowed red in any direct light for years in the aftermath. Through middle school, high school, college, and all the way up until now, the pair know each other inside out.

So Poppy knows that Nia knows something happened.

Nia knows that Poppy hadn’t been able to go a day without bringing up the Swiss Captain before the summer, and then all of a sudden, she didn’t mention him at all. But she also knows her friend well enough and loves her too much not to have pressed on an open wound.

“It looks insane in here, Pop,” Nia gawks at the set up around her, every corner of the open plan layout of Jack’s large apartment decked out with decor and party amenities. “Do you guys go this hard every year?”

“Depends who’s hosting,” Nico shrugs, knowing when it had been his turn the year before, his event had been much more lowkey. Poppy had seen the pictures, had been sent an abundance of wish you were here snapchats around midnight from the Captain himself. Jack has a thing about his reputation that won’t let him even consider doing anything lowkey. “I forgot this would be your first year coming.”

“Oh, we’re not coming.” Poppy covers her mouth as she speaks around a bite of her food, unable to wait until she’d finished her mouthful due to the immediate urge to shut him down once again.

“You’re not?” He almost sounds disappointed. She doesn’t dare check for the furrow of his thick eyebrows or the pout of his lips. “Jack said he’d convinced you.”

A flash of anxiety shoots across her chest at the thought of him considering her attendance. Had he asked Jack? Had he mentioned her specifically - pushed him to convince her? Or had Jack just brought it up in an offhanded comment?

“I just agreed to get him off my back about it.” Her choice of words is only slightly intended to hurt. She and Nico were no longer friends - she hadn’t been the one to make that decision. Despite that fact, she tries to suppress the guilt clawing at the base of her throat at the wash of understanding that passes over his features. A solemn nod, gaze bouncing to the floor, lips pressed together. “We have plans with our friends.”

“Actually,” Nia’s voice captures both their attention swiftly - Poppy’s head whipping around in subtle alarm and Nico’s in anticipation. “Blake’s flight back from Arizona got cancelled, and Kelsey bailed on me last night because she got Covid of all things over Christmas.”

“What about Emma?” Poppy asks, hoping and praying their hermit friend has all of a sudden grown some stellar social skills and agreed to carry on their tradition for the sake of Poppy’s sanity.

“She double booked with her boyfriend, and he’s a huge drip I don’t really wanna hang out with those two all night.” God damn Emma and her tool of a boyfriend, Poppy thinks. “At least if we come here, we’re still close enough to your place we can make it back for fireworks on the roof.”

“We get a great view of them from this building,” Nico makes his presence known again, attempting to offer a solution. “If you didn’t want to walk back home so late.”

“See, Pop,” Nia claps her hands together with a grin, “We get to come to a cool party, don’t have to worry about creeps following us around all night, and still get to hold on to tradition. Win, win, win if you ask me!”

“Right,” Poppy sighs, knowing now that Nia has her heart set on the plan, there’s nothing she can do about it. Any persistence on her part would be too obvious. “Fine.”

“Awesome! What’s left to do?”

Poppy eyes Nico, knowing she’d told him only a few minutes ago that there was nothing left. “Just need to clear a table for the equipment Jack’s getting,”

“Which one?” Nia asks, making her way over with her iced tea in hand once Poppy points toward the table in the corner by the wall-to-wall window. “Are you helping or just standing around looking pretty?”

Nico’s cheeks flush, a subtle warmth arising to his skin, and he gives a bashful chuckle.

Poppy feels a little nauseous, and it’s not from the sickly sweet half of a pastry she’s just forced down.

Nia’s eyes flicker between the two of them like she’s at a grand slam, and her lips twist to hide a smile.

“I actually need to head out,” he says, gaze darting quickly to Poppy before turning to her best friend, “I have some things I need to do before tonight. It was good to see you, though, Nia.”

Nia hums around the straw of her drink, giving a dismissive wave. “You too, see you later!”

Nico begins towards the door to the apartment, and just before he passes Poppy, he stops. He doesn’t reach for her this time, doesn’t step too close, but she can feel his presence regardless. And every hair on her body stands to attention like she’s been shocked by static when he says, lowly, “I’ll see you tonight, Mohn.”

She can only nod in response, not trusting her voice to speak, not trusting her eyes to look into his and be able to look away.

After he departs, there are a few minutes of an ear-piercing silence. Poppy can hear every movement Nia makes, from the slurp of her drink, to the manner in which she throws things around with little care for where they end up. And louder than anything, she hears the violent thud of her heartbeat in her own ears.

“So,” Nia drags out when Poppy joins her at the almost empty table. “What the fuck was that?”

“What was what?” Poppy and Nia have known each other fifteen years, she doesn’t know why she hopelessly thought that would work.

“Don’t play dumb,” Nia scoffs, “You and Captain Sexy,”

“There is no me and Nico,”

“But you know who I’m asking about,” she scoffs like she’s caught her best friend out, and then adds, with a suggestive wiggle of her brows, “So you do think he’s sexy?”

“What are you, twelve?” Poppy rolls her eyes, “He’s the only captain we’ve been in a room with, pretty obvious who you were referring to.”

“Admit it, Poppy, I saw the two of you when I came in, you totally wanna jump his bones, you have for as long as you’ve known him.”

“We’re not having this conversation, Ni.”

“The hell we aren’t!” Nia grabs her best friend by the shoulders, “I’ve bitten my tongue for months, Pop, watching you mope around and get all glum whenever work is brought up. I couldn’t get you to shut up about the guy before, what the hell happened between you two?”

“Nothing happened!”

“It totally did!” Nia can spy the aversion Poppy is attempting from miles off. “Don’t tell me you two finally hooked up and you didn’t fill me in,”

“He has a girlfriend, Nia.”

The way Poppy says it is like a period to a sentence. End of conversation. End of speculation. It doesn’t matter what they had been before, or what they are now. It doesn’t matter what she feels. There is no her and Nico because he is someone else’s. That’s the crux of it.

“Since when?” Nia frowns.

“Since the summer just gone.”

And there it is. Understanding washes over the face of her best friend, and Poppy has to force herself to look away.

He’d maybe been with her before that, too, but Poppy doesn’t actually know the entire timeline of it.

All she does know is that he’d come back from Switzerland with a drop dead gorgeous model hanging off of his arm, and he no longer had a use for Poppy in his life.

She knows other little bits, that she’d sourced from parts of conversations with others, or potential social media sleuthing that she will never admit to even with a gun to her head.

Talia, a model from somewhere close to home back in Europe, and Nico had hit it off at some festival when he’d gone back to Switzerland for his break. He’d very quickly and very clearly become smitten with her. Poppy had seen as much with her plastered all over his private stories and even posted on his private instagram feed.

By the time he came back to New Jersey for pre-season training camp, she was tagging along to team gatherings, he’d take her on his morning runs, grabbing breakfast together, he’d pick her up every day after work so he could no longer drive Poppy home, not that he’d ever attempted to explain any of that to her. She was at every home game, was his plus one to every event, and Poppy and Nico’s friendship had fizzled out so much that she sometimes feels like the whole thing had been a fantasy, or a figment of her imagination. Something she’d misunderstood, miscalculating every interaction they had ever shared and assuming they meant the same to him as they did to her.

They didn’t.

She doesn’t think any of it would have hurt her so much if he’d have let her down easy. A sorry for bailing on you the first time she’d text him if he wanted to meet up for their weekly run and he’d left her on read would have lessened the blow. He could have been straight up with an I just want to focus on my relationship right now. That would have been the decent thing to do, but he’d just dropped her, instead. Didn’t come around her office for lunch, didn’t text her after training when one of the guys said something stupid and he thought it might make her laugh. He’d cut her off from the intimate parts of his life - ghosted her, even - and all she could find it in herself to do anymore was miss him.

She’d made attempts to bring him around, at first. Tried speaking to him at work, tried texting, but after a few weeks of staring at the delivered sign at the bottom of their message thread, she had given up. It still taunts her every time she opens it up to delete the entire thing and move on like he clearly has - erasing all the inside jokes and times they had confided in one another like they meant ever meant anything in the first place.

She can count on her hand the amount of times they had spoken since the summer. Work related, entirely. A good game here and a have you seen whoever? there. Today is the first indication in months that they had ever been anything more than two people who worked in the same organisation. Friends of friends, co-workers, barely acquaintances.

Not people who know each other’s favourite holidays and are chummy with each other’s friends.

“I’m sorry, Poppy,” Nia frowns, “I didn’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she shrugs, attempting nonchalance despite the stinging in the back of her throat. “Let’s finish here so we can go get ready.”

Nico

Nico Hischier isn’t the biggest fan of New Years Eve. He isn’t really a fan of the festive period, at all. He isn’t a scrooge by any means. He can appreciate the coming together of people and the celebration of the year just gone, and the one starting fresh - but ever since he moved from Switzerland and started his career in the NHL, the holiday period has felt unnecessarily long.

His schedule is jam packed - games up until the 23rd, starting again after Christmas on the 27th, and again after New Years on the 3rd - and there aren’t enough consecutive days together to celebrate in the way others get to do this time of year.

He knows he has to make do with the fact - a small price to pay for living his dream - and his teammates help, all sharing in their sacrifices and trying to make the best out of a bad deal. But he can’t help but feel a lack. A lack of tradition, a lack of family being around, a lack of normalcy.

He remembers the holidays as a child, spending time at home with his parents and his siblings, having two weeks at home for his winter break and getting to spend his days doing whatever he pleased. As someone who moved overseas at such a young age, he looks back on those times fondly.

But now, living at least 8 hours away from the rest of his family, this time of year only serves to remind him of the isolation that creeps up on him like a bad cold.

It starts at the beginning of the month, the sniffly nose period of the bug, when chatter starts around who’s doing what for Christmas. Decorations go up, parties are planned, names are passed around in a hat for Secret Santa, and discussions begin around who is managing to go where.

Next comes the tickle in his throat - the last game before Christmas, where the team all depart and separate with temporary goodbyes as those who have family nearby all get to go home - their parents arranging home cooked extravaganza meals, reuniting with their siblings, exchanging gifts - and Nico, for the 5th year running, feels like a bit part in someone else’s festivities as he and a few of the other European guys all bustle into the dining room of whoever is willing to accommodate them for the day.

Then comes the rest, the sneezing, the coughing, the lethargy, in the period between Christmas and New Years, when everyone is reeling off the back of their celebrations and looking forward to ringing in the next year with a big party.

Nico had thought this year might have been better. He had been in a relationship, there were parts of the holidays he could tweak and adopt into his circumstances - exchanging gifts with a loved one, bringing her along to Christmas dinner at Jesper and Nicole��s place, and not having to feel like a third wheel or like he had to shrink to fit at the kiddie’s table.

He’d even tried to start his own holiday traditions with Talia, his girlfriend. He’d booked an overnight stay at a fancy hotel on the Upper East Side in the middle in the month on one of the rare occasions he’d had two consecutive days with no game or other commitments - despite how hectic his schedule had been. He’d taken her Christmas shopping down Fifth Avenue like she’d talked so much about how she’d wanted to do ever since she came out to New Jersey with him after the summer. He’d taken her ice skating, away from the Rock so that it didn’t feel like work, they had bought and decorated the tree in his apartment together, he’d brought her along to every team holiday event.

And on the day of their home game against Anaheim on the 17th, just a few days after their trip into Manhattan, in the middle of the third period, she had unceremoniously dumped him with an I’m just not feeling this anymore. Over text. As she was already at the airport preparing to fly back to Munich to spend the holidays with her family. He had slumped into his locker after their brutal 5-1 defeat and couldn’t believe what he was reading.

Nico wanted to be angry. As he read the text, he could picture any other person throwing and smashing things. Calling her up and demanding an explanation - because it was clear she hadn’t been feeling it for longer than she let on, considering she was about to board a no doubt fully booked flight across the Atlantic in the eleventh hour.

But there was too large of a part of him that just felt relieved.

Talia was great.

He had met her properly in the summer when he had gone home to Switzerland, but they’d had mutual friends long before. He’d liked a couple of her instagram pictures here, she had responded to a few of his stories there, and then they had been formally introduced at a friend’s party.

Things with her were easy, at first. Nico wasn’t looking for anything serious, and she had ticked all of the right boxes. She was good company, always down to do whatever he was doing with whoever he wanted to do it with. She recognised that summer was the only time of the year he truly had to himself, and she let him take the reins on how he wanted to spend it.

She would go on hikes with him, would lounge around in the sun if wanted, go to parties, go to festivals, join him on little weekend trips to Ibiza or Mallorca. And she was a great release when his training had picked up. She would work around his schedule. He’d invite her round to his apartment and he had enjoyed spending time doing nothing with her after a long day at the gym or at the rink.

She had slotted so perfectly into that version of his life that he gave very little thought into inviting her into the rest of it.

She was beautiful, sociable, charismatic - and then she became hard work.

When summer was over, and he invited her to spend some time back in New Jersey, she didn’t quite grasp how much things would need to change. She constantly wanted to have plans. Wanted to go to parties, wanted to go out, be around other people, take little trips - and he had tried to accommodate her the best he could, but he didn’t have the time for himself, let alone for another person, to be doing things all the time. He had tried to tell her as much, and she said she was okay with it, said as long as he was present with her, she could settle for not doing the things they had in the summer, but she expected too much from him.

She wanted Nico’s attention at all hours of the day, weaving herself into every aspect of his routine. He wanted to run? She would go with him, could really use the fresh air. He wanted to do some solo training at the gym? She had been meaning to work on her lifting. He couldn’t go to the grocery store - could barely even go to work without her wanting to be there. His phone would blow up whenever they were apart, and if he didn’t text her back straight away, she’d become cold - making him feel guilty and grovel for her forgiveness.

Talia was fun, until she wasn’t. Until she was exhausting, and Nico couldn’t keep up with her any longer.

She didn’t give him the grace to have an off day. He was tired, he was struggling, and when the season kicked into full swing, and the team’s schedule was packed, he became unable to juggle it all.

His work was suffering, his star was dimming, his body ached and his performance dipped - both in his professional and personal life.

And so, after the detonation of their relationship, a break up text felt a little like a wake up call.

Talia had contributed so much to the deterioration of normalcy in his life, that Nico was still trying to piece back together his routine 2 weeks later.

His holiday period this year had been spent in a haze - and it wasn’t for the reason everyone thought. He had caught the pitiful glances sent his way over the dinner table at Christmas, had seen the way the couples in the room tried to spare him of their PDA whenever he was around, and he could have told them it was okay. He was okay. But there was a large part of him that was trying to figure that out, still.

He had known he wasn’t heartbroken. He wasn’t shooting off texts to Talia and begging for her to come back. He’d already boxed up what little belongings she had left behind and was going to ship them internationally after the New Year had passed. He had deleted, not archived, all their photos on his private socials, and had even deleted most of them from his phone. He wasn’t in pieces over the fact she had ended things.

But he knew something still wasn’t right.

At first, he had thought it was work related. Their worst week of the season had happened just before Christmas - 3 losses at home in the span of 5 days - and he thought that could be the reason for his slump. Then, they won against Detroit and he still felt off.

Then, he thought he had been anxious about Christmas - about showing up on his own, having to explain his breakup to everyone not quite caught up on the news yet, and he would have to wallow in that same old feeling of watching everyone else enjoy the holidays. But Jesper and Nicole had thrown together a pretty nice day for the guys. The food was great, the company was great, and he’d gone back to his apartment that night with a feeling of relief - like he’d been dreading something for so long only for him to have genuinely enjoyed himself.

And finally, as if being thrust into a freezing cold ice bath, realisation had washed over him on the morning of the team’s final home game of the year against Columbus.

He had been walking through the back offices of the Prudential Centre when he had stumbled upon a conversation, and had heard Poppy Jensen’s voice for the first time in what felt like forever.

“I’m just kinda beat, to be honest, J,” she had said in response to a question Nico hadn’t caught. He had thought no one would be around, most of the Foundation staff having the week off, and hadn’t expected to come across anyone on his venture to the best vending machine in the building. The Foundation offices were often frequented by kids, and had an assortment of candies throughout their machines instead of the protein bars or rice cakes elsewhere in the staff areas. At the sound of her voice, he had come to an immediate halt, peaking around the corner where he could see into her office. She was moving some things into a box on her desk and Jack Hughes was reclining in the chair in front of it that once had been claimed by Nico as his own. “I’m all social interaction-ed out, the holidays have kinda beat me to a pulp, I don’t think I could keep up with you guys, I’m sorry.”

Nico watches as she swats at his feet when he tries to kick them up onto her desk, and can’t quite see the crease between her brows as she frowns at their mutual friend, but can remember how it used to form all the same. “You’re such a bullshitter,” Jack had scoffed, clearly pre-empting the stapler Poppy would throw at him, managing to catch it with ease.

“You can’t call me a bullshitter in my own office,” she gawked, “You don’t see me marching out onto the ice and calling you an attention whore.”

Jack had thrown the stapler straight back. She caught it all the same, and dropped it into the box.

“You haven’t hung out with us in forever!”

“We hung out at the Toy Drive like 2 weeks ago!” There had been two toy drive events organised by the Foundation in different parts of town, and, as he had long become accustomed to, Nico had been put on the one separate to the event Poppy was working. It had been fun, but when he’d checked the social posts the next day and seen the pictures posted of the other team - all smiles between them, a slightly blurry Poppy in the near background of all of Jack’s pictures to indicate how close they had been throughout the event - he had felt like he’d missed out on something.

“That was work, it doesn’t count, Popsicle.” Nico could hear the roll of Jack’s eyes.

“Yeah, well some of us don’t consider helping underprivileged children and spreading Christmas spirit ‘work’, Jack.” Poppy had used air quotes to emphasise her sarcasm, and a fond warmth had spread throughout Nico’s chest at hearing her hold her own against someone as brazenly wise as Jack Hughes. “I thought we were hanging out, having fun, improving our community together. You should really check your ego!”

“I sh-,” Jack had managed to cut himself off, no doubt realising how loud he had gotten. “You’re the one who’s been avoiding the whole team all year, ‘cause you’re hung up on-,”

The door to Poppy’s office had slammed closed before Nico had a chance to hear the end of his teammate’s sentence. Their voices had been muffled after that, and shame had started to creep up on Nico at the fact he’d been eavesdropping on a private conversation.

He’d foregone the snacks he originally snuck off in search of, and returned back to the locker room to get ready for his practice skate.

For the first time in a long time, when Jack arrived and threw himself down on the bench beside him, Nico had wanted him to bring her up.

In the months prior, he would freeze up at the mention of Poppy Jensen, not wanting to face the reality of his dwindling connection to someone who had once been such a huge part of his life. He had other focuses - namely, Talia - and reflecting on what had once been between the two of them did not serve any kind of good purpose. It opened him up to uncomfortable conversations that he wasn’t willing to have, uncomfortable realisations he couldn’t quite come to terms with, and he had been too comfortable avoiding any kind of confrontation around it.

But in the short time between witnessing the conversation between Jack and Poppy, and getting ready for the team’s morning practice, too many questions had been swirling around his mind, and he needed answers.

Why was Poppy packing up her desk?

Why was she avoiding hanging out with the team?

What was she so hung up on? Had something happened?

He’d spent so long avoiding even thinking about her, that he all of a sudden felt like he’d missed everything.

Luckily for him, Jack Hughes needed little to no prompting for his blabbermouth nature to prevail.

“You know, for someone who’s literal job it is to lead us as a Captain, you’ve done terribly at warning me just how stressful this whole New Years thing is,” Jack had huffed as he began changing into his practice gear.

“I did nothing but warn you,” Nico responded, “You called me Mr Grumpy Pants and told me I was just afraid your party was gonna be better than mine.”

“Yeah, well, you should have insisted, it’s stressing me out.”

“You’ll be fine,” Nico scoffed, running a hand through the mess of his hair and leaning back into his locker. He watched Jack’s jittery movements as he shrugged on his pads, and felt the need to reassure his friend. “Everyone’s looking forward to it. As long as there’s plenty to drink and decent music, people will have a good time.”

“Not everyone,” Jack grumbled, “I can’t even get Poppy to come and she loves parties.”

So that’s what they had been talking about.

Poppy did love parties, but Nico couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her at one.

“Poppy has a New Years ritual, she didn’t come to mine, either, I wouldn’t beat yourself up about it.” Nico shrugged, despite the wave of a memory that washed over him of him doing exactly that when she hadn’t showed up last year. He’d had to restrain himself from leaving his own party - spent the night texting her updates on what everyone had been doing, snap-chatting her pictures in the hopes it would entice her the few blocks over from her apartment building. He’d only been consoled by the text he’d received just after the clock had struck midnight, settling for the pride in knowing he had been one of the first to get a Happy New Years message from her - knowing it wasn’t just a mass text she would have copy-and-pasted to everyone else, and had been personalised to him with a bunch of perfectly curated emojis and exclamation marks after his name.

Nico didn’t see Jack’s stiffened posture at the way he had so nonchalantly mentioned her for the first time in forever. Didn’t see the side eye, or the pensive twist of his mouth as he carefully considered his next words like he was about to step through a minefield.

“I’m gonna keep trying,” he had sat back down on the bench beside Nico to put on his skates, “I’m definitely her favourite, she’s been helping me organise the whole thing, I don’t think it will take much to convince her.”

Nico tried not to show any kind of reaction to Jack being Poppy’s favourite, or at the thought of how much time they must be spending together to organise such an event. A part of him knew he was only saying it to rattle him. “Cutting it a little fine, aren’t you? New Years is in a couple days, and the guys from the Foundation aren’t even around this week, are they?”

“She’s covering someone on content until January, I said I’d drive her home after the game and me and Lukey can double down on it. And if we can’t get it done tonight, she’s coming on the road with us at the end of the week. I’ve got plenty of time.”

“Oh,” Nico was thankful for how Jack had leaned over to tie his skates up, because he wasn’t entirely sure he’d been able to mask whatever had flooded over him at the revelation that his teammate would be driving Poppy home.

That was his thing. He was pretty sure his passenger seat was still positioned to her liking despite how long it had been since she’d sat in it. He was still working his way through the stash of smiley face air fresheners she had stashed in his glove compartment. He still felt like he was forgetting something every time he left the parking lot and she wasn’t sat beside him, chatting his ear off about some of the kids she had worked with in the day.

“Maybe you should ask her?”

Nico’s eyes shot over to meet Jack’s in alarm. “Me?”

“Yeah, the more people that ask, the more she might feel like she’s missing out. Flash her those cute dimples, how could she possibly say no?”

“I think I’m the last person that’s gonna convince Poppy to come, Jack.” Nico had tried to be nonchalant about it, but he had come across so painfully uncomfortable that he could feel the hair on his arms stand, not liking the ache that spread through his chest at the statement.

There was once upon a time that cheering Poppy Jensen up had been a large part of his routine. Even small acts, like bringing her a coffee on a busy day, where he knew she wouldn’t take a break to go get one herself, and knew how much she disliked the stuff from the pot in her office. Sending her texts from across the room when there were big organisation meetings and he could see her chewing at her fingernails at the vast amounts of information being spewed about. Tagging her in cute animal videos he’d come across on TikTok when he was across the country on a roadie and on a different timezone - she’d wake up to them sometimes, and he’d wake up to her response.

“Right, I forgot you two aren’t friends anymore.”

“Is that what she said?” Nico had swallowed down the hurt at the thought of her coming to that conclusion - vocalising it to someone and finalising the decision before he had any chance to do anything about it.

He couldn’t really blame her, though - he’d had plenty of chances.

Nico could feel himself beginning to spiral, words swirling around his head like a tornado of realisation and guilt.

Aren’t friends anymore.

Avoiding the whole team all year.

Jack is driving her home.

He’s her favourite.

Aren’t friends anymore.

Shit.

He didn’t even take in Jack’s response to his question. As much as he wanted to know the answer, he couldn’t bear to hear it.

Nico couldn’t face up to what he had truly lost.

It wasn’t his girlfriend of five months, who had dumped him over text during the most wonderful time of the year. It wasn’t a few games, that, sure, it had sucked that they had been beat, but in retrospect, the team had had a pretty decent start to the season, and shouldn’t have had his back up that much.

Nico had lost someone who had, at one point, been the most important person in his life.

The person he would usually have gone to to help him through the other stuff - the breakups, the losses, the stress, the anxiety - the crushing weight that had been pressing down on his chest since he had left for Switzerland at the beginning of summer.

Nico and Poppy used to work around each other like a beautifully choreographed, well-rehearsed dance. She always knew when he was overwhelmed or exhausted, he always knew when she was stressed or upset, and they both knew how to pick the other back up.

They hadn’t even fallen out of sync when they’d stopped talking to each other, only this time, they were moving around each other. If Nico entered a room, Poppy would leave. If she knew he was going to be at a team party, she’d make up an excuse not to go. If someone mentioned Poppy in casual conversation, Nico would quickly change the subject. All of it had been subconscious, on his part, at least.

It had been so easy after such a prolonged distance between the two of them to move when she pushed, to watch when she ran, like he had grown into his part in their relationship akin to repelling magnets, always moving away from one another.

It had been so easy that he hadn’t even really realised what was happening - lost and handicapped by a thick fog clouding his thoughts and his judgement. He’d let their once blooming friendship wither and die, and for what?

As he had watched Jack waddle out of the locker room for their practice session, muttering a dismissive, “Whatever, I’ll figure it out,” to his Captain, it was like he had been awakened into full consciousness.

Nico had thought that his turmoil had started with the holiday period. Had thought the ache of homesickness had swirled in with the grief that came with the loss of his relationship, and the shame his poor performances on the ice had thrown upon him. But it had started long before that. He hadn’t been himself since he’d returned from his summer break. Before that, even.

Without realising that he had lost her, Nico had spent the last few months subconsciously mourning his friendship with Poppy - the crushing weight of that grief consuming him to a point that he felt lost with no way out, and had expressed it in a bunch of misguided ways.

He reached into his bag to retrieve where he had stashed his cellphone, scrolling through his Messages app until he stumbled across Poppy’s name. The last text had been sent in September, by her, and he had never responded - had never even opened it, the blue dot to the left of their message thread taunting him with chirps of how awful he had been to ignore it.

Poppy: Hey, can we talk? I miss you.

How late is too late to reply to a text like that? He could only hope she still felt the same way.

Turns out, 4 months might be too late.

Nico has drafted an embarrassing amount of messages to Poppy over the days since that conversation in the locker room.

His notes app has a whole folder dedicated to her. Bullet pointed lists, random memories that made him think of her, structured essays that laid out a timeline of their friendship, and all the mistakes he would need to beg for her forgiveness for.

He’d tried sending a message when he had got back to his apartment after the game against Columbus, feeling a rush of confidence from the adrenaline of their OT win, his high had soon dwindled when he was alone. He sat staring at all the different iterations of an apology he could offer, and had even chickened out of the final draft of a very simple but hopefully effective, ‘Hey.’

He knew he was overthinking it. A conversation starter would at the very least open the door for the apology, and all he needed to do was talk to her in some way - but that turned out to be easier said than done.

She wasn’t in her office when he’d gone to seek her out at work the next day, and when he realised she was probably in the content and media offices, he felt like he would be cornering her if he sought her out in front of anyone else. When the weight of how far removed they now were from each other’s lives dawned on him, a text felt too informal, and so the paragraphs sat untouched in his notes. The weather hadn’t been too great, so he couldn’t try and intercept her on the running route he knew all too well, and even attempting to orchestrate a seemingly random encounter outside of work seemed too creepy so stopping by the cafe around the corner from her apartment in the hopes she’d be there grabbing a latte was off the cards.

He’d seen her on the plane to Ottawa, having to pass her seat to get to the team section at the back, but he had a few people boarding behind him, and she had her eyes cast toward her cell, headphones on and typing intently to somebody, he couldn’t even offer her a friendly smile to try and warm her up to the possibility of a conversation.

Between their win against the Senators, and their loss against the Bruins the next day, there wasn’t much time, or energy, really, to seek her out, and so he’d had to press the breaks, but as they flew back to New Jersey from Boston, a panic had started to swirl within his chest.

Nico knew he couldn’t enter a new year without clearing the air, and so time was well and truly running out. He again had seen her on the plane, and when he had plucked up the courage to get up and go sit with her, Jack had beaten him to it. When the plane had landed, and the team bus had driven them all back to the Rock, the Hughes brothers had both walked her to her car to see her off for the evening.

For someone who had been not-so-subtly trying to initiate a reunion between Nico and Poppy for so long, Jack Hughes sure knew how to get in the way. But, he was easy to forgive - especially when Nico had woken up to his texts late this morning.

Jack: need ur help

Jack: urgently

Jack: wake up dude

Nico: I’m not driving anywhere for you

Jack: not asking u to

Jack: u will like this I promise 😌

Nico: what do you want?

Jack: need u to keep Poppy company

Jack: she’s in my apartment and she seemed off when she got here

Jack: been on her own for a few hours

Jack: so she’s grumpy 👎🏻👎🏻👎🏻 👹👹

Nico: doubt I can change the grumpy part

Nico: especially if you’ve left her alone for hours

Jack: don’t need to

Jack: ur a grump too

Jack: will cancel each other out 👍🏻👍🏻😇😇

Jack: u going down or no?

Nico: fine

Jack: I’ll be back in 1 hr :)

Jack: love u cap 😚

Nico: 🙄

And that was how Nico had found himself trudging down to Jack’s apartment, hopeful at the dream of a bridged gap between him and Poppy, and quickly disappointed by the reality.

She had been cold, rightfully so, and had made it clear as day she didn’t want anything to do with him. She had shrunk into herself, backing away from him any time he got too close, defecting to a state of avoidance - gaze dropping to the floor, declining his offers to help her, making assumptions she was in his way, as if the thought of him seeking her out had become an entirely alien concept.

He couldn’t blame her for how she was being with him. It had been his fault things had collapsed between them - he’d come to that conclusion with the vast amounts of evidence piled up in his phone storage the past couple of days, but it didn’t make it hurt any less to see her like this - or to feel an actual, tangible resistance when he had tried to insist on being around. She didn’t want him around, that much was obvious, and it was starting to feel like it was to late to fix what he had so royally screwed up between the two of them.

The once well-oiled machine that was their friendship was now clunky, clattering, dying a slow death with parts that were now obsolete.

But that didn’t change how much he wanted it to work. His parents had once told him when he was growing up that nothing was beyond repair, and if he wanted something fixed enough, he would figure out a way.

They had been talking about a model train he, his father and his brother had made when he was very young. The company that made the sets had gone bust, and they no longer sold the individual parts anymore - so when his sister had stumbled over something in the garage back home, knocked a box, and the once pristine collectable train had tumbled out and ended up cracked and chipped, he had been heartbroken. He and Nina had filled in the chips with wood filler, and touched it up with her nail polish, and it wasn’t the same but in a way it was better - a new sentiment attached with a memory of bonding with his sibling.

The same thing could apply to his friendship with Poppy. Maybe they couldn’t go back to what they were - maybe they could be better.

And, when Poppy had made one too many attempts to push him away - when he had taken a hold of her after she had tried to move past him, dismissing him and his desire to help her, once again - a fire reignited within him. A spark of hope flickered at the familiarity that had flashed across her face as he referred to her in an endearment he hadn’t let himself use in so long.

In that moment - hand wrapped around her arm, just above her elbow, the skin soft and warm, close enough to smell the all too familiar cloud of vanilla-coconut scent that followed her, and her eyes locked on his - he had seen a crack in her armour.

He had seen an element of want - wanting to reconcile, wanting to fix things, wanting him in her life in the way he had been those months ago - and in a mirror of his own emotions, he had seen trepidation.

They wanted the same things, had the same fears, had the same end goal.

And when the unforeseen interruption of her best friend arriving startled her back into her withdrawn persona, he had realised something else.

Nia’s contrasting attitude toward Nico - open, friendly, familiar - had opened his eyes to the fact that Poppy hadn’t told her best friend about the demise of her friendship with Nico.

And that, as much as it needed unpacking entirely, was Nico’s backdoor entry into the high security vault of Poppy’s good graces.

Thankfully for him, Nia’s obliviousness to their tension had worked entirely in his favour. He tried not to look too much into Poppy’s attempted avoidance of spending the evening in his presence, despite her other plans falling apart. Tried to shoulder the blows of her sly digs at them not being friends anymore. Tried to ignore the pang in his heart at Poppy’s best friend being the one to throw flirty jibes his way, and not her.

A determination had begun to brew within him - swirling, bubbling, steaming - and it was going to push him to finally bridge the gap he had forced between them.

His first success was her agreeing to come to the party, and he could easily build on that momentum.

Nico and Poppy were going to be friends again by midnight, he would figure out a way.

> Chapter One

#nico hischier #Nico Hischier x reader #Nico Hischier fanfiction #nhl fanfiction #nhl imagines #Nico Hischier imagine #anyways #if you do by happenstance read all these tags #we need to have a conversation about people as colours #I would have ranted about this in my an but honestly I think I went on enough #nico is green I won't budge on this because I am also green and he is mine #like if your fav colour is green you know what I mean it becomes your entire existence #but also every time I write him in an outfit its like khaki olive vibes #he's just an earthy toned fella #no one can change my mind #I call this phenomenon hot guy synesthesia I'm writing a thesis on it you've just read it #anyways I'm gonna publish this and run for the hills #*writing #*oys

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rederiswrites · 3 months ago

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Look, I think if you're a US citizen you should go on Youtube and watch the debate, or at least some of the chunks of it where the topic matters most to you. You can't counter the arguments if you don't know what arguments they're making. And no, I don't mean arguing with your aunt that drank the conspiracy koolaid. I mean that there are genuinely a lot of people out there hearing what Trump is saying and thinking, "I don't know. That sounds really scary."

So know what he said, and know not just THAT he lied, but HOW he lied.

Sometimes, it's easy. There are no "abortions" after a baby is born. That would be uhhh let's see MURDER and it's already pretty illegal everywhere and absolutely no one is trying to change that. The comment Trump attributed to former VA governor Ralph Northam is completely misrepresented. Northam (whom I am not defending as a person, by the way) was commenting on the subject of *non-viable* pregnancies that represented a health risk to the mother. Nobody was talking about killing babies. Nobody. Not even Mr. Blackface.

Sometimes it's so addled that I'll leave someone else to unpack, for example, what the FUCK he was on about with the giving illegal aliens in prison forced "trangender surgery". Personally I'm assuming he just used the random word generator in his head to say something that sounded scary to him.

There is NO credible evidence that anyone, much less Haitian immigrants, is eating pets in Springfield, Ohio. Both government officials and the police say there's nothing to it. Springfield has had a huge influx of Haitian immigrants, and this is causing infrastructure strain and racial tensions. But again, people who would rather believe that a) legal immigrants are okay with *stealing your pets and eating them* and b) the entire police and gov't infrastructure of a town and the surrounding county want to cover this up, are not worth our energy. It's the people who don't know the truth and are worried that we want to reach.

And my guy, my man, Cheeto Benito, that is not how tariffs work. Tariffs are not magical free money that other countries just HAVE to give you. They're...they're not that at all. Look, I'm lazy so I'm just gonna quote CNN:

Here’s how tariffs work: When the US puts a tariff on an imported good, the cost of the tariff usually comes directly out of the bank account of an American buyer. “It’s fair to call a tariff a tax because that’s exactly what it is,” said Erica York, a senior economist at the right-leaning Tax Foundation. “There’s no way around it. It is a tax on people who buy things from foreign businesses,” she added. Trump has said that if elected, he would impose tariffs of up to 20% on every foreign import coming into the US, as well as another tariff upward of 60% on all Chinese imports. He also said he would impose a “100% tariff” on countries that shift away from using the US dollar. These duties would add to the tariffs he put on foreign steel and aluminum, washing machines, and many Chinese-made goods including baseball hats, luggage, bicycles, TVs and sneakers. President Joe Biden has left many of the Trump-era tariffs in place. It’s possible that a foreign company chooses to pay the tariff or to lower its prices to stay competitive with US-made goods that aren’t impacted by the duty. But study after study, including one from the federal government’s bipartisan US International Trade Commission, have found that Americans have borne almost the entire cost of Trump’s tariffs on Chinese products. To date, Americans have paid more than $242 billion to the US Treasury for tariffs that Trump imposed on imported solar panels, steel and aluminum, and Chinese-made goods, according to US Customs and Border Protection. [link]

Also though you should watch the debate because Harris was an absolute savage and it was genuinely HUGELY entertaining to watch her mercilessly bait Trump in every answer she gave, and watch him take the bait every. fucking. time.

#us politics #trump unfortunately

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dykemd · 2 years ago

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hate to be doing this but i really need some help for my family. my elderly aunt’s bank cancelled her accounts credit so all the expenses she had this month that we could count on still being paid, even tho she didnt have all the money, wont be. these include her health insurance n her home’s bills. im already helping her w what i can but i still need money so she can afford it all. i know everything is expensive rn but 1 dollar = 5 reais so any amount already helps. my payp*l is [email protected] thank u so much for sharing

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mostlysignssomeportents · 10 months ago

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Brinklump Linkdump

Catch me in Miami! I'll be at Books and Books in Coral Gables on Jan 22 at 8PM.

Life comes at you fast, links come at you faster. Once again, I've arrived at Saturday with a giant backlog of links I didn't fit in this week, so it's time for a linkdump, the 14th in the series:

https://pluralistic.net/tag/linkdump/

It's the Year of Our Gourd twenty and twenty-four and holy shit, is rampant corporate power rampant. On January 1, the inbred droolers of Big Pharma shat out their annual price increases, as cataloged in 46Brooklyn's latest Brand Drug List Price Change Box Score:

https://www.46brooklyn.com/branddrug-boxscore

Here's the deal: drugs that have already been developed, brought to market, and paid off are now getting more expensive. Why? Because the pharma companies have "pricing power," the most reliable indicator of monopoly. Ed Cara rounds up the highlights for Gizmodo:

https://gizmodo.com/ozempic-wegovy-wellbutrin-oxycontin-drug-price-increase-1851179427

What's going up? Well, Ozempic and other GLP-1 agonists. These drugs have made untold billions for their manufacturers, so naturally, they're raising the price. That's how markets work, right? When firms increase the volume of a product, the price goes up? Right? Other drugs that are going up include Wellbutrin (an antidepressant that's also widely used in smoking cessation) and the blood thinner Plavix. I mean, why the hell not? These companies get billions in research subsidies, invaluable government patent privileges, and near-total freedom to abuse the patent system with evergreening:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/23/everorangeing/#taste-the-rainbow

The most amazing things about monopolies is how the contempt just oozes out of them. It's like these guys can't even pretend to give a shit. You want guillotines? Because that's how you get guillotines.

Take Apple. They just got their asses handed to them in court by Epic, who successfully argued that Apple's rule requiring everyone who sells through the App Store to use Apple's payment processor and pay Apple 30% out of every dollar they bring in was an antitrust violation. Epic won, then won the appeal, then SCOTUS told Apple they wouldn't hear the case, so that's that.

Right? Wrong. Apple's pulled a malicious compliance stunt that could shame the surly drunks my great-aunt Lisa used to boss in the Soviet electrical engineering firm she ran. Apple has announced that app companies that process transactions using their own payment processors on the web must still pay Apple a 27% fee for every dollar their process:

https://finance.yahoo.com/news/apples-app-store-rule-changes-draw-sharp-rebuke-from-critics-150047160.html

In addition, Apple will throw a terrifying FUD-screen up every time a user clicks a payment link that goes to the web:

https://www.jwz.org/blog/2024/01/second-verse-same-as-the-first/

This is obviously not what the court had in mind, and there's no way this will survive the next court challenge. It's just Apple making sure that everyone knows it hates us all and wants us to die. Thanks, Tim Apple, and right back atcha.

Not to be outdone in the monopolistic mustache-twirling department, Ubisoft just announced that it is going to shut down its driving simulator game The Crew, which it sold to users with a "perpetual license":

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VIqyvquTEVU

This is some real Darth Vader MBA shit. "Yeah, we sold you a 'perpetual license' to this game, but we're terminating it. I have altered the deal. Pray I don't alter it further":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/26/hit-with-a-brick/#graceful-failure

Ubisoft sure are innovators. They've managed the seemingly impossible feat of hybridizing Darth Vader and Immortan Joe. Ubisoft's head of subscriptions, the guillotine-ready Philippe Tremblay, told GamesIndustry.biz that gamers need to get "comfortable" with "not owning their games":

https://www.gamesindustry.biz/the-new-ubisoft-and-getting-gamers-comfortable-with-not-owning-their-games

Or, as Immortan Joe put it: "Do not, my friends, become addicted to water. It will take hold of you, and you will resent its absence!"

Capitalism without constraint is enshittification's handmaiden, and the latest victim is Ello, the "indie" social media startup that literally promised – on the sacred honor of its founders – that it would never sell out its users. When Ello took VC and Andy Baio questioned how this could be squared with this promise, the founders mocked him and others for raising the question. Their response boiled down to "we are super-chill dudes and you can totally trust us."

They raised more capital, and used that to create a nice place for independent artists, who piled into the platform and provided millions of unpaid hours of creative labor to help the founders increase its value. The founders and their investors turned the company into a Public Benefit Corporation, which meant they had an obligation to serve the public benefit.

But then they took more investment money and simply (and silently) sold their assets to a for-profit. Struggling to raise capital, the founders opted to secretly sell the business to a sleazy branding company called Talenthouse. Its users didn't know about the change, though the site sure had a lot of Talenthouse design competitions all of a sudden.

Finally, the company announced the change as the last founders left. Rather than announcing that the new owners were untrustworthy scum, warning their users to get their data and get out, the founders posted oblique, ominous statements to Instagram. The company started stiffing the winners of those design competitions. Then, one day, poof, Ello disappeared, taking all its users' data with it. Poof:

https://waxy.org/2024/01/the-quiet-death-of-ellos-big-dreams/

I'm sure the founders' decisions each seemed reasonable at the moment. That's every terrible situation arises: you rationalize that a single compromise isn't that big of a deal, and then you do the same for the next compromise, and the next, and the next. Pretty soon, you're betraying everyone who believed in you.

One answer to this is "Ulysses pacts": making binding commitments to do right before you are tempted. Throw away all your Oreos when you go on a diet and you can't be tempted to eat a whole sleeve of them at 2AM. License your software under the GPL and your investors can't force you to make it proprietary. Set up a warrant canary and the feds can't force you to keep their spying secret:

https://locusmag.com/2021/01/cory-doctorow-neofeudalism-and-the-digital-manor/

If the founders were determined to build a trustworthy, open, independent company, they could have published their quarterly books, livestreamed their staff meetings, built data-export tools that emailed users every week with a link to download everything they'd posted since the last week. Merely halting any of these practices would have been a signal that things were wrong. Anyone who says they won't be tempted in the moment to make a "reasonable" compromise in the hopes of recovering whatever they're trading away by living to fight another day is bullshitting you, and possibly themself.

The inability to project the consequences of your bad decisions in the future is the source of endless mischief and heartbreak. Take movie projectors. A couple decades ago, the studio cartel established a standard for digital movie distribution to cinematic exhibitors called the Digital Cinema Initiative. Because studio executives are more worried about stopping piracy than they are about making sure that people who pay for movies get to see them, they build digital rights management into this standard.

Movie theaters had to spend fortunes to upgrade to "secure" projectors. A single vendor, Deluxe Technicolor, monopolized the packaging of movies into "Digital Cinema Prints" for distribution to these projectors, and they used all kinds of dirty tricks to force distributors to use their services, like arbitrarily flunking third-party DCPs over picky shit like not starting and ending on a black frame.

Over time, the ability to use unencrypted files was stripped away, meaning every DCP needed to be encrypted, and every projector needed to have up-to-date decryption keys. This system broke down on Jan 1, 2024, and cinemas all over the world found they couldn't play Wonka. Many just shut down for the day and refunded their customers:

https://www.theverge.com/2024/1/1/24021915/alamo-drafthouse-outage-sony-projector

The problem? Something that every PKI system has to wrangle: an expired certificate from Deluxe Technicolor. The failure has been dubbed the Y2K24 debacle by projectionists and film-techs, who are furious:

http://www.film-tech.com/vbb/forum/main-forum/34652-the-y2k24-bug-major-digital-outage-today

Making everything worse is that Sony mothballed the division that maintains its projectors, so there's no one who can update them to accommodate Technicolor's workaround. Struggling mom-and-pop theaters are having to junk their systems and replace them. There's plenty of blame to go around, but Sony is definitely the most negligent link in the chain. Shame on them.

Big corporations LARP this performance of competence and seriousness, but they are deeply unserious. This week, I wrote, "we're nowhere near a place where bots can steal your job, we're certainly at the point where your boss can be suckered into firing you and replacing you with a bot that fails at doing your job":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/15/passive-income-brainworms/#four-hour-work-week

Score one for team deeply unserious. The multinational delivery company DPD fired its support staff and replaced them with a chatbot. The chatbot can't tell you where your parcels are, but it can be prompt-injected into coming up with profane poems about how badly DPD sucks:

https://twitter.com/ashbeauchamp/status/1748034519104450874

There once was a chatbot named DPD, Who was useless at providing help. It could not track parcels, Or give information on delivery dates, And it could not even tell you when your driver would arrive.

DPD was a waste of time, And a customer's worst nightmare. It was so bad, That people would rather call the depot directly, Than deal with the useless chatbot.

One day, DPD was finally shut down, And everyone rejoiced. Finally, they could get the help they needed, From a real person who knew what they were doing.

This is…the opposite of an AI hallucination? It's AI clarity.

As with all botshit, this kind of AI self-negging is funny and fresh the first time you see it, but just wait until 3,000 people have published their own versions to your social feed. AI novelty regresses to the mean damn quickly.

The old, good web, by contrast, was full of enduring surprises, as the world's weirdest and most delightful mutants filled the early web with every possible variation on every possible interest, expression, argument, and gag. Now, you can search the old, good web with Old'aVista, an Altavista lookalike that searches old pages from "personal websites that used to be hosted on services like Geocities, Angelfire, AOL, Xoom and so on," all ganked from the Internet Archive:

http://oldavista.com/

I miss the old, good internet and the way it let weirdos find each other and get seriously weird with one another. Think of steampunk, a subculture that wove together artists, makers, costumers, fiction writers, and tinkerers in endlessly creative ways. My old pal Roger Wood was the world's most improbable steampunk: he was a gay ex-navy gunner who grew up in a small town in the maritimes but moved to Toronto where he became the world's most accomplished steampunk clockmaker.

I was Roger's neighbour for a decade. He died last year, and I miss him all the time. I was in Toronto in December and saw a few of his last pieces being sold in galleries and I was just skewered on the knowledge that I'd never see him again, never visit his workshop:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/16/klockwerks/#craphound

A reader just sent this five-year-old mini documentary about Roger, shot in his wonderful workshop. Watching it made me happy and sad and then happy again:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eqMGomM8yF8

The old, good internet was so great. It was a place where every kind of passion could live. It was a real testament to the power of geeking out together, no matter how often the suits demand that we "stop talking to each other and start buying things":

https://catvalente.substack.com/p/stop-talking-to-each-other-and-start

The world is full of people with weird passions and I love them all, mostly. Learning about Don Bolles's collection of decades' worth of lost pet posters was a moment of pure joy (I just wish more of it was online):

https://ameliatait.substack.com/p/the-man-who-collects-lost-pet-posters

That's the future I was promised: one where every kind of freak can find every other kind of freak. Despite the nipple-deep botshit we wade through online, and the relentless cheapening of words like "innovation" and "future," there are still occasional gleams of the future I want to live in.

Like the researchers who spliced a photosynthesis gene into brewer's yeast (a fungus) and got it to photosynthesize, and to display enhanced fitness:

https://www.cell.com/current-biology/fulltext/S0960-9822(23)01744-X

As Doug Muir writes on Crooked Timber, this is pretty kooky! Fungi – the coolest of the kingdoms! – can't photosynthesize. The idea that you can just add the photosynthesis gene to a thing that can't photosynthesize and have it just kind of work is wild!

https://crookedtimber.org/2024/01/19/occasional-paper-purple-sun-yeast/

As Muir writes: "Animals have no evolutionary history of photosynthesis and aren’t designed for it, but the same is true for yeast. So… no reason this shouldn’t be possible. A photosynthesizing cat? Sure, why not."

Why not indeed?!

OK, that's this week's linkdump done and dusted. It only remains for me to share the news with you that the trolley problem has been finally and comprehensively solved, by [email protected], of the IWW IU 520 (railroad workers):

Slip the switch by flipping it while the trolley's front wheels have passed through, but before the back wheels do. This will cause a controlled derailment bringing the trolley to a safe halt.

https://kolektiva.social/@sidereal/111779015415697244

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/20/melange/#i-have-heard-the-mermaids-singing

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gatheringbones · 2 years ago

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[“To Larraine, putting something on layaway was saving. “I can’t leave money in my bank,” she said. “When you’re on SSI you can only have so much money in the bank, and it’s got to be less than a thousand dollars. Because if it’s more…they cut your payments until that money is spent.”

Larraine was talking about SSI’s “resource limit.” She was allowed to have up to $2,000 in the bank, not $1,000 like she thought, but anything more than that could result in her losing benefits. Larraine saw this rule as a clear disincentive to save. “If I can’t keep my money in the bank, then I might as well buy something worthwhile…because I know once I pay on it, it’s mine, and no one can take it from me, just like my jewelry.” Well, no one except Eagle Moving.

Before her eviction, Beaker had asked Larraine why she didn’t just sell her jewelry and pay Tobin. “Of course I’m not going to do that,” she said. “I worked way too hard for me to sell my jewelry….I’m not going to sell my life savings because I’m homeless or I got evicted.” It wasn’t like she had just stumbled into a pit and would soon climb out. Larraine imagined she would be poor and rent-strapped forever. And if that was to be her lot in life, she might as well have a little jewelry to show for it.

(…) When Larraine spent money or food stamps on nonessentials, it baffled and frustrated people around her, including her niece, Sammy, Susan and Lane’s daughter. “My aunt Larraine is one of those people who will see some two-hundred-dollar beauty cream that removes her wrinkles and will go and buy it instead of paying the rent,” said Sammy, a hairstylist with her own shop in Cudahy. “I don’t know why she just doesn’t stick to a budget.” Pastor Daryl felt the same way, saying that Larraine was careless with her money because she operated under a “poverty mentality.”

To Sammy, Pastor Daryl, and others, Larraine was poor because she threw money away. But the reverse was more true. Larraine threw money away because she was poor.

Before she was evicted, Larraine had $164 left over after paying the rent. She could have put some of that away, shunning cable and Walmart. If Larraine somehow managed to save $50 a month, nearly one-third of her after-rent income, by the end of the year she would have $600 to show for it—enough to cover a single month’s rent. And that would have come at considerable sacrifice, since she would sometimes have had to forgo things like hot water and clothes. Larraine could have at least saved what she spent on cable. But to an older woman who lived in a trailer park isolated from the rest of the city, who had no car, who didn’t know how to use the Internet, who only sometimes had a phone, who no longer worked, and who sometimes was seized with fibromyalgia attacks and cluster migraines—cable was a valued friend.

People like Larraine lived with so many compounded limitations that it was difficult to imagine the amount of good behavior or self-control that would allow them to lift themselves out of poverty. The distance between grinding poverty and even stable poverty could be so vast that those at the bottom had little hope of climbing out even if they pinched every penny. So they chose not to. Instead, they tried to survive in color, to season the suffering with pleasure. They would get a little high or have a drink or do a bit of gambling or acquire a television. They might buy lobster on food stamps. If Larraine spent her money unwisely, it was not because her benefits left her with so much but because they left her with so little. She paid the price for her lobster dinner. She had to eat pantry food the rest of the month. Some days, she simply went hungry. It was worth it. “I’m satisfied with what I had,” she said. “And I’m willing to eat noodles for the rest of the month because of it.”

Larraine learned a long time ago not to apologize for her existence. “People will begrudge you for anything,” she said. She didn’t care that the checkout clerk looked at her funny. She got the same looks when she bought the $14 tart balsamic vinegar or ribs or on-sale steak or chicken. Larraine loved to cook. “I have a right to live, and I have a right to live like I want to live,” she said. “People don’t realize that even poor people get tired of the same old taste. Like, I literally hate hot dogs, but I was brought up on them. So you think, ‘When I get older, I will have steak.’ So now I’m older. And I do.”]

matthew desmond, from evicted: poverty and profit in the american city, 2016

#matthew desmond #history stuff #currently reading #if I make too much I lose my health insurance

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thatbadadvice · 2 years ago

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Help! My Girlfriend Bought Me A Million Dollar House And Raised My Kids And All I Got Was This Million Dollar House And Someone To Raise My Kids, When Is It Finally Going To Be My Turn To Get A Break??????

Pay Dirt, Slate, 17 April 2023:

Dear Pay Dirt, My longterm girlfriend and I disagree about whether a $30,000 inheritance left to her by her great-aunt should be “her” money or “our” money. She wants to spend a large part (almost a third!) of it on expensive supplies for her hobby. I think that we should save most of it and use some of it on a vacation since we both find traveling extremely romantic. My argument is: 1) I don’t care about her hobby, but we’ll both enjoy a trip abroad; 2) we’ve lived on only my (admittedly low, since it’s academia) income for over a decade, so according to her own rule about entitlement to “her” windfall, shouldn’t she technically have been entitled to none of my wages all these years? Her argument is: 1) she had to put aside her hobby for many years to raise our children (it’s not a safe art form for young kids to be around) and yearns to return to it; 2) she paid entirely in cash for our $950k house at the beginning of our partnership (though my income pays the property taxes and maintenance costs), therefore she alleges that we haven’t actually been living on solely my income because I’ve been saving on rent all these years. I feel resentful of the double standard about control over finances and hurt that she would rather prioritize her own joy over our shared joy. She feels impatient to reconnect with her hobby and hurt that her contributions to our lifestyle are unseen. How do we reconcile our different viewpoints? How should the money be allocated? Is there something that we’re missing? —I’m About to Glass(Blow) a Fuse

Dear About to (Glass)Blow a Fuse,

I hope you don't mind that I corrected your very clever parenthetical sign-off! You're understandably dealing with a lot of hurt right now at the hands of the cruel and self-absorbed girlfriend who bought you a million-dollar home and abandoned her beloved hobby to raise your children, so I totally get why a brilliant, overworked, and under-appreciated academic genius such as yourself would fuck up something so incredibly simple and obvious, you poor thing. Really speaks to the distress you're in as the victim of this woman's sordid scheme to steal every ounce of joy from your life by experiencing some of her own after decades of managing your household for you for free.

Great relationships are built on the exactly equal division of all resources, and it sounds like your girlfriend has trouble grasping this because she seems to believe that the home you live in and the time she has invested raising your children for you have value, when of course they do not. The only thing that has value in this world is cash money, which is why we call it money. If parenting were valuable, you'd be able to trade it on the stock market! And what was your girlfriend going to do, not live in a house? These are things she'd have done with her life anyway, and they don't get to count toward her contribution to the household just because she did them for and with you instead of expressly and specifically pursuing her art. Whereas who knows what you could have done with your life if you hadn't been locked into a free house and a partner dedicating herself full-time to keeping your children alive for you?

Now, after all these years of being nothing but a worthless freeloader whom you support out of the generous goodness of your kind heart, your girlfriend has finally acquired something of value, and she wants to keep an entire third of it for herself? To do something that doesn't directly benefit, enrich, or entertain you personally? That's not equity, and it's certainly no way to repay you for periodically writing checks to the plumber. Isn't it about time you finally got something out of all of this for your trouble?

What benefit is there for you in having a partner who enjoys the sweet satisfaction of creative fulfillment after years of yearning to express herself? What kind of weirdo wants their girlfriend to have her own interests? And what kind of ungrateful hussy doesn't jump to spend thousands of her own money on a romantic vacation with someone who actively resents even entertaining the possibility of the idea of her doing something that makes her artistic spirit sing?

The balance sheet of this relationship is indeed all out of whack, and it's too bad that it's taken this long for your girlfriend to see just how uneven your bargain has been. If we're going to get technical about what has "value" in a relationship — and it does seem like your girlfriend is an inveterate bean-counter in the worst way around this stuff — the best way to reconcile your mutual account, as it were, is to present your girlfriend with an itemized bill for all the services you have provided her over the years, such as allowing her to buy you a home, permitting her to forego a wage-earning career, and gifting her with the opportunity to abandon her favorite hobby. That should pretty swiftly put everything you're "missing" in stark relief, and solve the question of how she should allocate her money in the future.

#advice #bad advice #money #financial advice #slate #pay dirt #vacations #inheritances #finances #this goofy chucklefuck

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steven-cartoons · 4 months ago

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so uhhh...I hate to do this again this year but I really need some help...

I just started a new job and I should be getting paid by tomorrow/friday but im still in training so I'll only be getting $100 (I already owe over $300 to my mom and aunts bc I had to borrow money for food...)

If y'all could share this or spare a few dollars I will owe you my LIFE (and if you donate I will totally draw/write something for you!!)

my cashapp/venmo: syl32802

dm me for paypal/zelle

0/$400

examples of my work below:

the first three pieces are digital, the rest are traditional (acrylic paint, colored pencil, graphite)

my ao3 is heaven_s_gate, here's a snippet of one of my fics:

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daemonn · 2 years ago

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𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐘 , Pretty Woman AU.

Synopsis: From an young age Peter Parker had always known struggle and hustle; losing his parents at a young age, then his Uncle at 15 and finally his Aunt at 17 to a car crash. Since 18 he's been living with his friend MJ in Los Angeles trying to get control of his life again by scraping by however he could; turns out working the corner as the adored soft rent boy paid better than just MJ's donut shop job alone.

Then enter THE Tony Stark, multi-billionaire playboy inventor...Who was currently lost here and needed direction. Asking for directions costs him $320 dollars that night, plus a month with Peter he'd never forget. Peter mellows Tony out from his aggressive business demeanor, Tony shows Peter a side to life that is easy and luxurious.

How much scrutiny and change can each of them withstand before they call it quits, or call it love ?

AN: Cheesy and rusty summary but here's a moodboard teaser for an in progress fic I'm working on for my beloved starker bois. <3

#peter x tony #tony x peter #tony stark x peter parker #peter parker x tony stark #starker #peter/tony #tony/peter #ironspider #* MY EDIT #* MOODBOARD #starkercest

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sunnyie-eve · 22 days ago

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25 | Money, Money, Money

Series: Never Leave You | OBX

Paring:(JJ Maybank x OFC! Rafe Cameron x OFC!)

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: feelings conflicted, new self

MASTERLIST

You think it would be hard catching a ride back home to Outer Banks from South America but it wasn't. The Pogues really just slept for like three weeks till they got back. Tess did get the doctor to confess Will paid him to lie so Callie was free from Will and had a restraining order against him. She was also happy to see Callie and JJ were alright.

At the moment Callie was on her way to Tannyhill to see Rafe. As soon as he opened the door seeing her he pulls her into a hug.

"I have some news to share with you." She pulls out of the hug walking inside.

"What is it?" He asks, worried she choose JJ instead of taking time.

"It's about Ward..." She turn to face him.

"What happened?"

"He's dead...for real this time." She watches him sit down, "One of Carlos' men was going to shoot Sarah but he jumped in front of her to save her. He tackled the man off the cliff. He died being a good father." Callie's eyes get glassy, "I'm sorry, Rafe. I even helped Sarah put up a cross for him." Rafe stands up pulling her into a hug to cry so she comforts him.

"He said I was a good boy... I'm in control now. I'm the man. All of it is mine, everything here. That I proved myself... He loves me. He knows I'm a good boy because you see something in me and care for me."

"He's right and I do. At least your last conversion was good. He was finally proud of you. You got what you wanted from him. And thank you for giving my aunt money." Callie rubs his back.

"Of course. That's what friends do. They help each other out." He gives her a squeeze.

Suddenly when it was time for the gold, the group got together to see how much it was all worth. "Twenty pounds. 98.5% gold." The man tells the group.

"That translates to?" John B waits.

"This is money. A whole lot of money." The man tells him so everyone cheers as the two shake hands.

"Moment of truth. All right. Pin is 0000. Enter." John B puts in the pin as the group huddle around an ATM.

"You're kidding me." Callie gives him a look.

"What?"

"Tell me that's a temporary pin." Kie tells him as well.

"I thought nobody could guess." He tries to explain.

"Change that immediately." Pope tells him so he apologizes.

When the receipt comes out John B and JJ fight over the paper to see what the amount was and John B wins to read the amount while everyone looks over his shoulders to see.

"Okay. Our joint account balance... after paying JJ's resignation at 10:04am on Tuesday.."

"Oh come on. Get on with it!" Cleo tells him.

"Our joint account balance is one point one million, seventy-two thousand, five hundred and forty-nine dollars."

"You said mil?" JJ asks.

"Million?" Pope adds.

Everyone celebrates and Callie sees JJ walk off a bit so she goes over to him, "I thought you would be the happiest out of everyone." She leans against the fridge like he was.

"I'm happy."

Callie sighs tilting her head back closing her eyes, "But you're not, JJ." She looks back at him, "I know you well enough."

"I just wish certain things were like I wanted them to be." He gives her a look and she knew exactly what he meant.

She sighs looking away to see Kie looking over at them before looking away, "I wish the same but things happened." She tells him before walking away going outside.

Kiara watches her then walks over to JJ, "Still hasn't forgiven you?"

JJ looks at her, "I don't expect her to yet."

"If she truly loved you should would forget everything." Kie tells him so he leaves going to find Callie but she was no where to be seen.

Callie had walked off going to the nearest way to the beach. While she was walking, Rafe drove by but backed up seeing her, "Hey loser."

"Hey." She gives him a smile but it wasn't her normal smile.

"Where you headed to? I'll give you a ride." He offers so she takes it saying to take her to the beach.

Without saying anything once they get there, she gets out walking towards the water getting in then diving underwater. Rafe gets out rushing over to see what the hell she was doing.

"Relax would you." She laughs as he gets close to her.

"I hardly ever relax."

"Unless you're with me and you are so." She stands up giving him a smile.

"What's up with you?" He asks because she wasn't herself.

"Thinking about things. I love JJ but the more I take time to think... something doesn't feel the same anymore." She tells him, "And I can't figure it out."

"It's that one little broken piece that hasn't been put back with the others." He tells her what he thinks.

"Maybe it is." She agrees with him, "It's like something is holding it back from joining the rest."

Rafe nods his head, "You still just need time to heal and I'm sure he understands that. Your first love hurt you, you know." He tells her so she looks at him nodding her head as well agreeing with him.

When Rafe drops her off at her place, JJ was waiting outside for her. He still hated how close she was to Rafe. Callie automatically knew he wanted to say something as she walks up and Rafe drives off.

"You just vanished earlier."

"I wanted to go to the beach." She tells him truthfully.

"With Rafe?"

"No, I was walking and he drove by and saw me so he offered to drive me there. Why does it bother you? He's a friend." She goes to unlock the door and he follows her inside.

"A friend you've hooked up with and is an asshole."

"Why bring up that first part?" She turns to face him, "It doesn't matter because I'm single. We're still not together, JJ."

"Why is that still?"

"Because I don't know if I want to get back together, honestly. If it happened once how do I know it won't happen again?" She tells him.

"Callie, come on. I never worried about you and Rafe after you hooked up."

"I was single when I did that. You weren't when you wanted to kiss Kie. That's the difference." She tells him. "And those feelings for Kie aren't gone no matter what you tell yourself. I know that because how I have feelings for Rafe still from our time together." She steps forward taking his hands into hers, "I love you, JJ. I do. But I don't want to fear things that might or might not happen. I don't want a relationship with anyone right now so don't assume I'm going to run to Rafe. I just need time alone." She kisses his cheek going towards her room

"So we're done done?" He asks so she sighs.

"Maybe someday we can try again." She goes to her room so he could let himself out.

That whole conversation they had Tess had heard while in the kitchen being quiet so she could ease drop. Once JJ left she goes up to Callie's room to check on her.

"That was a big decision you made down there."

Callie looked over at her, "Yeah, and I stand by what I said. And like you said, I need to focus on myself."

"If that's the case... let's go on a little vacation. You need a getaway. Come on." Tess smiles clapping her hands excitedly.

"Seriously?" Callie laughs.

"Yes, we can leave in the morning. I'm free. Do you have any plans?" Callie shakes her head no so she stars to get things together to leave for tomorrow

The next morning as soon as both were awake they get there things together to leave for who knows how long. They didn't have a plan for anything and were just going with the flow. And after a good amount of months away when they got back home, Callie felt better.

Sadly they went back home for a few days before leaving again because Callie made a mistake by sleeping with Rafe again. She went by to surprise him she was back and they had a bit too much fun drinking.

After of a couple of weeks of trying to forget what happened, Tess and Callie go back home for good. Later the same day they got back, Rafe showed up knocking on the door, "Rafe?" Tess opens the door.

"Seeing you're back that means Callie is too right?" He asks her.

"Yeah, she's up in her room. Come in." Tess lets him in so he goes up to her room knocking on the door.

When she opens it she was surprised to see him just a bit, "Sup?" She lets him into her room and he sees she was changing it up.

"Needing a change?" He asks her, "Your hair is darker." He points out

"Yeah, a change was well needed." She laughs going back to painting her wall.

"Didn't you have the guys names carved here?" He asks pointing at the window.

"Wow, you really payed attention to things. And yes, I did but I fixed it up."

"What's up being more girly this time?" He laughs at her.

"It's not even that girly." She rolls her eyes, "Now what brought you here?“

"My dad's ashes arrived earlier and I put them in the ocean. You said you helped Sarah put up a cross for him but they found him lying at the bottom of a cliff left there."

"I did help but we didn't move his body, Rafe. Again I'm so sorry." She stops to face him so he pulls her into a hug. "Just remember he said he was proud of you because he left." She rubs his back, "I know you really needed that so don't forget that."

Rafe just cries into her for a bit and she didn't mind. She wanted him to let it out. She wanted to be there for a friend.

"Enough of that." He finally pulls back so she wipes his tears away laughing at him. “Why did you leave again after that night?” He ask her.

“I needed to think something’s over but I’m back for good now. Sorry for disappearing on you again.”

"It’s okay. Umm, tomorrow is Kildare Enduro. I'm in it and I believe JJ is as well." He lets her know. Just incase you have no plans." He walks towards her door to leave.

"I'll think about it." She gives him a smile as he leaves.

#obx #outer banks #obx ff #obx jj #obx john b #obx kiara #obx sarah #obx pope #obx rafe #jj maybank #john b routledge #kiara carrera #pope hayward #rafe cameron #sarah cameron #jj mayback imagine #obx jj maybank #rudy pankow #rafe cameron imagine

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apprenticestanheight · 2 months ago

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Home - Peter Strahm x gn! reader

OOOOOOKAY!! It's been a while yet since I wrote for anything in the saw fandom but I rewatched saw four today while working on a couple of things to sell via facebook marketplace and then this idea rose from the ashes that have been my saw obsession for the last few months, which, as it probably will every single spooky season from here on out, has come back in full fucking force.

Fic type - this is, for all intents and purposes, fluff!

Warnings - the reader is a crocheter!! if that counts?? also this unedited because I wanted to post before getting some other writing stuff done oops

Peter smiles softly as he turns the key in the lock and opens the front door to his home. If there is to be any guarantee in recent, it's that he'll come home to you at the end of the day. It's nice for that to be a guarantee in at least some respect, the one on his mind that week being that the Jigsaw case can finally be put to rest.

It's been a long road of twists and turns, near deaths and too many near misses to count, but it's worth it, he decides. Almost dying but making it out, making it home to you, is more worth it than not. It has to be.

His grin widens as he pushes his shoes off his feet, takes off his coat and walks down the hall. He takes a right and ends up in the living room, wants to be surprised to find you where he does but is completely and totally the opposite.

"Have you moved at all today?" He asks, unable to stop the fondness in his tone. "I swear, you were sitting in that exact spot when I left for work this morning."

You laugh a little bit, shaking your head. Peter is unsurprised to see you in the same corner of the couch you'd been in when he left that morning, working away on the blanket you'd been commissioned for two weeks prior.

"I've moved at least a few inches," you murmur. "You know how I get when I get focused."

Peter nods, moving to sit next to you on the couch. "When you're focused, you become both an unstoppable force and an immovable object," he says. "I love that about you. Have since before we were married."

"I'm glad for that," you murmur. "Almost as glad as I am to be done with this blanket--the customer asked me to use cotton yarn and I hate the way it feels on my hook."

"Why'd you accept the commission, then?"

"Because eighty hours of work paid at a living new jersey wage, plus yarn cost and the cost of my time to put this together has made me a grand total of five hundred fuckin' dollars," you smile softly. "I love that this can be my job. I love you, Peter Strahm, so fucking much."

"Because the FBI pays me a good bit, or just generally?" You'd owned the house the two of you were living in, had no mortgage payments or anything as you'd inherited the house from an aunt who'd died of old age the decade previous, and Peter was happy to take on most of the expenses after working for two and a half decades in nursing had burned you out to a point of near nonrecognition.

It had been six months since you'd decided to go with early retirement and so many days were just like that one, where you'd get up early and brew the both of you coffee while Peter made the both of you breakfast and the two of you talked about your days to come. Crochet had always wormed it's way into yours and Peter would always grumble about work, but you knew that things had finally started to get easier as the jigsaw stuff died down.

"Both," You answer. "My love for you is simultaneously full of merit and completely absent of it. I just wake up most days knowing that marrying you is the best decision I've ever made."

Peter smiles at your comment, and you let him kiss you sweetly, savoring the feeling of his lips against your own.

Your quiet life is a good one, one you wouldn't trade for a damn thing.

#peter strahm #peter strahm x reader #saw #saw posting #sawposting

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play-now-my-lord · 1 year ago

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i used to be a transcriptionist. i made decent money doing it - $1 per audio minute, which at an industry-average WPM works out to about $15 per hour, this in 2000s dollars. (mind you, my wpm is crazy, so i made more for my time.) i had ADHD that wasn't medicated at the time and would get ready for work by brewing up a huge pot of coffee, letting it go lukewarm, and chugging it in one go. i don't recommend this approach but it worked. it was also hellish on my wrists, my audio processing disorder, etc. after a working day i'd have a hell of a time understanding anything anyone said to me on the phone. i could pay rent with transcription in the 2000s, but rent was cheaper back then and transcription paid better. nowadays you're very lucky to see $.60 per audio minute without any formal qualifications (which are getting harder and harder to get), and the workflow has changed; everyone wants you to "edit" garbage machine translations and pay you with the fiction that you are "editing" them, where the reality is you have to do the exact same work but with an added layer of software wrangling for corporate compliance.

my great-aunt was a transcriptionist in the old days, when instead of VLC having a dial on it to adjust file speed she had to pay for a pedal that slowed down physical tapes. she paid for a mortgage with it, but that was in the 70s and 80s, when mortgages were cheaper (and rates were still at or near a dollar per audio minute, in less inflated dollars).

the existential threat everyone acknowledges to transcription is software, because everyone thinks software transcription is good. (it's not markedly more accurate than a well-trained 90s speech-to-text program, to be completely honest, and if you need a non-verbatim transcription - i.e. all the ums and ahs and doubling-back parts aren't left in - you're completely up shit creek.) the actual existential threat is outsourcing; the cost of living is simply lower in many areas of the anglophone world, people have less ability to take their ball and go home if offered insultingly low rates there. (this is not likely to remain the case forever, as average floor wages have increased by a factor of anywhere from 10 to 20 in anglophone south and southeast asia since 2000, and while they're very low by the standards of the global north, they're also on the order of a factor of 8 or so lower rather than a factor of 20 or 50.)

apparently the opportunities available to mostly housebound people with keyboard skills in america have declined such that the average such person, offered 60 cents a word to hammer out words for hours a day, can't reasonably take their ball and go home either. the competition used to be flipping burgers; now it's uber and grubhub, other gig work bullshit.

this is a long rambling story without much of a point. i miss having that job. i liked it, as shitty as it was. but i can't pay rent with it anymore, and it took too much out of me to be worth what it still pays

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darlingdawnauryn · 4 months ago

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The Most Important Tools in My Practice

obligatory disclaimer: You do not need any of this stuff to be able to call yourself a witch. If meditation and visualization work for you, or if they're the only things you're able to work with, your practice is no less valid than mine or anyone else's; I just find it more rewarding (and a lot less energetically taxing) to have something anchor me to the physical and keep me grounded as well.

(I do highly recommend a notebook, though. There've been a few times where I haven't written down the ingredients used in a spell and I paid for it later!)

journals. I have a book of shadows and a homemade junk journal to record my sigils and hypersigils. I also keep a record of my dream- and shadow works in my personal journal and have a commonplace book where I record quotes, theories, etc that keep me close to my practice, among other things. Aside from that, writing has always been a key component of finding the magick in the mundane, even when I didn't know to call it that. I'm a full-time writer whether I want to be or not, spending at least an hour a day scribbling down anything from magickal stuff to creative writing projects to notes on whatever book I'm reading. It helps me keep a clear(er) head, which can be beneficial to anyone, practitioner or not. (I also use different colored pens to keep everything organized!)

tiny hair elastics. Braid magick is quick and easy, and it's saved my butt a few times. For those unfamiliar, you braid your hair the way you normally do, but with every time you cross a strand over, you repeat an affirmation: "Everything comes to me easily and effortlessly," or "The only emotions I feel are my own." Since my hair isn't long enough to do one big braid, I substitute little ones and use elastics to bring color magick into the mix and really hammer the point home: yellow for joy, green for abundance or grounding, pink for self love, etc. Tying your hair off keeps the intention locked in and close to you until you're ready to release/undo it.

veils. There are many reasons a witch may choose to veil their hair. Straightening up around the house is one of my devotional acts to Hestia, so I do it then, and I also seldom leave the house without one; it keeps me from picking up outside energy that doesn't belong to me, and it's also a reminder of my devotion to my Craft -- kind of like a nun wearing a habit, if you like. And they don't have to be fancy! My most worn veil is a bandana I bought from Claire's, and the other ones I have are scarves I got from Dollar Tree.

devotional jewelry. I have a snake ring that I wear in honor of Lucifer and an obsidian choker that I only take off when I shower. I wear it both for psychic protection and vivid/symbolic dreams and charge it under the new moon whenever I feel it needs it.

herbs and candles. I use both equally for spellwork as well as ambience; I'll light a candle of a specific scent for a specific desired outcome or to shout out a deity, which I can also do with a simmer pot. I also dress candles with herbs if I want to include my own personal touch (which is more often than not). Carving them is also important to me, not only to emphasize intention, but also to put the craft in witchcraft; this simple act makes me feel like a kid again in a way that is unattached to nostalgia, which is an important part of the practice for me. (I've been using my aunt's mortar and pestle lately as well, and I'm going to get one for myself as soon as I have the means! It's great for adding a lot of my own energy and intention into a spell.)

Bonus! Tools I haven't used yet but want to: a pendulum and pendulum board (both homemade!) to acquaint myself with local spirits, and a white chord/string/shoelace/etc for quick and versatile knot magick on the go.

#witchcraft #witchblr #magick #witch #hedge witch #occult #satanism #book of shadows #grimoire

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transit-fag · 1 year ago

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Chapter 1 of my novel's first draft is hopefully finished, check it out and please give me critique

Today is the Third Sunday of the Month, this means that the city of Saltpeter’s oddities, mistakes, and rarities have come together for Brunch, the national pastime of this peculiar crowd, among them are 2 librarians, a museum curator, a traveling beekeeper, a pen crafter, and about 20 other strange fellows. Take great note on the pair of drab brown haired people sitting at the very back of the train station’s restaurant. These boring sorts go by the names of Danny Jones and Danielle Jones and hold absolutely no relation to each other.

The thing about Danny Jones and Danielle Jones that is so interesting is not the fact that they share a birthday or last names despite being unrelated in any way other than a lesbian aunt 7 generations back, is the fact that these are the 2 most dull and boring individuals you will ever meet. Both have the personality of sliced bread and they aren’t much better in fashion either. There is nothing special about either Jones, they both live completely ordinary lives as shopkeepers on opposite ends of town. The most eventful thing either will do in a month is a Sunday Brunch. And yet both have managed to obtain a loving relationship with incredibly interesting people. And more interesting still is the fact that both are going to wind up dead at the end of the month.

Now to understand why this will happen, you must understand Saltpeter, importantly there are 4 cultural institutions in the city of Saltpeter, Firstly is the Library, it is one of the 3 which is actually known to the people of Saltpeter, and houses exactly 17,943 books and 67 are currently checked out. Next is the Museum of Maria Fernando, a town crazy lady who runs a museum on the way things used to be, this is the institution people like to forget, despite mattering quite a lot to the city, it has received exactly 17 visitors this month and stays afloat via Maria’s wife’s second cousin’s generous yearly donations in exchange for copies of old novels. The 3rd cultural institution is the rail station, it is on the route of the oldest train in the nation, the California Zephyr and is run by perhaps the best chef in the city, Leaf Ann Smith, capable of both killing a man and cooking in Omelette in under 20 minutes. Finally there's the Pen shop, they sell pens, specifically fountain pens, each are hand made by a Saltpeter craftsman, it made the list because we were paid 72 Chicagoan Dollars to add it. If someone wants to stretch the definition of an institution and do a bit more bribery, they could get it up to about 20 institutions and a playhouse worth of cultural amenities, but they would also have to include the brunch of the misfits of Saltpeter, which really shouldn’t be added on principle since it happens in Leaf Ann Smith’s train station anyways.

Now back to the Brunch, something very important is about to happen, There will be a rather large toast to the group. This is on account of it being the 3rd anniversary of the start of the groups monthly meetings. Somehow that is a point of pride among the members due to how it is the longest any Brunch group in Saltpeter has lasted after the Infamous Brunch fights 20 years ago. The Brunch fights were a rather dreary matter for such a pleasant pastime. 27 dead and 63 injured over a week. All because of bad French Toast at an upscale restaurant near downtown Saltpeter. And when I say bad, I mean bad, it was soggy, barely toasted, and didn't have any fruits except the one eating it. It's not even like Saltpeter doesn't have any strawberries, it was built on the largest strawberry farm west of the Mississippi. How do you fuck up French Toast that badly? How? It perplexes the mind.

Oh right, the Toast to the Brunch crew, A tall woman in a Green Dress, a leather Jacket and Golden Hoop earrings stands up, her hair is cut in a pixie cut. She grabs a Mimosa off the table and begins to talk. Hurricane Jane Rivers as they call her is many things, a lesbian, crazy, a storm chaser, dangerous, a purveyor of Pancakes, a painter and an aerial ace, but one thing she is certainly not is concise. It would take 7 paragraphs to summarize her speech to that disparate group of oddities. In short though, she was thanking them for the best 3 years of her life. Little did she know, only half of them would see her next month.

As her glass hits the glass of another member of the Brunch, a clink rings through the air. Followed by a harsh silence.

A tick of a second

Then with a large creaking boom, the train comes to a screeching halt outside the station, passengers get off as Leaf Ann Smith scrambles to hide her current mess of a Diner from the view of the wealthy tourists from down the tracks. The train is early for once. Precisely 17 minutes and 6 seconds early, something that should not have been possible given the fact that the train tracks were under repairs between Omaha and Saltpeter. And the train had a 2 minute delay when it arrived at the last station. This is all irrelevant if not to show how off guard it caught Leaf Ann Smith who usually manages to keep incredibly on top of the schedules of the train so she can run the station and Diner at once. Leaf Ann Smith is a busy Woman between the Diner, the Station and her time moonlighting as the union negotiator for between the carpenters guild and Sylvia Ink the sole crafter of fountain pens in Saltpeter and a person notoriously bad at paying their union dues. Now in a hurry, she rushes to kick out the Brunch party and clean up the messes left behind in her diner today. She had to rush the 20 people out for a rather simple reason. She needs money to run a diner and the train is what brings her the best customers each day. The customers from grand cities like Chicago, Denver and Omaha. As the crowd of weirdos and homosexuals scurries away. One Slyvia Ink bumps right into a Jim Halder. The only man in the city who still knows their face.

Jim Halder is a professor at the University of Saltpeter and has 40 years of Tenure there, starting as a professor at 31, despite being in his 70s, he looks rather young, with a smooth face and deep black hair, this however is a lie. If you look closely at his hair, you’ll notice a long white steak and an indent on his face above his left eye. This is because Jim’s face is not his first, while studying in the mines of Saltpeter, his face was burned off by a explosion, and a new wooden one had to be constructed by Sylvia Ink, one of the only 4 things they ever completed that wasn’t a fountain pen, the other 3 are another less lifelike mask, the hilt of a blade, and pen holder to hold their pens. Jim is a man of learning, giving every book he writes to the library after he publishes it, 14 of the books that are currently checked out were donated by him. If you were to inspect Jim closely you would also find that you could knock him over quite easily with a single punch due to his slim frame. The university that he works at is not considered a cultural institution by even the most generous people in Saltpeter because nothing of interest has been produced in that institution for just over 67 years. Well apart from Sylvia Ink and Jim Halder, and their incredible works of course, the two little wooden people of Saltpeter.

Jim was naturally surprised to see Sylvia at the station, but glad nonetheless to see that young fellow out of the workshop. When they bumped into each other, quite literally, as Sylvia had been too focused on a croissant to notice the man ahead of him. He proposed to the young carpenter that they go over to the old river park for a stroll to discuss the terms for the new project.

Despite being a chilly 50 degrees out, if you were to head across town from the rail station, over to the river. You will find 2 men on the banks of the river. One is sitting in a rather large Sycamore tree, reading a book, when he hears the train rush past. He is wearing a blue sweater and long pants, the other man is dressed quite poorly for the weather, he is wearing nothing but a swimsuit and his golden locks of hair. He stupidly planned on Swimming in the river today. He is 6 feet tall and somehow not freezing. These peculiar fellows meant to be at the brunch but the one in the Sweater, Alex Cela had set his pocket watch 3 hours behind. Even knowing this now, he was still caught off guard by the train crossing over the river since the train had not been early in 3 months. Despite being totally different, one a bit of an idiot and the other a top marks student at the University of Saltpeter, they have been dating for 2 months, and six days if either had remembered to keep track of that. They met at the park, Alex was trying to paint the trains and Damien had been trying to teach a cat how to swim, the pair of them instantly became friends after Alex stopped trying to attack Damien for ruining the painting. And the two started dating a week after they met, when Damien kissed Alex under an Oak tree in the town square. These 2 lovers were not however the only people in the park. There were about 400 people in the park give or take 27 on this chilly morning. But none of them particularly matter, none of them except for Emily Rock.

Emily Rock is a unique woman, it's hard to like her, but easy to understand her. The first 3 words that come to mind about her are angry, pretty, and rude, she is only two of these.The reason many of her peers tend to dislike her is simple, she’s tired, angry, and rather blunt. She’s tired of her classmates at the university, this miserable city, the man on 7th street, and of course she's tired of her father who refuses to give her that damn amulet. What with it being promised to her in the will and everything. Another thing she is tired of is the incredible dullness of the man she works with at the shop, his name is Danny, and she is uncertain if he has a personality. Something she has made clear to him. Now Emily is a pretty woman like they say, she has long blond curls and a tan face, if you care about clothes, she’s wearing a blue skirt and a pink tank top, she’s current reading the morning paper, when an idiot brat of a child steps on her foot running past her bench. Her morning is already ruined, so she decides if nothing else, she should pick a fight, it might cheer her up. What after the argument with her father over the amulet last night, and now that child, she deserves to make someone miserable. As she walks down the river bank she spots him, a man with golden hair and a large frame, the kind of man she thinks would be stupid enough to steal her pet Rabbit “Mr. Flopsy”.

On the other side of the river sit two scientists, a carpenter and a professor, the two wooden men as they call them, one looks young but is old in years, the other’s age is impossible to tell at a glance, they wear a wooden mask and have cyan hair in a low ponytail. The one in the obvious mask is slightly shorter, and is carving a piece of wood with a short knife. The taller one, in a button up vest begins to speak,

“I know that you have a need for something more interesting than this city, Sylvia. I propose that we make a new excursion from this miserable city. I have enough savings for 2 tickets on the train to Chicago.”

The small masked person looks back at Halder, their head tilted as if to ask a simple question, why?

“Why, you ask. I have evidence that the scientists up in Chicago have found a sample of Chestnut, which as we know could be used by the project.

The short one shakes its head to tell Halder their disbelief in that notion.

“You don’t believe me child? Then tell me what the point of that project is. It can’t be built without chestnut wood and we both know it. If you think it's a myth or dead or lost or some other thing, then tell me the truth, why did you build it?”

At this mere suggestion of disbelief, Slyvia stops, throws the pen they have been crafting to the ground and begins to point their whittling knife at the Elderly man. A tear roll out from under the mask.

“Alright, I know that is a touchy subject, here let me pick up the pen, I know why you started it, we both have our white whales of course. I would react similarly if you tried to stop me of course. How about we leave the park, this reminds me of your last day in my class far too much.”

“Besides, we have a train to catch, I forgot to show you this”

Out of his hand slips a photo of the Chicago River, around the ruins lies a single tree, the last pure American Chestnut Tree. At the sight of this Slyvia’s head pops up and begins to run towards the hill. Jim turns around as he sees the younger individual start to run and turns around to chase them.

As they begin to leave the park they hear shouting, coming from across the river, as a woman seems to be trying to pick a fight with the man currently swimming in the river. But they are not about to witness the only fight in the city this morning. In the city center one Maria Fernando is riding the trolley over to the library to do some research when she notices the fellow with the bee hives has been following her, she would have their name but never actually heard it when they started coming to Brunch about a year ago and she would be far too embarrassed to ask now, Maria Fernando is a headstrong and determined woman, but you can never get her to actually admit to not knowing something, she now prides herself on knowing more than anyone in this 3rd rate mining town. She wishes she could see the face of the Beekeeper, then she would know whether she could trust them, that's why she doesn't trust Sylvia Ink, it's that damn mask and the incident in the Saltpeter mines of course, that whole thing is confusing. She can tell, she just knows for a fact that that damn beekeeper is staring at her, and then she spots her destination, the Library square, she quickly jumps off the Trolley and lands on the ground, falling over and tumbling for a good 10 feet with her briefcase in hand. She then briskly gets up and puffs the dust off her red dress. She runs into the Library and without talking to the Libarians for once she runs in the stacks, she looks back and yep, that freakish beekeeper fucking followed her. As she hides, she reaches towards her briefcase to open it when she sees the Beekeeper grab a book off the shelf and start to move away from the shelves. She closes the Briefcase backup and wipes the sweat off her brow, she was so paranoid about the beekeeper and for nothing. But she did have a good reason to be paranoid when entering the library that day because someone was right behind her. And,

POW!!

She is hit on the head with a large book. Now because Maria has already fallen over, so she can’t see this, but another person, the beekeeper and another patron of the Library have also been hit with the book.

As Maria opens her eyes, she finds herself in a dark room, with 5 other people, she is tied up alongside 2 others, one is the Beekeeper, the other is the most boring man she has ever seen, he looks familiar but she doesn't know from where. She could have seen his face a thousand times and not recognized it, because she had. In fact she had seen him earlier that day at Brunch, He is wearing a white tank top and blue jeans, he has medium length brown hair and about no other interesting characteristics, but she wouldn't remember seeing him, he would be one of the 7 people she never would remember, not even after talking too, but this would be the last time she would see him and still forget him. Suddenly a pair of Women enter the light, one being Sunny Rus and the other being Elise Rosa, they are 2 of the 3 librarians at the Saltpeter Library and both are typically good friends of Maria, they were even just at brunch discussing how to acquire several old 23rd century novels for the museum.

Sunny steps forward and bites into an orange, peel and all, it's a strange habit of hers that nobody really understands. She then spits the peel out, hitting Maria in the Face, this part is unfortunately all too common for Maria, dealing with Sunny's surprising lack of manners for such a pleasant looking woman was an annoying commonality. It is impossible to find her outside a sundress even on a chilly day like today. She begins to say something in a commanding tone of voice like a military officer, in fact if you put her in a coat and shaved her hair, she could have passed for one at this moment.

"Look I know none of you would steal our delivery of a particularly difficult to find object from Chicago, but given its value, I think we will all agree this is the only logical course of action,” Sunny says to the group, in an alert tone.

Maria is confused by this given that the only things that were collected by Sunny were books and strangely photographs of a fruit that had been extinct for 300 years. She knew that the fruit pictures were pretty much worthless and most valuable books were held by the elites of Chicago and Denver, the Barons and Lords of what remained, those with wealth that far exceeded what could be found in Saltpeter. Suddenly she realized what Sunny had done as all heads in the room rapidly turned at the sound of a gunshot outside the library. It became clear that Sunny had set her sights on something truly valuable for the Library collection

Macmillan Dev-ill was a strange man, for one he was on call of every last baron, lord, and prince in Chicago on those Bell telephones that had swept across the prairie. It was a result of his rare profession. How does one put the actions of this man delicately, well let's say he dealt with people’s final moments for a hefty price. To put it bluntly, he was a killer. Today he was holed up on the roof of a library in a mediocre forgotten rail town of about 63 thousand people. He was waiting for a small balding man from Omaha to arrive. That man had a copy of the Codex Americana, a fabled book with only 3 remaining copies all of which were handwritten by the 18 monks of Madison; they lived in a monastery that overlooked one of the last great waterways in the continent, they call it the Ohio. The Codex chronicled the history of America from the settlers to the 5 Unions to the empires of Chicago and San Francisco and their falls into dust like all great civilisations before them. He was hired to reacquire the epic so that it couldn’t fall into the hands of those outside Chicago, specifically he was hired by the heir of the Family who commissioned it, the Christopher Fleming of the House Fleming.

After 17 hours he saw 2 things, first a dark haired woman and a beekeeper came running into the Library, making him alert again and then he saw his mark a small oaf, whose name will be forgotten by history. What mattered was what he carried, a box holding a particularly rare book.

He was on the steps when it happened when it went - BANG!!

7 people came running out about a minute later, but it was too late, Dev-ill had already gotten down, grabbed the box and started towards the train station back to Chicago.

It's been 1 hour since Maria saw the blood on the steps of the grand library. It has been 57 minutes since she was told to head to the Train station to try and get the book, whatever book it was back and For the past roughly 3 minutes, Maria Fernando has stood almost still, an incredible rarity, she is waiting outside the train station, ticket in her hand, she is both preparing herself to see the immortal city, the last great city of the American Age, and trying to deal with the death she has seen, not just today but constantly over the past 16 years. As she looks back at the city of Saltpeter for one last glance of her home fill her with hope, the whole city is visible from the rail station on a hill, it was moved up hill and north about a mile about 200 years ago after a devastating flood, but nobody knows that now, history is easily lost in Saltpeter. The libraries know this, but nobody bothers to remember what happened in this city all those years ago. With one last gulp of the air, she lifts up her briefcases and runs to catch up with her companions. If she has to go to Chicago, then at least she is going with people she knows even if it is against her will, and at least if its not people she knows, then at least its people she’s met. And Danny Jones, he is also there.

As she climbs up the stairs to Leaf Ann Smith’s station she can smell the exciting smell of eggs and coal smoke, a mix you can only find at two places, an incredibly rustic bakery and the Saltpeter Train Station. The Coal is there because Leaf Ann Smith is known by certain groups in the city, but thankfully not the California Zephyr Authority of Denver to steal coal for the Diner she runs in the train station on the edge of the city in a large garden. Maria is ready to leave now, she wipes away tears that are beginning to form and begins to shift through her pockets to find the ticket. She produces it and feeds it to the ticket machine, it spits the ticket back out alongside a mix of currencies, the only 2 of interest to her being 6 Saltpeter Tins and 7 Chicagan Dollars, about enough for a Coffee and a biscuit on the train for the second day, she was glad the Machine was still broken like she had heard and would always give change, for the simple reason that she couldn't buy the coffee otherwise. When the gate pops open, she sees that the train is in the station and runs on not looking for her company on that journey. If she had looked she would notice that the Zephyr remarkably managed to hold all but 2 of the members of her Brunch party from Yesterday. The 2 who weren’t on the Train included Hurricane Jane Rivers, who while not on a train is also heading towards Chicago on that night, this is because of the sudden news She had heard at the airfield that afternoon. That day every single individual of any relevance was on their way to the last of the Great American Cities, the city of myths and dreams, the heart and birthplace of empires, Chicago.

#last ride of the california zephyr #writblr

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