#so cool! I love all the intricacies and color and the back story!

[hyukascampfire]

𝑯EART 𝑊ORM ⸺ hueningkai ℘˒´ˎ˗

  ⨾𓍢ִ໋ ˒˒ 𝚑𝔢art𝚠𝔬rm

[𝑛]. a relationship or friendship that you can't get out of your head, which you thought had faded long ago but is still somehow alive and unfinished, like an abandoned campsite whose smoldering embers still have the power to start a forest fire.

⸺ listen to the playlist .ᐟ ‧˚

〝﹙ 📼 ﹚“I was just... wondering,” you say, blood roaring. "Well, Yeonjun wants me to come over to his place this weekend, and... I’ve never...” Sucking in a quick breath, you just spit it out to get it over with, “Would you be my first kiss, Kai?”  ˛ ､､

wc ➛ 17.9k

𝔭airings childhood bsf!kai x reader (lowkey soulmates?) ⤷ ft. asshole!yeonjun x reader

𝒢 ‎; smut ˒ angst ˒ some fantasy

𝔴arnings angst, family issues, fingering, jealousy (i’m sorry i just love ts), yeonjun really is an asshole, orgasm denial, thigh fucking, unprotected sex (they're stupid!), strength kink a lil bit, breeding kink, possessiveness, cream pie, choking... i think that's all, lmk if i missed any

✎୭ ashlynn's note omg. this was such a fun palate cleanser to write. this wasn't supposed to be as big as it is, but it just kept getting bigger and bigger, and i got super into the story. this kai is SOOOO!! yeah. i’m so nervous posting this because i’ve only ever posted TSFAWC, but…. here you areee (^^;; this is not proofread, so if you see a mistake... give me a sec. i'll get to it. hehe

Though you fan your hand furiously over your face, the little breezes washing over your clammy skin are not enough. The air is thick and heavy with summer’s heat. So thick that you almost feel it each time you swallow. It’s better than just letting yourself melt away, though. The cushion at your back doesn’t help much. It holds your warmth and returns it to you the longer you sit slumped back into it. You suffer it though—you’ve gone too sluggish to move.  

You let a leg dangle over the arm of a chair, watching a hopeful moth dance in the light of the buzzing porch light overhead. It flutters frantically in it, making a grand fight to reach that false moonlight, only to drop away when it realizes that it’s being burnt. You watch it rinse and repeat, relentless and sure, for who knows how long. It’s no special moth—no luna moth or the ones with the pretty pink wings—but the light falls down on it and colors it a pleasant stardust silver.  

You delight in letting your conscious brain turn off to watch it. It lets you forget the sweltering under your skin, and also that Kai had drug you out here. His dad gave him shit when he plays inside, but it’s way too hot to be out here. Isn’t it supposed to cool off after the sun goes down? It doesn’t feel like it. The deep acoustics are drowned out each time a car whirrs by. Playing outside should be the best option, but you and Kai live right on a busy road.  

When the roar of some car going ten miles over the speed limit doesn’t obscure his playing, though, you admire the intricacy of it. His fingers work up and down the neck, jumping frets that you imagine would be impossible to anybody without those long fingers of his. You had always been a loud supporter of his playing, even way back when the most he could play were simple chords, but you became especially so when a few years back he put a guitar in your hands and tried teaching you. Even with his fingers guiding yours, it was quick to learn that the effortlessness with which Kai handles the instrument is hard earned.  

He practices on the acoustic guitar, but that’s not his domain. With houses just a dash across the street from each other, Kai had grown up at your home more than he had at his own. So vividly, you remember the stars in his eyes when he’d listen to your dad’s music. Metallica, The Smashing Pumpkins, Linkin Park, any of it. He had fallen in love with it a long time ago. Your whole life you knew that it was only a matter of time before he was in his own band, chasing his dreams with a boundless mind and an indelible vision of himself on stage. How had that time come so soon, though? You don’t know if the notebooks full of inky lyrics that live wherever he deems inspiration might hit him make you proud or nervous. He’s making good on his dazzling aspirations, and you? 

You speak finally into the air, cutting through heat waves and his music and the night. “Isn’t it weird that we’re not going back to school after this summer?” 

He doesn’t have to even stop playing to answer you. Playing comes to him as a second nature. “Kinda,” he answers, brown eyes flitting up to you. “But it’s not like you won’t be back to it in September. College is the same shit.” 

The leg you’d been dangling and bouncing pauses. That’s right; you’re supposed to be going to that college you’d chosen because it was only a three-hour drive away from here. You pluck at the seat’s threadbare fabric, and the moth, still there, becomes oh-so-interesting once again. When his playing stops, you drop your head back with a cushioned thud and a groan that you wrangle in your throat. 

“Why are you acting like that?” he says, voice gone sharp like accusation. He doesn’t even know the truth, but he’s known you too long.

Can’t you just keep secrets for yourself, sometimes?

Kai, arms clad in a well-loved hoodie even in this dreadful weather, lays the guitar down. You maintain your silence. “Seriously, what?” 

Some secrets have timers, though. This one could only last you until about September, or even August when he realizes that you’re not preparing to return to school. A controlled sigh from your chest isn’t enough to soothe the nerves that sparks. “Nothing.” 

“Secrets, huh?” Kai says. When you do finally look to him, black spikes of hair frame his eyes and the accusation in them. 

It’s a simple poke, but it gets under your skin as sharp as any thorn might. It’s not like you don’t keep secrets from him, and you’re sure he keeps some from you too. But those are the little kinds, the inconsequential ones—like I ate already when asked why you’re not eating or like Yeah, I’m fine when it’s been a bad day. You don’t hide this kind of stuff from each other. Usually, you’d run over to his place to tell him whatever’s bothering you. Why not, when he’s known even the worst details of your life for almost the entirety of it? You’ve been holding this one close to your chest since somewhere around the end of senior year, though. The longer you let it fester, the worse your nervousness snowballs. “C’mon, Kai. Let’s not do this. Can you keep playing?” 

He doesn’t like that, of course. But you watch recognition dawn over his chocolate brown eyes, helpless to stop it. “You’re not going,” he says. It’s not a question nor a suspicion, it’s a bone-dry fact.  

Well. There that goes. You want to tear every hair on your head right out. Why had you even thought you’d keep him in the dark about it? When he’s not out in some garage making music, you two are together. The conversation was going to stroll by at some point; this was only inevitable. His disappointment radiates off him in waves and blisters you. He hasn’t even said anything yet, but you know exactly what he thinks of it. It’s why you kept it from him in the first place.  

Your silence is enough confirmation from him. “Why?” he says. “I thought you were excited to move out.” 

Wincing, you nod slowly. You were. Even went through the whole application process, along with most other kids your age. Ultimately, you never went through with declaring a college. You don’t exactly know why, but somewhere weaseled down in the shadowy recesses of your soul, you know. Taking those steps, the massive and terrifying ones from adolescence into adulthood, meant agreeing that this form of your life was over. It meant that at some point, you’d be moving away from here to where living your days away in Kai’s room would not be a choice. Everybody has to do it eventually, you know that. Kai’s music gig could take off any day, too. He’s going to make it happen. And then what? All this stalling and wishing on just a bit more time would mean nothing, he’d be off and chasing that dream. As excited as you are for it to finally become reality for him, there’s a nasty bitterness that’s budded in your chest, infecting your person.  

Can’t things just stay like this? 

“I was,” you say. It comes out of your mouth heavy.  

“Then why aren’t you going?” he says. Crickets, never seen but always heard, sing their song into the night’s darkness. “You didn’t get rejected. You’re too smart for that.” 

An ache sits heavily somewhere near the center of your chest, maybe over your heart. All those good grades, nights spent bent over a desk and AP paperwork—you’re wasting it. You shake your head. “No... just...” It’s an effort to dress your thoughts in a way that might appease him. A quiet moment stretches with your thinking before you continue, “I don’t know what I want to do.” 

He doesn’t like that, the yellow wash of the overhead light dancing over his taut lips and hard eyes. “Don’t know what you want to do?” he says, bringing his legs up onto the seat to crisscross them. He wears his favorite jeans. They’re heel-bitten and baggy enough over his legs that he can wear them around the house without any bother. “You’ve wanted to be an artist your whole life. You know exactly what you want to do.” 

Your chest only seems to ache harder. When the both of you were only young and hopeful, you both had big dreams. Kai was going to be the face of a metal band, and you were going to be an artist. A painter, potter, sculptor, even doing animation for those big companies like Dreamworks and Disney. You wanted any of it, just as long as you were doing art. You’d even promised him that you’d do the cover art for his albums with interlocked pinkies and flushed, hopeful cheeks. That passion and love wasn’t gone from you, it blazed strong in your veins. This blaze wasn’t the kind that kept you warm and excited to push forward into life, though. It had morphed into something that scalded you when you got to close, or started imagining yourself pursuing its call. It’s a taunting silvery glow, no longer a guiding north star. Taunting words of family members stamped down on that hope hard. When you were little, it was said lighthearted and in passing. The older you got, though, the more serious their faces became. They wouldn’t say it outright perhaps, but you hear what they think well enough. Art is a dead-end career.  

Shifting in your seat, you tell him, “I don’t know.” 

“What do you mean?” Kai says. “There are good colleges for that.” 

“I just... don’t know.” 

Shaking his head, he tells you, “But you love it.” 

You do. In its every form, you love creating. But loving it doesn’t mean that it’s right for you, or that you should trust your future in its hands. “I think I can do it in my own time,” you say, finally pushing yourself upright from the cushion. “Don’t wanna kill the passion by doing it for a living, you know?” 

He thinks on that for a moment. “If you love it, you should do it,” he says. 

An awful frustration bubbles in your chest. Kai has always had a clear life path, the steps ahead of him set in stone and waiting for him to follow in them. It’s hard for him to see why you might not want to do the same. There’s nothing that makes you as happy as the fact that he has it all figured out, that he knows just where he’s going and that he’s so incredible at it that he doesn’t have to worry about meeting the requirements, but your path seems obscured and untrodden. Punctuating a deep, resonant sigh, you say, “It’s not that easy, Kai.” 

“If you’re not doing that, then what are you going to do? Are you just going to settle for a nine-to-five?” he says full of accusation, the tapping on his knees gone still.  

A dry laugh, you say, “Maybe I’ll marry a super rich guy and just do my art for a living. No nine-to-five.” 

His face flashes. He’d always been a bit reserved, especially around others, but he bared his emotions freely around you. You hold them dearly to your chest and made sure to do your best to make good on that trust. He says, “You’re more than some guy’s housewife.” 

Cheeks radiating in the heat, you snort. “I know, dork. I’m a rockstar’s best friend. It’s my personal favorite achievement.”  

His face sours when you reach out and pinch hard at his cheek, but he doesn’t pull away or brush you off. The skin there is warmed and clammy. Really, the two of you should go meet the cool AC inside before you suffer heat stroke. But this moment feels so nice—your shoulders feel tons lighter without something to hide. If you had it your way, things would stay like this forever. Just the two of you, sat here like you have so many times before, just taking for granted the time you’ve got together.  

His mouth opens to banter, probably something about how he’s not a rockstar yet or to get you back for calling him a dork. Wingbeat and sterling dashes about your face send the image into a blur, though. You’re a quick mess of limbs and a whipping head, as if it’ll chase the thing away from you. 

“Seriously?” Kai says. You’d climbed halfway over him, elbows digging into him and knee doing a number on his thigh. “It’s a moth. You’re not scared of moths.” 

Lingering for a few moments later to ensure the flying thing was nowhere on you or around you, you hold back a laugh before you climb off him and fix your hair with undignified tucks behind your ears. “He was in my face,” you say around a laugh, because you know it was a bit too much. Nobody likes wings in their ears and spindly legs in their face, though, and you’re in no control of what you do when anything with six legs tries and get too friendly. Even moths.  

“You just wanted me to protect you,” he says. A sarcastic, shit-eating smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.  

“Oh,” you scoff, batting your eyelashes and clasping your hands together all saccharine-sweet. “Yes, Romeo, won’t you kill that bug for me? This girl’s heart just can’t take it!” 

Kai’s nose crinkles, and the playful light twists into a glare. “Nasty.” 

“That’s how you sounded,” you say. “I only reacted accordingly.” Laughing, you kick your legs out over his lap and sprawl back out. He takes the guitar back into his hands. 

As much as you want to escape the mugginess, you’ll survive it for just a little while longer—if only with the force of an indulgent heart. The eternal moments are those you allow to linger.  

⚝⭒ 

Some things, you forget when you’re older. Maybe it’s time’s hand, eroding memories down and stuffing more in the longer you live to experience them. But also maybe because they’re the sort of things you can’t say in the adult world without a laugh in the face and a look from down their noses.  

This memory is one of those forgotten things. It’s moth-bitten and dusty, something you one day folded up in a moving box and decided to never revisit. 

You’d been down at the creek. Kai and you had spent so many summer days there. It wasn’t too far from home, just past the filbert trees and into the shallow neck of the backwoods, but there you were out of sight and free to get up to nothing good. It was a wonder your mom ever let you do it. Kai’s dad didn’t care too much where he went or what he did, but your mom dug her claws in deep. You like to think that she imagined you two would have each other, if anything ever happened. 

Usually, you’d be there holding your jeans up from the stream and Kai would be letting his jeans go dark with it. The bite of water was nice as it washed over warm skin. Fun was a simple thing to find, then. You dug your fingers into the mudbanks and tossed stones way too big to be throwing at each other, just because you two remembered how much the adults hated it when you did. Then, you’d drag tired limbs home avoiding sweetgum tree spikes that had fallen to the ground and dug splinters out from your feet.  

This day, you had been in the blackberry bushes. It was maybe late June or early August, and they’d gotten heavy on their branches. You’d waited until the smell of them, summer-warmed, was sweet and cloying in the air to pick them. With buckets in your hands, you plucked only the fattest berries from their bunches. Your fingers were stained a delightful purple and perhaps a bit thorn raw, but you didn’t mind much then. You plucked for hours, and it was dusk before you could catch it. Dinner was no doubt waiting for you back home. 

“There’s a bunch over here,” Kai had said. He reached a long boyish arm, still awkward and lanky with puberty, up high for ripe bush. You finished off picking before climbing around thick branches sticking out to take a peek. A bunch, there was. 

When you went to drop a handful of them into your bucket, Kai hissed. He’d been snagged by a vicious looking branch, those ones as thick as a finger with thorns to match and you’d warn each other tongue-in-cheek to watch out for that one. He’d worn those ridiculous shorts that day, the ones that looked half pants half shorts with how long and baggy they were, and the claws of the bush had jumped at the opportunity. At first the scrapes were white, but then red blood crawled out and down his leg.  

“Kai,” you said, some parts chiding and some parts just wondering how he’d managed that. You surveyed his leg for a bit, and then determined that he should wash his leg off in the stream. He walked there strong, but of course you noticed the hobble beneath his acting. When you squatted down into the dry grass and cupped water to wash off his leg, you laughed. 

“What?” he had said, holding the shorts up. You covered your laugh with a hand, but it erupted past your palm. You remember the glare on his face very well.  

You still laughed. “You’re stupid,” you had told him. 

“I didn’t see it,” he said. “I tripped over it because it was sticking out.” 

That time when you brought your hands to catch some water, there was a twinkle in its surface. You didn’t notice it for a second. The creek moved fast and you could see a lot of things in its reflection. When it lingered, that’s when your brows furrowed. It seemed to twirl, dancing around like alive over the stones. 

The sound of Kai’s voice remains with you. “Hey,” he had said, strong to call your attention but also wavered with uncertainty. 

When you looked up, there was silver dust dancing around you. 

It was fluffy and whorling, fine silver stardust. It’d moved weightless in the air, as though it barely existed. In the center of it were a few moths. They seemed to be made of sterling powder just as the dust was, and they glowed against dusk’s backdrop. If your memory serves you right, there had been a sweet hymn of coos from them. They beckoned you. Summer’s heat felt lighter, and so did your chest. You wondered where they had wanted you to go. 

Almost afraid that if you spoke they might have fluttered away, you whispered soft and low to Kai. “What is that?” He was stood frozen there, pant leg still scrunched up in his fist. Stardust glowed soft in his brown eyes while he took it all in, you remember. It wasn’t a scared frozen. You weren’t scared, either—rather, it was as if that lightness had found its way into the core of your being and brushed over it with mending hands. 

He whispered back, “I don’t know.” How could he have known? It was absurd. 

Those whisps had beckoned you, flowing toward the deeper woods. The soft moths, their murmuring brushing up against your ears, seemed to wait for you to follow. You remember a pull, soft tendrils wrapping themselves around your heart and the yearning it planted there.  

But there was also this reluctance, a bone-deep answering that had told you: No. You’re not ready. 

“Kai, I wanna go,” you told him. 

You didn’t even need to tell him twice. Berry buckets forgotten; the journey home was a stranger one. When your dad asked why you returned from berry picking emptier handed than you had left the house, Kai and you only shared a look. You pair kept that evening at the creek hidden so well that it became more forgotten than shared secret.  

⚝⭒ 

Once, you had been the type of girl that loved being around family. Some of your favorite days of your life were spent in this living room, T.V. roaring over bouncing conversation. Some of those nights ended in rosy cheeks and laughs, and some ended with words thrown angry like fireworks. You never knew which you’d be getting, but you endured the fear of not knowing because it was a simple love—the basic kind built with biology into you the moment your infant skin touched your mother’s. You endured it because eventually, sleep washed away the bad taste left in your mouth and you forgave them quick, sometimes quicker than you ought to, and things would go on as if it hadn’t even happened. You endured it because you could handle its burden, if only to feel the warmth you feel when it’s a good day.  

Kai was always there—his dad was hardly home, so he found family in yours. When you were younger, you’d been embarrassed he was there for caustic, spitted words and intimate fights. Now, you’re just grateful for his shoulder.  

So, yes. Once, you had loved being around your family. But things feel tenser now, nights spent all together less frequent and when they do happen, they’re tainted by a strange air. You think that this strangeness is new, but an awful worry also makes you think that it’d always been there, that you only feel it now because you’ve grown into your adult mind. A hollow ache stakes its claim in your chest, declaring that it won’t leave until you find that youthful ignorance and joy once more. You think that it might stay there forever. 

Bare feet bounding down the stairs, you make a rare appearance downstairs. The cupboard is only half open to make way for a snack raid before your mom’s voice cuts through the air. You know quickly just by the look on her face that you should’ve stayed upstairs. 

“Hey,” she says, gathering laundry into a basket. “You’ve been applying to jobs?” 

With an anxious belly, you tell her, “Yeah. A few. They’re not really, like, ideal, but I sent applications.” You don’t remember when it got hard to look into your mother’s eyes, but you can’t bring yourself to do so now.  

“Not ideal?” she says. “It’s not like you can be picky. Mcdonalds or wherever, I don’t care, you’re going to need to get a job if you’re staying here.” 

“I know. I applied,” you reiterate around a mumble. You close the cabinets, not so interested in a snack anymore. “I just... I don’t know, ma. I don’t want to do that for a living, going between those sorts of jobs.” 

Face hard and abrasive against the truth you bare, she does that awful taunting smile that makes you feel small. Stupid. “You’re not going to college, so that’s what it’s gonna be. You can’t sit up there and draw for a living. You’ve gotta get into the real world, get some real experience.”  

There’s a burst of hurt in your chest, dazzling and gnawing. She’s getting closer to saying how she really feels about your dreams out loud every day. Your face burns and so do your eyes, knot thick in your throat. “Yeah, okay. Got it,” you say, nodding. You’re at the front door before you even know it slipping on shoes and fighting the greatest internal battle to will back tears. She’d use those against you, no doubt about it. “I’m going to Kai’s,” you throw over your shoulder.  

Whatever she barks back at you, you’re glad you don’t hear. Bells on some old Christmas decoration hung on the door that had yet to be taken down, even into summer, jingle and wash it away for you. 

Kai’s brows shoot up when he opens the door to your face crumpling. You’d done so well at damming it up, but the wall cracks and the water crashes through once you see him. If it were anybody else, you’d feel icky and attention seeking, but you’d held Kai to your chest through gut-wrenching sobs as much as he’s done it for you. Without question, he takes you into his arms, warm hand running up and down your back. The warm soothing is so familiar. You melt right into it.  

He keeps you there for a long moment. Then, his chest rumbles as he tells you, “Come on.” The walk through the AC to his bedroom is nice. Having a house like Kai’s to come to where it can just be you is nice, too. You step around the mess of clothes and scattered belongings on his floor like you have a muscle-memory roadmap of his room. Boxsprings creak and hard mattress welcome you back home. His room is dark as always, a night-dweller you call him. The array of peeling band posters plastered over walls you two had painted blue some years ago, when it’d been his favorite color, don’t help to lighten it up. He keeps a low lamplight on.  

“She never listens to me,” you say, crying gone to occasional sniffles from your chest. You rest your cheek on your bent knee. 

“I know,” he says. “But at least she cares about you. Pays attention to you.” His voice is soft and deep and right next to you. Always right next to you, there for you even when you might not appreciate it as you should.  

His dad cares too little what he does, and yours care too much. The grass is always greener on the other side, you know it. Still, you hold a fantasy where you’re able to do teenager stuff. Where you’d allow yourself to do bad things, because you weren’t so intent on painting yourself with their will. You two hold eyes for a long moment, your twinkling ones caught in that steady brown. “I just want to get away. Be my own person.” Your words are muffled in the softness of your skin. 

“You had the chance to do it,” Kai says, hand playing with your fingers. “But you didn’t.” 

Holding your legs closer, you lick your lips. What do you say to that? Would it ever be the time to tell him that you did it because you think that your soul is pathetically intertwined with his, and that it might snuff your lifeforce out to even try pursuing life without him? Without this? How do you tell him that you’re so frozen and unwilling to pursue any sort of future because it means accepting that this chapter is over? You clutch childhood to your chest like a wild animal guarding scarce food; you refuse. You refuse to acknowledge its end.  

“Kai,” is all you say, trembled and thick. It’s not just your mother’s words that dig at you and tear to shreds the last bits of what dreaming you had left in you, but so many other reality checks too. This isn’t the first time you’ve heard those sorts of words, urging you forward. You can only dig your heel into the ground for so long before you’re swept away in time’s ruthless, endless moving.  

He understands. Lifting your face with warm fingers against your cheeks, he says, “Hey. How about we go get ice cream, or something?” 

Ice cream does sound nice. “Dairy Queen?” 

Smirk tugged over his mouth, he says, “Yes, Dairy Queen. A blizzard. C’mon, let’s go.” Sliding off the bed, he offers you an urging hand up. 

But you falter. “I don’t know if we can. She’s mad at me. I don’t think she’ll let me go.” 

“Let you go?” he says, eyes narrowed. “She doesn’t have to let you go. You’re an adult now, you go if you want to.” He offers his hand to you again. 

It’s so him, freely going wherever he ordain it. The bullheadedness is very him, as well. Always the devil on your shoulder, he was the root of any rebellious thing you’ve ever done. He could never understand your apprehension, or why getting in trouble was such an awful thing to you. “I have to ask to get money.” 

Brows pinching, he says, “You think I’m not gonna pay for you? You don’t need them to give you money, I’ll pay. I’ll take care of it.” He drags you up from the bed this time. “Live a little. Do you want to go?” 

It was never the punishments or the getting in trouble that you were scared of, though. Disappointment was a scarier word than grounded. Sneaking out and those sorts of things, it’s not like you had angel wings at your back and never considered them. It’s that you are deeply, utterly terrified of changing how they look at you. You begin to tell him, “I do, but—” 

He cuts you off, adamant. “Then do it. Let’s go. If you want to go, then go,” he says. “At some point, your life needs to become your own. It’s not sneaking out when you’re graduated and nineteen years old, it’s going wherever the hell you want. You’ve... You’re gonna end up stuck here, in this town, forever. You don’t deserve that.” 

That sounds like both the best and the worst thing you’ve ever heard. You take his hand.  

⚝⭒ 

Your frozen fingers nurse your ice cream. The cup itself is cold, but the Dairy Queen on your side of town is always thirty degrees below what it should be. It’d always been that way. Even way back when you two couldn’t drive, you’d get dropped off here to escape the melting weather and get a frozen treat with a handful of dollars. Each time, you’d start off sagging with the relief of summer’s weight off your shoulders and left the place shivering and sugar-mouthed.  

It’s really only you two in here. You crinkle your nose when he takes a spoonful. “Out of all the flavors...” 

Unbothered and no doubt expecting you to say it, he offers you a flat, “You get your flavor, I get mine.” He makes a point of taking an extra-long bite. His lips linger around the red plastic of the spoon and his brows rest high in silent challenge.  

The corners of your lips twitch up. “Hmm. Well. I just have a hard time believing that Oreo... or, like, brownie fudge, is right there, and you actually want M&M. I don’t get how M&M your favorite.” A familiar banter falls over your tongues. Your heart buzzes and your cheeks radiate. This is the first you’ve done this all summer, and it’ll be weaning off into fall soon. Any other summer, you would’ve been here on all the hottest days. You hate that Kai’s been so busy with his music; you hate that you can hear the resounding ticks of the clock counting down your time. You also hate that the stubborn depths of you still believe that if you freeze yourself here in stasis that the world will relent and stop along with you. 

You look over the sharp lines of Kai’s jawline as it feathers with his chewing, and the broadness of his shoulders where his jacket stretches around it, and the starkness of his collarbones against his chest and the bobbing of his adam’s apple when he swallows. No, time doesn’t stop. Some of him remains the same, though. In it, you see the boy that had love creeping up on you so long ago, with all its aching and all its hope. That freckle on the column of his neck, the bump in his nose leading down to the button tip that beckons your lips to steal a quick kiss.  

And, those lips. They’re as soft as ever around the discontented grimace he pulls. “M&M isn’t my favorite.” 

With a pursed mouth and patronizing brows arched over your eyes, you say, “Oh, huh. That’s funny, because if my memory serves me right, it’s the only flavor you’ve ordered for the past... six years.”  

Kai husks a laugh at that. “That’s because they haven’t had my favorite for years,” he tells you, scooping up the final bit and then pushing it off to the side. “It was a blizzard of the month that they discontinued. The blackberry cheesecake one. I made peace with it, though. It lives on in my heart.” He grins, arms crossed over his chest and his back settled into the booth seat to let you finish your cup.  

“Blackberry cheesecake,” you say, voice made taunting. Your nod is slow and taunting, too. “Well, forget M&Ms.Why would blackberry cheesecake be your favorite? Ever?” 

His face falters, a moment where something flows over his eyes as if reliving a memory in a few short seconds. Then, he shrugs. “It just is.” 

You roll your eyes. “Whatever,” you laugh. “Maybe my palate is unrefined.” Imagining the tarte fruit in purple swirls of ice cream, you’re taken back to a humid July day and the scent of churned mud.  

The strange memory unfolds itself quick. As if it were waiting for you to find wherever it’d hidden itself away. With a sharp gasp, you say, “Oh my god, Kai. Do you remember that one day? That weird stuff we saw down at the creek?” 

He nods. “Yeah. I was just thinking of that the other day, actually...” 

Less interested in finishing your cup now, you let the spoon rest. “What?” you say, the word peaking in the middle. That day hadn’t crossed your mind once since it’d happened. “How weird is that?” 

Scoffing a laugh, he says, “Weird, yeah. Just as strange as two kids high on fermented berries.” 

That draws a breathy laugh from you. “Is that what you think it was?” you ask him with knitted brows. The berries had been fresh, and you two had popped plenty into your mouth. But no doubt, you’d have spat them right back out if they were that ripe. “I mean, we saw the same thing.” 

“It happens to animals all the time. Squirrells, and stuff.” He lends you a gallic shrug. “We just freaked ourselves out. Like that one time you said you saw the shape of something in the dark and we freaked out. And it was clothes.”  

Well, hallucinating, in tandem, a glowing mist because you two by chance ate fermented berries is a very long shot. However nonchalant he acts about it, he seems to have thought long and hard about it. Enough to reason it away with some far cry explanation. Would you have even been able to get drunk off a handful of fermented berries? And, god, you’re really sure that you’d have noticed. That taste isn’t really one you just don’t notice.  

Whatever. Maybe you were just drunk idiots. That’s a lot easier to swallow, anyway. 

“Okay, but you saw that. Did it not look sinister?” you say. With your spoon back in your hand, you punctuate the sentence pointing it at him. “You freaked out with me, too.”  

An unsatisfied scowl on his lips, he steals a spoonful of your dessert. You don’t even swat him away—your phone buzzes in your pocket. 

Catching sight of who’s calling, you share a long look with Kai. It’s funny, how fast those three white letters scramble you up. When you hesitate to answer, Kai tells you, “Answer.” 

You hope she can’t tell you’re not at Kai’s by the refrigerators’ dull buzzing. It’s an effort to tussle that invasive worry back. You’re at Dairy Queen. Getting ice cream with the boy she’s known since childhood. She should clutch her hands and thank the sky that you’re here, not out in some nasty frat house like you could be. You thumb the green button. 

Her voice comes through the speaker crackled and asking you to run over to do a quick dish load. For a heartbeat you consider telling her that you will and then start rushing home. Instead, you fork out the truth through resistant lips. 

The hangup tone sits heavy on the air between you and Kai. Having listened to the whole thing on speaker, he says, “What was so hard about that? The world didn’t end, did it?” 

The plush of your lip takes a hard gnawing. No, it hadn’t. “I know she’s not going to get mad at me for just going here,” you say as you rest your elbows onto the table. “It’s that they’re supporting me right now. I still live under their roof. The more I go around and insist I can do whatever I want, they’ll start reminding me of it.” 

His face drawn, he lets his mouth twitch to one side. “Yeah,” he muses. “I never thought yours would be the type to kick you out.” 

Kai’s dad had started threating him with getting kicked out years ago, when he first started telling him that he wanted to do music. How many times had he let reluctant tears flow into your shoulder over it? Because music wasn’t a real job? Back then, you’d whispered in his ears that he’d become everything he’d dreamed of and more as your fingers carded through shaggy locks of hair.  

“I don’t know,” you say, humming it out noncommittally. “Is your dad still... y’know?” 

Nodding slowly, his eyes tell. “Yeah. Always.” 

“Because you’re taking the band seriously, now?” you ask.  

“Probably. I don’t give a shit what he thinks about it. If I’m just his goddamn problem, I’ll give him what he wants soon enough.” His eyes blaze with promise of it.  

It takes a bit out of you to not wince. Kai living anywhere but in the house across from yours is wrong. “I don’t think he necessarily wants that, Kai...” You take his hand in your icy ones, the urge to reach out to him thinly veiled under the guise of searching out warmth. He’d always run warmer than you—your personal heater. “It’s probably because he can see that you’re doing it for real. Not just saying it anymore.” 

“Yeah, well,” he spits, “I can’t fucking wait to see what he’ll say to me when I make it. That piece of shit, though, he wouldn’t even care. It’s not like he ever gave a shit about me enough for it to matter.” 

But, it matters to you, you want to tell him. You understand his need to throw it all in his face. Though. “Is that one label going to sign you? The one you were talking about?” 

His tongue darts out to wet dry lips. “They haven’t yet. I don’t know. But I don’t need that money to get out of here, I’ve been working on it.” 

“They will,” you say. “But, where would you go? Not too far?” You try and keep it light and playful, even as your heart aches. 

“Come with me,” he says. It’s painfully blunt, as if it were that simple. “Let’s go get and apartment; you and me.” 

“Kai...” you say. “You don’t have to drag me along because you feel bad.” 

The idea doesn’t sound half bad, though.  

“What?” His face tightens, as if somewhere under the surface your words had scraped somewhere tender. “You don’t have to stay here forever. Please. I want... I want you to come with me. You wouldn’t have to even tell them; just bring all your stuff and go together. We could do it together. Like we said we would.”  

“We were like, five. Everybody tries to pretend running away at five,” you deadpan. It’s a washy attempt at lightening things back up. 

Living with him, moving out together, should feel like everything you’ve ever wanted. And, maybe it is. But, he’s not asking you to live with him the way you want him to. Not in the way that your aching heart wishes he would.  

Kai doesn’t share the laugh you give him. “Yeah, okay,” he says, leaning into the table.  

Perhaps you should consider the potent disappointment he’s terribly masking with a face of indifference, though. 

⚝⭒ 

Slowly, the knots in your belly have worked themselves out. When Kai had dropped you off, they’d been so awful that you felt borderline sick. You sat the whole ride there in his old beat-up truck picking at your nails and rambling to him. He listened to you the whole time. And then when it was time to walk in, it had least felt a little easier to do so with his eyes on you, watching to make sure you made it in safely. 

You’d gotten a job. It’s not too bad, folding clothes out on display. It would be nice if they kept the lights a bit brighter, but you’ll get used it eventually, you hope. 

Most of your coworkers are around your age, but the one showing you the ropes... your heart had fluttered. 

“You’ll get it,” Yeonjun says. The smile you find on his lips once he straightens up from placing product on a display is smooth and smug. Sleek strands of black hair fall over his eyes. You fluster under his gaze.  

With arms crossed over your chest you say, “Yeah, probably.” You reach into the cardboard box for stock to practice on. 

“Where’d you work before this?” he asks, leaning back into a wall to watch you. Suddenly, you make sloppier work of your folding. “Your first retail job?” 

Some obnoxious pop song falls down from the speakers over the store. Nobody’s in here yet, thankfully; you’ve got some time to try and get a handle on everything. “No, this is my first job. I was so nervous walking in.” 

Interest catches in his eyes. It encourages that smooth smile on his lips further. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll show you the reins.” 

Your mind stalls. The suggestive, sly flicker to it—are you looking too much into it? Maybe that’s just how guys like Yeonjun act. It’s hard to pretend that you don’t see how he’s looking at you, though. It has your belly twisted up in fluttery knots. It’s not like you hadn’t had your share of his type. But, for some reason you’d rather not address, he’s got your heart thumping in your chest. 

He laughs at your fifth attempt to fold up the shirt. When he takes it from you to help, he smells of musk and vetiver. “You going to college near here?” he continues.  

“Nah, just doing this, I guess,” you answer, watching him fold it up to try and soak it up.  

“Really? Why not?” he hums, crossing his arms about his chest. “You seem like a smart girl.” 

Buffering, your blood buzzes in your veins and your cheeks burn. “Dunno. Not really sure what to do. Are you in college?” 

“Nah. I’m trying to figure things out, too.” 

The both of you pop your heads up when the bell rings to announce the arrival of a customer.  

“Yeah,” you say, eyeing him. He’s a few years older than you, no doubt, and yet his life hasn’t fallen apart because he’s not done anything grand yet.  

Time’s hand around your neck loosens. Just a little bit.  

⚝⭒ 

You sit crisscrossed on top of Kai’s bedsheets. He’d thrown the windows open because the AC died, but it’s no help. The hot air wafting about the room sits heavy on your skin. You’d dressed in as little material as possible to let it breathe, bare thighs clad in a pair of loose shorts and a thin tank top, but it’s still miserable. 

Perhaps you two should be going over to yours, but you haven’t had time alone with him for a few weeks now. You hate this busier life, where you struggle to make room for this. 

Your new job isn’t so awful, though. Especially with Yeonjun there. A bout of nerves flows up through your stomach. That reminds you. 

Sitting up a bit straighter, you consider not doing it. In fact, you really shouldn’t. But your mouth moves before you can put a stopper on it. 

“Hey, Kai,” you say. The thickness in your throat makes you believe that your heart’s jumped up into it, caught. God, what are you doing? The unsure waver in your words has you regretting. 

His eyes flicker up to yours. He hums out a, “Huh?” 

No, this is wrong. You mess with the thin cotton strap of your tank top where it’d slipped down. “Never mind,” you tell him, trying to shrug it off.  

That piques his interest. “No, what?” His brow pinches.  

You lick your lips and shake your head. “Nothing, never mind. Really.” 

His eyes search you from where he sits up against the wall. “Tell me,” he demands. 

Really, you shouldn’t have said it in the first place. It was a ridiculous idea. But now you know he’s not going to let it go. And, ridiculously, you say it. “I was just... wondering,” you say, blood roaring. "Well, Yeonjun wants me to come over to his place this weekend, and... I’ve never...” Sucking in a quick breath, you just spit it out to get it over with, “Would you be my first kiss, Kai?” 

Insects buzz outside as he looks at you, frozen in spot. You reject the urge to dart away or throw up. You’re honestly just as shaken as him. But really, who else could you trust with something like that? You don’t want Yeonjun to be disappointed if he kisses you, or to seem inexperienced to him. 

And, perhaps, the hopelessly in love part of you hopes to at least feel his lips on yours at least once. If you’re going to be alone forever in your longing, you just wish that you can have this. 

“What?” Kai says. He looks rattled.  

Of course, he’s shocked. You shift. “Forget I said that,” you tell him, unable to meet his gaze.  

String-roughened fingers wrap around your upper arm. “I didn’t say anything,” he says, voice strained and face less shock-fallen and more darkened. “But... I mean, you want me to teach you to kiss for some other guy.” He spits out the last bit as if bitter in his mouth.  

“You don’t have to do it,” you say. “I just... thought that I might ask you to do it. I don’t know, I’m sorry I said it. I’ll just wing it or something.” His room’s grown ten degrees hotter, if that was possible. Especially where you feel his eyes on your face.  

Almost imperceptibly, his hand tightens around you. He swallows hard. “You want to learn how to kiss?” he says. “Fine. I’ll teach you.” 

In a heart-stopping moment, your eyes snap to his. Brown and familiar, they hold you with an intensity that turns your limbs into jelly. The air is stifling. “What... do I do?” you ask when the silence becomes too heavy.  

A muscle feathers in his jaw, reflected in the low light of his room. It’s quick and so easy to miss, but it tells you everything you need to know about how this is making him feel. How much disbelief he’s in. “Come here,” he says, stilted around the absolute absurdity of it. He pats on his lap. 

You make a hesitant crawl across the bed toward him. It seems as though your elbows might buckle beneath your weight, but you make it despite the odds. A fog settles over your brain when you rest your hands on his shoulders and bring your legs to straddle his lap. 

But you shove it back; you want to live and breathe every last second of this. No matter how unbelievable or blistering it is.  

Breaths fan out over your face. It’s seizing your mind like undiluted liquor. “Where do I put my hands?” you ask him. It’s breathless, the air stolen right from your lungs though your mouths haven’t even touched.  

“There is fine,” he says. His words sound breathless, too. The weight of his touch on you as he runs his own up to support your back is unsure. “And then...” he says. It falls out on your mouth slowly, and then he’s taking your lips onto his. 

The walls melt away, sound does too. All that is real is the taste of his lips and how they move against you. Your lips start tentative, but you try his mouth movements yourself. It feels like a timid dance—it feels like deep, deep down, finally everything is right. That mist, thick and blinding, falls back over you. 

Something changes. Something in it, where you two meet, changes. He becomes hungry. Softly locked lips turn biting and nipping, shaky breaths exhaled slow through your nose. His hands on your back become surer, and one even ventures off to grab your chin. The other holds you to his chest, melded together despite the intense smoke and flame rolling off your bodies. You wonder if he can feel your heart beating a mess there. 

Reluctance paints you both when you pull back. You’re panting deep drinks of air. It’s hard to think; your mind’s run off and sits just out of reach. Licking your messy lips, stained with illicitness, you can only manage to brush your fingers against it to form words. “How... was that?” you say, searching his eyes. You find his pupils blown so wide that they consume the warm brown. You’re ready to jump out of your skin with that look pointed at you.  

Kai doesn’t answer, though. He slams your mouths back together as if starved by just the brief moment you’d parted for air. Nips on your bottom lip and emboldened hands—he moves like roaring water through a dam. A dam that he’d worked hard to fortify, and yet, at a crack it’s all falling down. Fingertips digging through the fabric of your shorts down to your soft hips, his chest rumbles. You feel it reflected in your core, electricity charging there and shooting up your spine and down your thighs. 

You kiss him for all the times you wish you would’ve, but didn’t. The slight rolls of your hips down onto him come easy. You love how it has him making a sound into your mouth and taking the fat beneath his fingers harder into his hands. He helps you. 

He drops his head into your neck. Your head swims for air and he has you shuddering with just the brushing of his nose against the column of your neck. The walls of his room spin around you. “Kai,” you whine, every bit of friction his jeans provide, even clothed as you are, just enough to rile you but not to give you what you need. 

“God,” he growls, thumbs hooking under your waistband. “You always fucking run around dressed in nothing,” he says, letting his fingers linger like a suggestion of undressing you. “Did you do it on purpose? Expect to make me crazy, knowing I couldn’t touch you?” 

And, in those words, it seems that he steals every last bit of breath from you. How often had you gone braless or worn something like this around him? Laid here, in his bed, like that? 

Grown tired of your fruitless grinding, he brings a hand down to support your lower back and says, “Turn around.” 

Though you explode with the prospect of what he might be intending to do or what’s next, if you’re really going to do this, you do so in a flash of eager limbs. His chest is solid against your back, you melt against the feeling of it. He’d become such a man lately, filled out, and you watched it happen. It was hard for your eyes not to catch on muscle-corded forearms while he picked at strings or to not appreciate the timbred rumble of his voice when you’d feel it come from his chest. How could it not do things to you? Now, he’s dragging your shorts down your legs and you’re in disbelief.  

“Fuck,” he breaths out. His fingers find your panties soaked through. “So, you’re the type to get dripping wet.” 

An embarrassed blush decorates your cheeks. Kai drags his index finger in circles around your clit through the fabric as if enamored with how much of a mess you’d made of it. Your hips twitch every time he rolls right over it. It’s strange how he’s got your body acting on its own volition with his touches. Even stranger that it’s your best friend doing it. “Sorry,” you tell him, wavering.  

He continues those terribly slow circles. “Sorry?” he says, chin on your shoulder. He’s got you wrapped up in him, with nowhere to go but to melt back into him and let his fingers work. Free hand on one of your inner thighs digging divots into the plushness there to hold it still, he tells you, “It’s nothing to be sorry about. It’s hot as fuck. You’re so excited for me to touch you, huh?” 

The words wreak havoc on you, feeding the flame that has your belly twisted up tight and the ignition point between your thighs pounding. To hear them coming from him, reserved Kai, has you digging your fingers into his forearm to prove that it’s real. You’d never have imagined him being so... filthy. You imagine him behind falsely nonchalant eyes, devouring you with a perverted mind all the times you’d spent innocently sitting together in this room.  

Your cheeks squish beneath his fingers as he takes your face and turns it to him. He wants to make sure you’re look at him as he asks you, “Do you want me to finger you?” 

Like a record, your brain skips. Between the blunt, lewd question and his hand on you, it’s in overload. How could ask something like that so simply? Stunned as you are, of course you want him to. You want him to do anything to you. You nod.  

Every last nerve and neuron in your system, just below the skin, cry out when his fingers slow down to nothing. “Hmm?” he says, ignoring the chasing of your hips and the opening of your thighs to invite him into paying your poor pussy the attention he’d ripped from it. He wants to hear you say it.  

About ten minutes ago, you lost your mind. It does not return to you now. “I want you to,” you say, chest beating in tandem with your cunt. 

“You want me to, right? Not some dumbass you met a week ago, huh?” he says. “Because you know that this is what it’s meant to be. Me, doing these things to you. Not some twenty-five-year-old piece of shit. He doesn’t deserve you, baby. Understand?” 

His fingers slider under your panties. Dumb brained and cognition gone muddled, you nod. All you can really think about is the moment his fingers slide over you. Fire licks up your lower belly and your insides as he brushes calloused finger tips finally right against your clit. 

Puffed breaths of a scoff raise goosebumps over your skin. “Teach you to kiss so that you can go over there and get his hands on you,” he says, middle two fingertips prodding at your entrance. “As if you were ever anybody’s but mine. You’d come crawling back to me, baby, because it was always meant to be us. He could never satisfy you.” 

His words might alarm you or have you asking questions if he hadn’t pushed his fingers into you and begun curling them with strong, pointed presses, pulling soft mewls and hums from you until he finds a spot that twists up your insides. Even through the palm you press over your mouth, your moans come out more like wavering grunts and croaks. Your thighs quiver and twitch, threatening to snap closed against your own will with each. Only your feet stay planted to the mattress. Like a cone of soft serve under the sun’s blistering attention, you melt down him. Just his frame keeps you upright. 

“Right there, huh?” he says. The smirk on his mouth filters his words into something taunting. “That’s where you like it.” It’s like he’s learning your body step by step, fulfilling all the questions he’d been forced to only guess at before this.  

“Uh-huh.” It comes out whiny and cracks in the middle, but you can’t find even an ounce of you to care right now. If this moment had been a long spiral, a fall from grace, down into a dark pit of forgotten inhibitions, you’ve just hit the bottom. Cheeks blazing cherry blossom pink and with your fingers curling into his pant leg, you don’t doubt that you are a picturesque mess. The kind of mess that’s beautiful because it’s dirty. Your teeth are not gentle on your plush bottom lip. It stings, tugged back and bitten and still a bit swollen with kisses. Perhaps you taste the tang of metal on it, but you pay it no mind. 

Kai redoubles his efforts. Now that he knows exactly how to play you, he’s fucking you on his fingers without mercy. The sounds coming from your cunt were wet, but now they’re different— nasty squelching. The only noises coupling with your pathetic keening. Forget anchoring yourself on his thigh, forget muffling your sounds. Instead, your hands fly to encircle his flexing forearm. Under your nails, angry red crescents dig into the muscle there. What had been a languid, building pleasure suddenly becomes everything. Your breaths run away from you, and you chase them frantically. Deep down in your core, the muscles spasm and rage against his fingers. “H—oh god,” you groan. Even the muscles in your thighs and tummy tighten up. 

“So whiny...” Kai mumbles, voice taut with the effort of eroding you down into pure, blinding-white pleasure. 

And then, in a swoop of mercy, your belly tightens. You hover here, on the precipice of something so consuming and voracious that your muscles and bones reject it, and yet your heart sings. Your eyes and cheeks and lungs and belly burn, the flame charring the edges of you in a beckon. You answer its call. Kai doesn’t mind the snapping of your legs shut around his arm, nor does your bucking or shaking deter him. He just holds you through it, arm like a metal bar around your waist. He’s everywhere, in this moment—the smell of him, leather and utterly familiar, his mouth dusting hot kisses over your skin, his fingers guiding you through orgasm. Where you’d gone silent in the initial crash of it, you devolve into mewls and grunts as you come down.  

He holds you even as you slump against him boneless. Afterglow simmers in your veins and has your brain all lethargic and lazy. Neither of you speak for a while, your pulse thumping a rhythm. His breaths rise and fall against you; it grounds you in this moment where you feel all spacey and gone. You become aware again of how disgustingly sweltering it is in his room, your skin sheened. 

That brainless bliss only lasts you for so long, though. When rational mind returns to you, no matter how you wish it wouldn’t, you’re hit in the chest with regret so hard it knocks the wind out of you. 

How will anything ever be the same after what you’d just done? Stricken still by the thought, you barely register him pulling his fingers out of you. After all your worrying about making sure no wedge comes between you two, look what you’ve gone and done. No; nothing ever will be the same again.  

⚝⭒ 

A couple of weeks ago, you ruined the one friendship you were supposed to have forever. It presses down heavy one you while you sit sprawled out on Yeonjun’s couch, his arm around your shoulder. His phone casts a glow over his features with all the lights out. 

It doesn’t smell like home. He, pressed against your side, doesn’t smell like home.  

Some stupid movie that he’d picked out, yet somehow you’ve ended up the only one still watching it, weaves a hum into the quiet of his apartment. Tangy hurt wells up in your throat. Even the moments when you and Kai would sit in mutual silence on your phones never felt like this. This is different.  

You haven’t seen Kai since that night. He’s been busy getting ready to move out, and you’ve been here most days. How fast all of it had changed. You wish you’d feel whiplashed, left empty, by the drifting that you’d been so terrified of. But you don’t. It’s just been you, locked on land, watching him being taken away by the ocean’s tide with no way to change its course. You tried and screamed to call him back, but now your voice has gone hoarse.  

And instead of watching him go, you choose to look elsewhere. It’s all you can do to protect yourself from the hurt. 

“Hey,” Yeonjun says, finally addressing you rather than whoever’s he’s got in his phone. “Did you bring anything to change into?”  

“I brought stuff to sleep in,” you say, eyeing him. You know that’s not why he’s asking. If it came down to it, you could just steal something from him and pull it on. He means going out clothes. Your jaw tightens. “But nothing nice. Why?” 

He stretches his arms behind his head in a flaunt of long arms and tanned muscle. Hours spent at the gym lent him those; you appreciate the look of it with a watering mouth. Kai had earned his build by hours spent outside with your dad, because his own could care less, helping him fix up cars and vehicles of all ridiculous sorts. You remember when Kai had first gotten his truck—junk on wheels, honestly—he’d spent so much of summer out there getting it running. And, well... the sun-kissed bronze of his skin and frame that came with it, you had no qualms with. 

But those memories only sit heavy in your chest as you’re sat here beside Yeonjun. You banish them elsewhere; you need to let him drift off. If you can’t have each other, and your feelings won’t permit just being friends, then you have to. You want him to do amazing things, and you fear that it’s your presence in his life that will interrupt that. As much as your feelings are real, they are selfish. You, your unsure direction and all your dead weight, should let him go. Because you love him. 

“The guys want to come over,” he tells you, pushing off from the couch. “You should probably into change into something less showy.” 

Less showy. Your mouth drops into a scoff of disbelief, looking down. A pair of shorts and a shirt, showy? You have to laugh, or else you’ll succumb to the strange embarrassment crawling at the back of your skull. What’s he trying to say? Is that what he thinks of you? “What’s that supposed to mean?” you say, face tilted up to him in a twist of distaste. “I’m wearing something comfy.” 

He shrugs, hands shoved into the pockets of his black sweats. “Don’t want to give them the wrong idea about you, that’s all, baby. They’re guys; I just want to protect you.” 

“No,” you say, the word falling out in a barked laugh. “Why would you even be bringing over dudes that you think will look at me like that? Why are you even friends with people that you think are gonna make moves on your girlfriend?” He holds a hand out to you, but your hands stay right where they are: crossed solidly over your chest. 

Throwing that hand up in audacious exasperation, he gives you a look that makes you feel small and petulant—like you’re throwing an overblown fit. And, maybe you are. You should probably just do it; him seeing you as some overbearing or high maintenance girl has that embarrassment flaring like wildfire that’s found dry brush. “C’mon, baby,” he says, a lazy smile on his mouth that gets under your skin. “Let’s just have an easy night. Don’t make it a big deal.” 

Let’s just have an easy night. As if you’re the one ruining the night. Something snarky tries to seize your tongue, but you hold it down. “I thought it would be just us. We wanted to watch the movie together, Yeonjun. Can’t you wait to hang out with your friends? Let’s enjoy our time together; you’ve got your shift tomorrow.” 

“My fucking god,” he groans, running a hand through his hair furiously. “You’re needy, you know that? The neediest I’ve ever had to put up with. I don’t put up with needy, baby. Can’t you just chill out a little? My last didn’t mind when I’d have friends over.” 

Your eyes burn. Your cheeks burn. He’d been with plenty of other girls before you; that, you’re well aware of. It’s been a corrosive source of self-doubt for you. You don’t want that title: the neediest he’s ever had. Don’t want him to think of you as some prude that won’t let him have fun. Just... hearing him bring up the other girls he’d been with before you stings and leaves welts no different from a slap in the face. Feelings of inadequacy shackle you and have you saying, “Fine. I’m gonna borrow some of your clothes.” 

Heavy resentment blooms on your skin where he bends down and presses kisses to your cheek, and then mouth, and then down your neck. “Thank you, baby.” 

And, where those ugly, wilted flowers of it bloom, you hear echoes of something. Something that tells you that Kai wouldn’t treat you like this. But you’ve made your bed, decided to do it yourself, and now you’ve got to lay on it. 

⚝⭒ 

The frat parties are the worst kind of social outing that Yeonjun insists upon. The smaller kinds, more intimate gathering with just his closer friends, you tolerate much easier. You’re not fond of the circles he chooses. Breathing in thick, smoked-out air surrounded by alcohol-coated breaths is not your type of fun night. Somehow, you end up doing that more than date nights. But that’s better than being here. The base rumbles up through your feet and makes your stomach sick, and it reeks of grinding bodies and body odor, and condensation coats your fingers from the red solo cup as full as when you’d first gotten it. 

But, still, you come along. Not every time, but when you don’t, you lay in his bed sickening yourself with images of what he might be doing here. How pathetic is it to attend parties with your boyfriend because you fear that otherwise, he might stick his tongue down the throats of other girls? 

You’re looking for him right now, awkward and left alone. He’d promised to stick around; you had begged him to. That was pathetic, too. You know that you put up with too much. If he loved you, or honestly even liked you, you two would be in the thick of the throngs dancing or off somewhere talking with others. Together. The frantic skimming and weeding of your eyes through the blur of faces is not right. That’s not how he should make you feel. It’s not how Kai would make you feel. 

Well, Kai would never have you here in the first place. 

Venturing out from your little corner, you sift between the bodies of people have a hell of a lot better time than you. Drunken, some you bounce off of like bumper carts. You press your palm over the round face of your cup to spare the floor from spillage threatening to pour over the lip. It’s not like a splash from yours would matter much, though. The linoleum has already been made a fetor mess of dirt off shoes and the sticky sugar of liquor. Your shoes peel from it as you walk. God, what would your parents think of you being here? 

You peek around corners and eye big groups. He’s not in the kitchen when you look there, either. Your stomach feels sick in a knowing way—a gut feeling that doesn’t justify anger or tears just yet, but you know. Right in the center of your chest, you know. 

It’s in some room that you find him. Sat on the floor along with a few faces you don’t know, he pulls from his bottle. And on his shoulder, he lets a girl with shining curls and pink cheeks rest her head. At your busting in on the intimate gathering, Yeonjun’s eyes slide to you. Recognition flashes over them and wars with bleary drunkenness. 

“Hey, baby,” he says. Their gazes all fall on you, but you can hardly see them through blurry eyes. 

The girl lifts her head from his shoulder. She’d caught the memo. 

“I think I’m gonna go.” You make it sound resigned, try to not let them see your shame, but your voice betrays you and crackles. Maybe it’s better to pretend it doesn’t feel like you’ve just been kicked in the stomach and left to reel against the force, but you can’t. You’re nowhere near shocked, nowhere near blindsided, but still you hurt. 

He follows you down the hall. “What’s your problem?” he says, the few, plain words mending and waving into a slurring. 

You’ve got one goal: get to the front door, away from the shitty music and him. His words, sharpened, fall off your skin despite his efforts. What good would fighting do you, anyway? It was always going to end up this way. This is just who he is, and he doesn’t give two shits enough about you to want to change that. 

“Baby, seriously? That made you this mad? I didn’t even fucking do anything. Stop being insecure,” he says. At the gritting of your teeth, he sees an opportunity and pounces on it. “You don’t need to be jealous. I don’t do jealous shit. We can dance, or something. Shit, I don’t know what you want! Just stop throwing a fit.” 

Didn’t do anything? You have to laugh. Maybe you didn’t walk in on him fucking someone else, but that’s not what this is about. Not even a little bit. You’ve checked out, and the fact that he thinks he can make you believe that it’s your fault this time only drives the killing stake in harder. 

Maybe you’re bitter. It claws at your insides—turns your face hot and screams in your face that you’ve been used. But beside it sits a sadness. Not the slow kind, but the quick sadness of hurt. Why hadn’t you been good enough for him to love you? To like you? You’d left behind Kai and rested your new life on Yeonjun’s shoulders. You’d wanted so badly for his approval, or for him to want you. You did your best to try and make this work out because you needed it to. You needed so desperately proof that you could fall in love with somebody else. But your best was not what Yeonjun was interested in.  

Pins and needles prick your skin as you step outside, like jumping into an ice bath. It shocks you out of dizziness. Words surge up and out in a flash flood like hard reality. You spin on him. “Jealous?” you say, choking out a scathing laugh. “The last thing I’d ever let myself suffer over you is jealousy. Get over yourself. I’m going, stay here if you want. I don’t care.” 

“How are you gonna do that, huh?” he says. The flickering yellow of the porchlight paints his features. The shadow of something fluttering around it cuts dark spots in the light, and then a small little moth comes down and jumps around in his face. He waves it off. “Gonna have bitch boy come pick you up? You can’t leech off him forever; he’s gonna get sick of picking up another man’s girlfriend.” It seems like you walking in on that had sobered him up, but his breath still curls out onto your face with the reek of alcohol. “It’s not a big deal. You’re making this a bigger deal than it has to be. Do you not trust me?”  

“You are such a piece of shit,” you grit out. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Ever. I don’t know how I let this go on for so long.” You don’t like him having Kai in his mouth, don’t like him trying to act like you’re conflating things, and especially don’t like that face he’s making. As if you’re acting crazy and overblown. “No, I don’t trust you. You didn’t fuck her, but come on, Yeonjun. Seriously? You think I’m stupid, and I’m sick of it. You thought this would be easy because I didn’t have the experience you have, but I’m sorry. I don’t like being walked over.” 

“If you’re gonna be so goddamn jealous, then maybe we aren’t gonna work,” he says. 

That moth, floating light in the air, is right back in his face. Yeonjun takes two hands and smashes it between a clap of his hands. He shakes its flattened, broken body off his hand. Looking down at it laying there on top of dirt-caked concrete, you get this... feeling. A tickling around your person.  

“See if I care,” you snap, throat aching against the onslaught of emotion and held back tears.  

⚝⭒ 

Rivulets of raindrops dilute the tears on your cheeks. Your hair plasters to your face and your clothes to your body.  

For a week, you’d went about it all as if it hadn’t happened. And then you came here.  

It’d not been this rainy when you first got down to the creek—just a gentle trickle, really. You hadn’t been crying then, either. But, watching the water work at babbling over stone, you let yourself feel it. Here, where you’d had so many good memories. You’ve gone and tainted it, now. But for whatever reason, you’d just wanted to be here. Arms curled around yourself and fingers digging into drenched sleeves, you don’t wipe away the tears or cover the sounds of your crying. You let the stream hear it; it’ll sweep it right up and down the way. Somewhere far off, where you don’t have to feel it anymore. 

You realize that, usually, you’d be over at Kai’s right now. The fact that his room was not the first place you thought you could go to anymore is a punch to the gut. You drop your face into your hands and cry harder. Really, you’ve got to stop doing that to yourself. Thinking of sad things—putting your hurt under the microscope to see it closer. It’d be easier to just fold it up and tell yourself that it’ll pass, and that relationships end all the time. 

It’s not him that you cry over. Well, maybe some of it is. Rather, it’s that you have absolutely no idea where you’re going. Where you are. Finally, you’d built yourself a raft to get off the shore and go out to sea, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and it’s breaking apart right beneath you. And, stranded and alone in the water, you’ve got no way to get back to shore to build yourself another raft. You’re stranded, and the scariest bit is that you’re doing it all alone. You weren’t supposed to do this alone. You two made promises back then. 

You suppose that a promise is one of those things you were supposed to leave faith in back on shore. 

The raindrops are heavy over you. The fall of it roars against the ground, a torrent downpour. It’s not coupled with whipping wind or flashes of lightning—just straight, still falling. It’s a somber feeling no different from the gnawing in your chest. 

Like chimes, there’s a distant, gentle sound. Maybe water falling over creek rock, but it’s more like suggestion. A sweet sound that you shouldn’t even be able to hear over the rest of it, it’s as if it’s right in your ear. A whisper.  

You fix your blurry eyes with a wet sleeve. Rain falls right back into its place, but you see it: a silvery, whimsy haze. And the moths. They jump and call you, this time. Their glow bounces off the rainy mist against the grey of night’s arrival. Then, all you can hear is the whispering. Where you stand frozen, your feet beg to move. To follow them. 

So you do. 

Their entourage of moondust trails them where they go, wrapping you up and weaving between raindrop and space. You don’t worry where they’ll take you, or even try to wrap your head around this happening again. You just follow, mind glossed over and entranced with how beautiful it is. When you’d seen them before, it’d made you uneasy. Mostly because it looked so unearthly and unbelievable. But this time you just follow. 

A far-off voice, one oh-so-familiar, peaks through the haze. It’s not enough to stop you, but then you hear it again, louder and closer. 

You blink a few times. Once to break away the fog, and then twice to focus your eyes on Kai stood in front of you. His hair lays in wet spikes over his eyes and beads rain trace the planes of his face. He’s as soaked as you. 

“Kai?” you say. Looking around you, you’ve ended up somewhere in the field between your houses and the creek. But you’ve got no recollection of walking here. Whatever that mist is, sentient or not, had swept you here.  

His voice is strained, but you appreciate hearing it. “Break up with him,” he tells you. 

In his eyes, as you search them, there’s stardust glowing like reflection. Your face twists up. “What?” you say, breath a puff of smoke ahead of you. Summer had come and gotten away from you so fast, and now it’s gone all cold again. 

“Break up with him,” he echos, face solemn. He looks ruffled. 

“Why?” you ask, “And why are you out here?” 

“Because I’m moving out today, and I think I deserve to at least see you before I go.” His eyes look over you. “And... your dad said you went down to the creek.” 

He’s moving out today, and you had no idea. And really, it’s your fault. You’d driven that wedge between the two of you. “I did break up with him.” 

Downpour fills his quiet for a few moments, his face swirling with emotion like the clouds above you. He nods. “Good.” 

There are a few more long minutes between you; just you two searching each other's faces, antsy to say so much that it bunches up in your chests and stalls. It’s what a summer of longing does to you. Even with Yeonjun, even trying to slowly chip away the stitching that had connected the two of you at the hip, you were helpless to stop the gnawing of the love you bear for him. Even just seeing him now, you feel those threads mending back up. God, why does it have to be so hard? 

He just looks at you. For a few beats, he just looks at you. There are so many questions in his eyes. They flit across and turn over, but all he settles on is, “Why?” 

There’s so much you want to tell him. Words pile up to the top, some threatening to spill over. But you know that if you tell him some of it, just to make up for all the time you’d missed out on together, it’ll all come crashing out. And you don’t think you want him to know just how much you accepted, the way you let yourself get treated. So, you shake your head and say, “It doesn’t matter.” 

Kai looks like he wants to push that issue, but whatever look he finds on your face deters him. “Come with me,” he pleads. “I want you to come with me.” 

Your throat tightens. Curling your arms around yourself harder, the rain only coming down on you harder, you say, “Kai, I want to. I want to. I just... I don’t want to freeload off you, because you’re doing great things, and I’m just...” Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, but they’re already as soaked as the rest of you. “I’m just going nowhere. And I don’t want to be a burden, or ever be the reason that you can’t do what you dream of. If staying here means that you become everything that you’re destined to do, then I’m happy with that, Kai. I am.” 

He shakes his head, stumbling toward you. “No, no you don’t get it,” he says, frantically taking your shoulders into big hands. Under his touch, every taut muscle goes slack. You melt. “You don’t get it. You are the music. Every single song is about you. Every single fucking song is about you. I want you to come with me, please. I love you, I have always loved you, and I will always love you, and I thought you’d loved me too, and I don’t want to do this alone. I can’t do it alone.” 

He loves you. Kai loves you. The enormity of it rumbles the ground where you stand on legs you fear might just give in. You flex your fingers to combat the tears pricking your eyes. It doesn’t work; they brim and well up, spilling down over your cheeks. “What?” you say, voice softly breaking. “Kai, I didn’t...” 

“And just when I thought I finally had you, you left me,” he says, throwing a hand up beside him in a big gesture. “You left me! I woke up thinking you’d be there, and that maybe you loved me too, and you had left me. And then you threw me away for some piece of shit, and you stopped coming around.” His chest heaves for breaths. 

Your face contorts. That night, the one where you two had slipped up, you’d fallen asleep curled up against his chest on undiluted contentment. When you woke up, you had panicked. You thought he’d wake up and pretend it hadn’t happened, or he’d be uncomfortable, or even be disgusted and regretting. You couldn’t handle that, so you slipped out before he woke up. It’d been an attempt to protect your tender heart, but looking at the twitching of his lip now, you begin to think it’s the most selfish thing you’ve ever done. He thinks you used him and left him. Your stomach twists. Voice thick, you say, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you, Kai. I thought you didn’t... I thought you didn’t see me that way. I was scared. I’m sorry I hurt you.” 

Brows knitted together, he says, “Thought I didn’t love you?” His hand cups your cheek, warm against the soft frozen skin he finds there. “I’ve... I’ve dreamed of you almost every night of my life. In my sleep, I see you, and you’re happy and glowing, and that damn... mist is all around you. I couldn’t get away from you even in my sleep.” 

Darting between his eyes, soft and reflecting your face back to you, it’s hard to breathe. Kai’s dreamt of you; he’s as sickly in love with you as you are him. Thunder claps, and the ground shakes, and the heavens open up above you, the trumpets belt, and you two are in love. Somewhere deep in your center, you feel it—your soul nodding yes. 

The mist. You know exactly what he’s talking about. “I saw it. That stuff, those moths. The stuff we saw back then.” 

“I did too,” he says, wet spikes of hair bouncing with a nod. “Not that long ago. It was the first time I saw it out of a dream since that day.” 

Back then, you two had only budding, innocent love for each other. Things hadn’t become mangled and lost to confused hearts or expectations. When they’d appeared to you, you hadn’t needed it. This time, you’d followed it. And it had led you here—somehow had led you right to the very spot you needed to so that every last piece might fall into place. For this moment to happen. You know why it did. 

“I’ll go with you, Kai. I’ll go wherever you go; I love you. I’ve loved you since forever,” you say, each and every word massive and lovely on your tongue. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier.” 

So unlike the last times your mouth had met, he brings his mouth to yours with a dazzling clarity. No longer is it confused kisses; he locks his lips against yours with the urgency of so many years being unable to. Kai’s hands cradle your wet cheeks, hold you so tenderly into his kiss. His touch grounds you, makes the moment real. You melt into him—your fingers curled into his shirt as if holding him there so that he won’t disappear like something of an incorporeal dream. He sighs through his nose, kissing you harder. Even if it all were fake and this was nothing more than a feverish figment of your imagination, you think you could die happy just knowing this once. 

But it is utterly real, and utterly yours. You kiss him harder, too. 

When your lungs start to burn and plead for breath, you two pull away from each other. Your eyes flutter open to capture his. Warm and brown and the same ones you’ve stared into so many times before, but not like this, you sink into them. He runs his thumb over your cheek as he sinks into yours. His tongue darts out to lick lips painted with you. In the inches between you, space no longer feels heavy or charged with grievances. Every last unsaid thing had been answered. 

“I have my stuff up in the truck,” he says, breaths soft. Brown eyes dart around your face. “I’ll help you add your stuff to it.” 

You shudder out a breath. Add your stuff to it. A nervous energy settles down over you, but it doesn’t seem so bad if you’re doing it with him. Together.  

“Okay,” you whisper, a balmy secret just like the ones you used to share in small, giggly voices so many years ago. “Okay.” 

⚝⭒ 

Shivers seize you like jittering bones, all wrapped up in a blanket. The velour cushion seats beneath you have soaked up water and become damp, but Kai’s got the heater blasting. You wind around back roads, headlights illuminating the way ahead of you. Stray droplets whip in them, but nothing much. Isn’t it funny how the rain had just stopped like that? That’s just how the weather is, out here. You wonder how the weather might act wherever you’re headed. 

Your teeth chatter as if your jaw had its own will. The two of you had the windows down thinking that the wind might dry you off, but all it’s done is lap at your bitten cheeks. You reach down for the handle to crank it up. You’ve got a long drive ahead of you—either you’ll eventually dry off, or you can pull off at a rest area to change in a bathroom. The wet clothes are really not helping. 

With an arm up on the steering wheel, Kai turns his attention on you. You know that smile. “Cold?” he asks, eyes darting between your face and the road. With the hand he’s not got working the steering wheel, he runs fingers over your thigh. Soft, gentle massages, yes. The number it does on your core is absurd. Each mindless digging into your thighs and brush of his thumb, sparks sputter there. You’ve sat here, right in his passenger seat, so many times before. Day trips up to the lake, the one he’d joined your family camping at for so many summers, all the times he’d driven you to school in this truck, and even just a quick run down to a convenience store for a late-night snack. You’d deemed it your seat. But never once had you sat in it like this. Your heart does a flip. All those times you’d wish he’d reach over and do just this—a small gesture that would’ve been so big then. And it’s your reality, now.  

“Freezing,” you say. A brush of his fingers nearer the apex of your thighs sends you pressing them together and shifting in your seat. “But not everybody runs as hot as you, though, so.” 

His eyes catch the movement in just the split second he looked over to you. “Huh,” he says. He turns to look at you, his gaze flickering with something anew. Something that you’d only ever seen once before. “Is that it?” 

It’s hard to swallow. His fingers brush higher, and higher, feather-dustings of calloused fingertips that sends tingles shooting up your spine at the slightest suggestion of where he’s headed. “Yes,” you say, feigning indignance to cover the shiver that threatens to overtake you. When his fingertips dance at the waistband of your bottoms, it does so anyway. “Kai,” you say, blood hot in your veins. “You’re...driving.” 

His eyebrows pinch into a taunting furrow. “I am,” he says, nodding. “Don’t worry about it, baby. I’ve got us.” 

And he does; fingers slipping under the band of both your bottoms and your panties, he doesn’t even tear his eyes off the road. He’d driven these roads so much, you think he might be able to do it asleep. Even drawing a mewl from you with a brush over your clit, he doesn’t look away more than a quick glimpse at your pinkened cheeks. 

Two fingers dragging up your folds, right over the source of the mess. “You get excited so easily, huh?” he hums. “You like it when I play with you.” 

When he presses those fingers at your entrance, you can’t help but be taken back to that night. It echoes and reverberates through you. Long fingers, strong and punctual brushes against the sweet spot—he was criminally good with his fingers. Playing guitar did more for him than just music. He seemed to know exactly how to utilize those roughened fingers and trained flicks. Your muscles flicker as he abandons your hole for more brushes at your bud.  

Those teasing, sly touches turn to something more serious. His fingers roll over your clit, slow but enough to have you sighing and rolling your hips against the seat belt. But last time had gone just like this, him touching you and receiving nothing. He should feel good, too. “Shouldn’t you pull over?” you sigh, muscles taut. Your breaths come out shuddering and half-controlled, interrupted by the tightness that each delicious swirl provokes. The door takes the brunt of your grip, white-knuckling the interior. 

He laughs, a husky sound that is tinder to fire. He knows what you mean. “Maybe,” he says. “But I think I’m enjoying this plenty. I think I want to see you cum on my fingers again.” 

Fingers pinching and flicking faster, you grow breathy and whiny, hips rolling against the seatbelt and back into the seat. Your muscles, all the way down your thighs and deep in your belly, jump and twitch each time his fingers run over your clit in just the right spot—that tender spot that’s so good that it teeters on overwhelming. The kind that makes you hiss and then want more. “Shit, Kai,” you whine. “Right—there, keep going."  

He doesn’t answer with any teasing words. No, he just doubles down right at that angle and pressure, leaned back into his seat and driving as if he wasn’t fingers-deep in your panties right now. His sculpted profile at total ease—it does something for you. A delicious tightness curls its fingers over your center, promising a sugary ecstasy that you can’t help but chase. Bucking into his hands as best you can, you go quiet. Right there—right there, you feel it. The cusp. Your fingers brush over it, clenching around nothing and squeezing your thighs tight around him. Every last drop of blood in your body reaches for it, singing and dancing through your veins and making you dizzy. 

And then he stops. Your mouth drops open, whiplashed and helpless to its slipping away from you. You whittle your gaze into something sharp and turn to him. “What—why?” you complain. The tide slips further and further and further back, but you still taste sea salt on your tongue. Frustration sets in its place as you feel it go. Seriously, you’d been right there. “You’re so mean.” 

He slows and then with the clicking of the turn signal, he’s off the road and pulling the truck into park on a little secluded side road. Where the headlines pierce the pitch black, nothing but gravel and field surrounds you. He doesn’t kill the engine, instead pulling his hand free from you. 

Your heart, still stuttering with your lost orgasm, kicks back to life as he smears your slick over your mouth, dragging it over your lips and then taking his thumb to run it right over the plush of your mouth. “Am I?” he says, fingers taking your chin to meet your eyes with his. Endless hunger, pupils so blown that his eyes look black, pins you. “I don’t think you’ve seen mean yet, baby.” 

Darting your tongue out to clean your lips, you look at him through your eyelashes. “Show it to me, then.” 

Something dark passes over his face. It has your skeleton jumping out of your body. Then, he says, “Is that what you want? You want mean?” 

Brain gone to mush that can only really think about him touching you, a slow nod is all you can manage. 

The engine’s hum prevails for some long, thick seconds. And then, he tilts his head in a gesture. “Get in the back.” 

Holy shit. You want to sit there frozen in an overwhelming sort of excitement, but his seatbelt clicks undone and you’re set into motion. In a flurry of giggles and clumsy limbs, you climb up over the center console and into the backseat. He slips out of the front seat, not bothering to even kill the engine. 

The door beside you opens in a swirl of cold wind. In nothing more than a blink, a strong hand has both your wrists pinned to the cushions and your back flush against it. Nose-to-nose, his breath his hot over your face. “I’ve got plenty of ideas as to how I can warm you up.” 

You appreciate each other’s faces for a beat more, you looking up at him big-eyed and waiting. Kai breaks the moment to attack your neck in a procession of bites and kisses. Your mouth falls into a silent sound. 

“You know,” he says, free hand working your pants off. His eyes are trained on you, though. “I thought about doing this to you all summer. Touching you again.” He moves on to your top, pushing the fabric up until your chest is freed, clad in soft cotton. He eats the sight up. You want to reach down and cup the back of his head or feel his hair between your fingers as he presses his mouth against the soft beginning of your cleavage, but he’s got your wrists firmly planted. So much so, that you wonder exactly how he’s got you so secure with just one hand. Kai is strong, but maybe you hadn’t seen just how strong. Your skin aches under the purple bites he decorates you in. The sight of him—face in your chest and marking you up so lazily—has your teeth abusing your bottom lip. Whatever sounds you might make otherwise would be embarrassing. Kai lifts his eyes to you. “And I think you thought of me, too. Didn’t you?” 

“Oh, god, yes,” you say, writhing beneath him. He’s going so slow. You want him all over you. “So much.” 

He likes that. He takes your pebbled nipple into his mouth through the fabric. Soft grazes of teeth and sucks, you’re burning all over. When he pulls back, he’s left you dark wet patches when the bra had only just dried against your body heat. “Good,” he rasps, taking his big hands demanding and hungry over your torso. They swallow your frame up, soothing skin but lighting it aflame all the same. “Good girl.” 

You never thought just words could unravel you, but those did the job. Not a gasp, nor a sucking in of breath—no, you go silent and brainless, fumbling for rational thought. 

The dropping of your jaw has Kai delighted. “You’re so pretty,” he says. In a swift and powerful hoist, he’s tugging you down the cushions toward him with greedy fingers. He’s got your thighs pressed up to your chest. You’re bent right in half. 

Out of breath, you huff out, “You too.” 

A quick laugh falls from his mouth, lips pulled into a smug tilt. He nips at your calf up by his face. “So sweet, it almost makes me feel bad for what I’m about to do to you.” Reaching down for your panties, he pulls back on the suffocating press for only enough time to drag them up your legs. Those get discarded somewhere on the floor. Who cares about that right now, though? All you can register is the metallic clinking of his belt being undone. It’s got your nervous system twisting up. 

And, those words. Electricity shoots bolts of pure, sizzling revery into your core. What I’m about to do to you. You imagine a great deal of things that he might mean, but still, you think that none could hold a candle against the promise his voice held in saying it. 

Kai presses his body to your thighs and hooks your calves over his shoulders, and it all becomes real. The press of his heavy cock to your folds, the digging of his fingers into your outer thighs, his pretty eyes sparkling with something feral. As real as it gets—more real than anything you’ve ever felt in the entirety of your life. Your hands find perch flattened to his broad chest. 

The position leaving you two no option but to look right into each other, he holds your gaze and begins slow drags of his hot length up and down your slit. Tantalizing, awful, awful drags. When his tip nudges your eager clit, you jolt. And then he does it again. And again. 

“Kai,” you mewl. A press against your hole has you hopeful, and he lingers there for a moment, but doesn’t give it to you. Can’t he just fuck you? You’ve never been more pitifully in need of something in your life. 

“Shh.” His ruts get more daring, smearing your slick up onto your belly. “Take it.” 

You wiggle your toes in the air and make passes at arching yourself into him in search of better friction. He’s got you pressed so suffocatingly into the seat that it does absolutely nothing for you. In fact, he holds your harder and changes tack so that your thighs press together. At the very apex of them, his weeping cock slips through the seam. 

Pressing his cheek into your calf, he watches you. Every gasp and shaky inhale, he watches. It spurs his rutting on, sticky sounds and pants eating up the air. Your nails claw at his hands as, finally, a knot tightens in your core. 

“Yes, please,” you breathe. He fucks your thighs harder. Faster. Every nudge at your clit and hole becomes euphoric. “Kai, baby—I’m gonna—” 

Just as furiously easy as last time, he rips it all away from you. The rushing away of the buzzing and promise of shaking thighs—he takes it from you again. It brings prickling tears to your eyes. “Kai?” you hiss. “Again?” 

His eyes aren’t playful. He pulls your calves back over his shoulders, handling your hips into a better position to press his cock right at your entrance as if you weigh nothing. Face utterly straight, he says, “I don’t think you deserve it, do you? Not after what you did with Yeonjun.” 

A swallow goes down your throat hard. He presses himself just a bit harder into you. Not in yet, but right there. 

When he does begin sliding in, the stretch of it... You cling to him and squirm between him and the warm cushions behind you. Each inch is a heady feeling, all the way up to the hilt of him. He shudders a controlled breath. “You’re so fucking tight, though,” he grits out. “Did he not fuck you right?” 

Slaps of skin bounce off the car interior and between your bodies. He starts off at a brutal pace; you know it’s meant to make your brain go foggy. Squeezing your eyes closed, you manage, “I... didn’t fuck him.” It comes out strangled, voice bouncing as he fucks you into the car seat. 

Thumb tugging your bottom lip down and then dipping into your mouth, he watches the show of your ecstasy down to every last detail. “Yeah?” he says, voice shaking and almost desperate. “Always thinking of me, huh? Such a good little princess. You know exactly where your heart belongs.”  

You want to answer him, even just with a whine or moan. You try to. But with his thumb pressing down on your tongue, enough to pin it to the floor of your mouth, it’s not gonna happen. He tastes salty in your mouth. 

His truck consists of his grunts and whines, and your taut groans for some moments that seem to stretch forever. The planes of his groin grind against your clit when he delivers occasional pointed rolls, but mostly it’s just an animalistic, feverish dancing of your two sweaty bodies, holds growing more frantic the closer you get.  

Thumb wet with saliva; he frees your mouth. The hand trails slowly down your face and your chin, brushing feather touches, until he finds your neck. 

Your eyes fly open, wide. He pressed his fingers into your neck—no real pressure yet, he looks at you through damp strands of dangling hair and says, “Want my fingers around your neck?” His thumb brushes over the buzzing pulse point there. 

“Yes,” you grit out, body bouncing and back raw with friction against the coarse cushion’s surface. Your breath stutters, your mind stutters. Even your blinks stutter, eyelids too lazy to keep up. “Please.” 

The pressure of his fingers there—it frightens you and has you tightening around him at the same time. But you would trust nobody more with your life than Kai. 

He presses his cheek to your calf to indulge in the sight of you like this: underneath him, folded in two, nowhere to go but to take his pistoning hips, cheeks blazing, and his fingers pressed into your windpipe. If the way he becomes sloppier and more desperate in his tempo has anything to say for it, it does something for him. 

“Gonna be my pretty little girlfriend, huh?” he says. His voice is tight—so is your belly. You’re both so close. Hopefully, this time he’ll let you cum. “Take you to every show; show you off to everybody. Fuck.” 

Brain like static and swimming with a pinched flow of oxygen, you slur your words. “You’re—hah—gonna have other girls all over you.” 

The taunting, split-second raise of his brows flips your belly. You tighten him again. If he keeps hitting that spot, tip ramming into the soft spot deep inside you that he’d taken such delicate care of finding last time, you’re going to burst into sparkling flame and firework. He growls, “Well, I’ll just have to knock you up so that they know I’m yours, huh?” 

Holy shit. You like the sound of that. Your nails dig into his wrist around your neck, but you cry out a pitchy, “Yes!” 

“Oh, you like that?” Kai releases your throat to take both your hips. You gulp for air, finding nothing but the thick air of sex and humid breaths, at the opportunity. He’s ramming into you like he’s found a purpose. “Isn’t this the perfect position to do it? Get you pregnant?” 

With every last bit of brain power you’ve got, teetering on the edge excruciatingly close to salvation, you groan a long, hoarse sound. “Fuck, yes! Please, Kai, inside—” A hot trail of tears roll down your temples. 

It’s all he’s got to hear to still inside you. His growl rumbles deep in his chest, holding you in place and filling you with his hot cum deep in your cunt. That feeling, coupled with his short grinds against your clit as he fucks his seed deeper, takes your soul by sinful claws and crumbles it down into nothing. You burst into a shaking, whimpering peak, sucking your lips into your mouth to bare through the sheer twisting of your insides and the flame that consumes up your thighs and cunt. 

He falls on you heavy, face in your neck. Warm kisses against your clammy skin meld with your slow floating down, the two of you a beautiful, nasty picture of fucked out. He stays right inside you—the absolute stillness of him, you think he has no plans of pulling out any time soon. His long fingers card through your sweaty locks of hair. 

Finally, he presses himself off you. You get a glimpse of the window behind him—fogged up and filthy with your affairs. Anybody to see the truck from the outside would know exactly what went on inside, but right now, you don’t care. Not one bit. Your panted breaths drag in nothing but musk and thick, hot air. The drumbeat in your chest tells you that, despite how you feel ripped straight from your body, you are very much still alive. More alive than ever. 

“Warm?” he says, pushing sticky hair off his forehead. He’s a mess, too. His hair is ruffled with your touch, his clothes rumpled the same, beads of sweat rolling down the planes of his cheeks and neck, and his eyes a lazy smolder. As much as he looks like sex personified, a soft smile twitches at his lips. 

You snort. You can’t help but feel giddy, here with him. You’re with him. Nothing has ever felt more right. Unplugged when he pulls out of you, your mess trickles down onto the seat below you. “Yeah,” you say. “Very.” 

Warm is not enough to begin to describe how you feel. In your ears, you hear whisperings. Soft and gentle. Perhaps it was divine intervention, or the fates lending you their word, or maybe just rational thought. It says: 

Home. You are home. 

✎୭ ashlynn's note how do we feel about this pair? i really didn't mean for this to get so long, but i ended up RLLY liking their chemistry. i had to do their story justice. also, i finished this with kai as a guitarist and then his drummer performance came out... hmm.

﹙🏷️ ﹚@lvrs-street2mmorrow , @soohashits , @f4iryfever , @arcturus444 , @linqed , @serenityism00 , @immelissaaa , @luv4cheol , @lickingan0rchid , @20-cms , @hhoneylix , @beestvng , @hyucktapes , @bewitchless , @prince-jjae , @blankliving , @yaoizee , @stormy1408 , @missychief1404 , if your tag isn't working, check the mentions part of your settings!

[eggwishing]

LORD alfuckingmighty i don't think there is a single string of words i could piece 2gether to properly describe the absolute magnificence of ur art . you have such a vast understanding of art & so many of its intricacies. ur character designs are ALWAYS incredible, so so endearing & memorable. every time i see one i get incredibly excited & am strangled by the urge to make fanart because just. oh my god. you have some of the BEST color work i have ever fucking seen like it is genuinely fucking spectacular what you are able to create & look good with combinations of colors i would NOT think to place in the way you do if i were given the same palette. i feel like calling your doodles just "doodles" is like, WRONG, because every single one is something u could spend ages looking at on its own. i'd pick favorites to describe but we would be here for hours . you have the insane ability to keep your style consistent but are able to stretch it & change it for whatevers appropriate/the receive your desired result for the particular drawing and its just SO. SO. COOL. take literally all of this and add it to the fact that you can fucking ANIMATE !!! while still keeping all of these features of ur style intact and that fact is just OTHERWORLDLY to me in the best way possible . not only that but ur stories r always so very intriguing and it makes me SOO ANGRY that oc artwork & original stories dont receive the same attention as fandom work or otherwise because i swear 2 fucking god you go absolutely ABOVE and beyond in terms of creativity for ur stories & DESERVE THE RECOGNITION AAAAAAAAUUUUUUGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!! GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRORWGGGGGGGGGGGGRWGGGGGGGGGGRGGGGGGGGGRGGGGGGGGGGGGGRGGGGGGGGGGGGGG okay im done. i hav been up for almost 24 hours and saw one of ur drawings and got real emotional ihope uhave an awesome day eebrt i hope to be at least 10th place in ur list of biggest fans .

oh my god . I'm responding to this on a computer which doesn't have any of my usual images OR emojis that I would usually throw at you like. I don't know Someone who's really really REALLY good at throwing stuff. so I'll just use my words. THANK YOU SO MUCH !!!!!! this means the absolute world to me.. I did not expect to be blasted in the face by one million kisses when I checked my inbox, I had to sit back in my chair like WOW.... I love you .... I love youuuu...... thank you so much for the encouragement, I've been feeling not so confident And kind of afraid (leaving to study animation in college very soon) for the last few days n your words are lifting me out of the void like bingbong's rocket from inside out. not gonna lie your comments are one of the highlights of posting on Tumblr, I love reading them so much when you reblog my stuff. they're beautiful and always make me feel better when I'm feeling down... you were there from the days of homestuck dragons... you were always there for my ocs... You are a "real one." If I had a heart locket I'd print out your icon and put it in there along with all the other people I treasure ^_^ so yeah, definitely in the ranks... when I'm up on stage wearing a solid gold tuxedo (they had to wheel me in because I could not walk in the Solid Gold Tuxedo) and giving my speech to the world before I take it over my i will start by saying First of all I'd like to thank Mel Tumblr user Melissa-titanium On Tumblr for always hyping me up... could not have made it this far without him. And then I'd press the doomsday button and blow up every world leader.

I wish I could respond with something that appropriately returns the energy of what you sent me, but this is all I've got. Just know I am vibrating in my chair right now... hope you got some sleep!!!!! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

[pochqmqri]

A few months ago, when All Stars F first hit theaters in Japan, I saw some posts from the Japanese side of the fandom that Cure Supreme had a stronger form where her skin "turned brown," which confused me. Even the film director, Yuta Tanaka, and character designer, Nishiki Itaoka, acknowledge it as such in an interview:

Cure Supreme exists as a misinterpretation of Pretty Cure Q: How was Cure Supreme Born? Tanaka: Cure Supreme is a being that only takes an extremely narrow-minded view on Pretty Cure. They see Pretty Cure as only something strong and cool, simply imitating them. If she only understands those superficial aspects, then she truly doesn't get what makes Pretty Cure so strong and allows them to rise above all hardships. In her mind, isn't that all there is to Pretty Cure? By conveying this, we wanted to reaffirm what Pretty Cure has been depicting for the past twenty years....and that's the kind of image born from her existence. Itaoka: In terms of the design used in the story, we started by designing Cure Supreme, then split her off to create Puka, then into the strong Supreme ẞ, as well as her pre-transformed state Prim...other characters were derivatively designed from her. The director gave me notes to start drawing from, but I ignored it all at first. When he looked at the final thing, he had a look of "What the heck is this?!" on his face, lol. What is the "B" that Itaoka-san mentioned? Tanaka: Though it's not specifically stated in the film, the darker-skinned Cure Supreme was referred to as "Supreme ß" among the staff. The gigantic one is "T." The one we first meet is "Supreme Origin." Itaoka: Rather than appear cute, ẞ has a totally cool look, or would it be called "devilish"? The highlights in her eyes are rabbit-shaped. It was introduced as a crest on the back of Cure Supreme before she became ẞ. It's an aggressive design unique to the film.

At the time, there wasn't any screencaps or footage of this form, so I wasn't sure what to make of it. Eventually, the anime comic, which took stills from the film to adapt it, released, as well as the Blu-Ray which came out a few days ago, so I got a better look at "Supreme ß."

...Yeah. For the record, compare this form with Cure Supreme's base form.

She's usually pale as a ghost, mostly because she's an alien. So why is that, when she gets more evil, she turns brown, like a human complexion of brown? Like what are they trying to get at here? That brown skin, along with her black costume, is an indicator of her sinister power?

I get that she has a further stronger form where she's all giant, monstrous, and purplish-black, but I don't see how brown skin relates to that at all?

I haven't seen the film, so I don't know the intricacies of the plot, but it seems that the basic gist is that, Cure Supreme starts out as a villain and ends up becoming good by the end. And judging by how she's been portrayed in promotional material, her skin turns back to normal once she becomes good. What a really great message to send.

All Stars F has been the highest-grossing PreCure film at the box office in the franchise's history, and I understand why, it's a huge love letter built across 20 years, but this piece of colorism that can't be ignored acts as a blemish over it, and the franchise as a whole.

I've been a PreCure fan for about ten years now, and it's been one of my top interests. There are a lot of things I love about it, and things I don't. When "Star Twinkle Pretty Cure" first came out five years ago, I was so ecstatic to see it introduce Elena/Cure Soleil, the first Cure on a main team to have dark/brown skin, that I got to see someone like myself in one of my favorite franchises, but more importantly, that children with darker complexions in Japan could grow up seeing themselves in her. That's why I've been so disappointed that after StarPre, they seemingly gave up on continuing racial diversity, and we haven't had someone like Cure Soleil since.

That's why how they treated Cure Supreme in this film stings so much, because if their message is that brown is evil and pale is good, and that the girl who turns brown when she becomes more evil is a "misrepresentation" of what PreCure is all about, what does that say about Cure Soleil, who also cameos in the film fighting against Cure Supreme and her forces?

And Cure Supreme is not the only recent example of this franchise's colorism. They did something sort of in the opposite direction. Also last year, "Otona Pretty Cure" aired, and we got several new designs for the Cures from a few older seasons, all grown up...and their skin lightened. Most notably, this happened to Saki/Cure Bloom and RIn/Cure Rouge, and even in the anime itself they literally show a flashback scene of Saki when she's younger and more tan, and Rin as an adult de-ageing to her younger self and becoming slightly more tan. So no, you can't claim it's "just the lighting" here.

What are they trying to say here too? One could say that it's because they stopped playing sports their skin became lighter, but we still see Rin play soccer as an adult, so that doesn't apply to her. I think it's an implication that, as Saki and Rin grew into adulthood, they felt pressured to keep up with societal beauty standards, where lighter skin is "better," so they used skin whitening products. This might have been interesting if they tried to portray it as a form of criticism, but they don't even acknowledge it. Tied with the fact that Saki and Rin lose most of their sporty and tomboyish natures as they grow up, it makes it seem like being tan is something "to grow out of" for women. I find this especially bizzare when OtonaPre had several background characters of diverse skin tones/ethnicities, something I praised them for, and would like to actually see in the yearly PreCure anime.

For "Tropical-Rouge! Pretty Cure," we got some concept art of Manatsu/Cure Summer, and a lot of people noticed that she seemed to be slightly more tan in her beta designs. It's a little difficult for me to judge personally, but I'm including this here because TroPre also frustrates me. It's a tropical-themed season and yet almost every character is as pale as a sheet, and you take that in with the fact that this is a season that heavily focuses on makeup. Given the severe amounts of colorism in the makeup industry, as briefly mentioned earlier with skin whitening products, it just shows how little care both Toei and Bandai have about sending a healthy and positive message about skin tone diversity post-StarPre.

Going further back, in "Happiness Charge Pretty Cure," one of the main themes is a network of "international" Pretty Cure, so we have girls from all over the world, and, how the girls of non-European ancestry are depicted are generally really bad ranging from stereotypes to a lack of skin diversity. In the American Pretty Cure team, the Cure in Native American clothing is barely different in skin tone compared to her white peers. The (Asian) Indian Pretty Cure team are barely brown at all. The Egyptian Pretty Cure is as pale as a sheet. The Hawaiian Pretty Cure team is actually relatively well portrayed in terms of skin tone, and they are how the characters in TroPre should have been designed like. I will concede the fact that there are people from those nations who look just like those girls, but when the majority of your franchise is filled with girls of mostly unchanging pale complexions, would it kill the character designers to branch out more?

There are more examples of colorism in this franchise but I feel those are the most major ones I can bring up. A major theme of PreCure nowadays is that "anyone can become a Pretty Cure," from aliens, to boys, dogs, etc. But I now find that message absolutely patronizing with how most of the Cures end up having the same pale and skinny assembly-line-style body types. It makes what they did with Cure Soleil feel like a miracle, and for that, she remains my most favorite Pretty Cure. She came with her own problems too, such as the merchandise lightening her skin or even turning it orange, the amount of screentime she got in StarPre, the prejudiced fandom not buying merch of her compared to other characters, but with how she remains an anomaly, I have to continue defending her. I want this franchise to do much better, and that's why I care a lot about this issue, as well as getting more masc girls like Akira/Cure Chocolat, more disabled girls like Nodoka/Cure Grace, an actual plus-sized Cure, and so on.

[goombasinastack]

splatoon 3 hot take turned impromptu essay

was stuck offline in splatoon 3 because internet was actin up and i realized how pretty the photomode splatoon 3 filters are compared to the actual game

i was taking photos on brinewater and thought. damn. this game looks fine but i miss how VIBRANT splatoon 1 was! i wish i could play sploon 3 with this photomode filter on all the time. and brinewater is the best map for this because of the sunset lighting! so i went to one of the worst offenders mapwise for general color—undertow spillway. it is a warm gray mess:

for someplace underground, it’s WAY too warm of a tone—even if there are skylights, they aren’t very well defined, as they’re off in the background—they’d be better with some light shafts to pop out more, imo.

so here’s undertow with photomode filter #6 (this would’ve been a video but tumblr limits to 1 video per post):

and i think this looks a lot nicer, colorwise! the icky warm gray is shifted to a soft pink—and while that’s still not in keeping with the lack of obvious skylights, it works better than warm gray.

so then i opened ibis x paint and got to work on a filter that would hopefully help elevate the entire game’s look:

on top is photomode filter #6, in the middle is the original screenshot, and on the bottom is my proposed filter.

i upped the contrast, brightness, and saturation a bit, then added a 5% pure magenta (#FF00FF) overlay layer on top of that. then i added a slight gaussian blur to emulate antialiasing, which nintendo refuses to do for some reason!

and i wanna play splatoon like that! i miss the vibrancy and intricacy of splatoon 1…

incoming splatoon 1 essay‼️

not only were the colors eye-bleachingly bright, but the overall game feel was much more immersive—especially in ink physics. you could paint trees, and the ink would drip down through leaves as if it were rain… ink splatter would respond to the movements of platforms, keeping its intertia as it dripped! you could see the textures of surfaces through the ink, as if it were an actual liquid instead of a layer of thick oil. 3 doesn’t have any of those special touches.

there’s also the music… 1’s ost feels so much more WEIRD and experimental than the later games, and that really helps cement that this is not human society—this is a new thing—which tracks for splatoon 1, as it was so zany nobody had ever seen anything quite like it before! splatoon 2 follows this sheer melting-pot of brashness and creativity with evolving and varied styles—where once was punk and weird samples in Squid Squad is now groovy rock in Wet Floor, jazz in Ink Theory, and also whatever Sashi-Mori was. also i <3 chirpy chips. splatoon 3’s music goes back to that punk, but i feel that it loses some of the charm and creativity of the first two games. C-side is pure metal, and hardly uses any weird instruments. there have sparsely been other splatbands involved with regular battle music—Yoko&tgb call back to the jazz of Ink Theory which i love! Off the Hook’s new tracks delve into a new style in piano rock. but the main band kind of falls flat to me. :(

let’s talk stages. in splatoon 1, stages were wildly different from each other, including skateparks, construction sites, underpasses, malls, sewage plants, and other locals that are culturally underground. the rest of the trilogy moves away from this in a story standpoint, as ink battles evolve from punky, diy competitions into full-fledged championships in 2 and 3, with advancing battle infrastructure as time progresses. that’s fine, and honestly it’s cool to see that kind of worldbuilding! but in 1, each stage was designed about and influenced by the area it represented. Arowana Mall is a straight line with high vantage points on the second/third story because it’s a mall. Pirahna Pit features convenyor belts that shuffle refuse around because it’s a trash plant. Blackbelly Skatepark has so many hills and valleys because it’s a skatepark, for goodness sake. splatoon 3’s original stages have some of this charm, but it feels lost in ambiguity. why doesn’t Mincemeat Metalworks have small moving platforms on cranes or other heavy machinery? Idk, have some grates and one-way drops, and a car on a post. why isn’t there any water incorporated into the stage design of Brinewater Springs? Idk, have 2 paintable walls and a tetris piece. 3’s original stages have little to no connection between their locals and the geometry, which make it feel same-y compared to previous games.

maybe this is because of the inflexible philosophy of the designers—or their corporate oversight, maybe. for stages, you need to make a straight line or tetris piece with few routes to push, in an effort to promote the game’s main premise of Chaos. for music, you need to make punk songs that aren’t too weird so they don’t drive away the parents. maybe the little ink touches could have been missing because development was rushed?

i honestly dont know why it happened out this way—perhaps the splatoon team just needed more time to cook, in order to squeeze out that extra 20% of game feel? or maybe it was that speculated corporate oversight, i dunno. things WERE missing on launch—notable exceptions being X rank, online tableturf lobbies, and no more than three salmon run maps. i know we’ve yet to even get the DLC but for being about 75% of the way through the game’s content lifespan, but splatoon 3 feels incomplete. there have been improvements, yeah! i just wish there could’ve been more. i would rather have waited another year for splatoon 3 if it were polished that much better, y’know?

i honestly feel like splatoon 1 captured that creative, no-holds-barred mantle of Chaos better than 3 does. 3 feels… flanderized, in a way. the curse of trilogies, perhaps? writing about it more, it feels like not only have the in-game sports of turf war been ripped out of its seedy home and thrust into the spotlight, and gone “mainstream” (see: massive squidsport companies investing in multimillion battle lobbies with holograms and lockers [sunken scroll about that!], flying coffee machines that grant you brief invincibility, new rules and techniques that allow squid surges and rolls, etc.), but also the Real Life Physical Video Game Cartridge of Splatoon has been popularized massively with the sequels on the Switch. maybe i’m not missing the “vibrancy” of splatoon 1 when i look at the colors and photomode filters of splatoon 3, but instead the inherent punkiness and counterculture inspiration that i see in the original.

fuck capitalism, i guess!

[connectwired]

Since I have no other place to go for this, I want to start out by saying that Nintendo needs a refresh. By doing a refresh with games and hardware, expectations can be thrown in a new direction, and speculation can be all the more fun. That said, what we want and need differs from how Nintendo views, so what I say should be taken lightly unless stated otherwise. I'm VERY open-minded, so I may go on and on, and I'm also open to criticism on the things I think about.

First off, the next console. I believe it'll stay relatively the same as the Switch but with the best internals they can get their hands on. They'll probably update the Joycons a bit and reintroduce the standard D-pad, or they may take the Steam Deck approach and glue them on. The standard will have a higher quality OLED screen to compete with others and possibly better sound. Not much more I could think of but it's enough to compete for next gen and try to bleed into the future gen. It opens up the possibility for more open first party games as well as more intricacy and design, increasing the odds for success (most of the time). Third party games will run better too.

Next, let's talk games. 2D Mario has been refreshed with Wonder, Zelda with TotK and BotW, Pikmin is still going, and Metroid... we don't know what's happening there, but it did have Dread. Mario Kart is still going strong, but there's only so much left they could do until they run out of options for one game. Smash is dead for now, but that's a topic for later with Mario Kart. Animal Crossing is iffy, as the player base has likely been halved since release; I know I don't play it anymore, and I've heard that it's got several issues that I agree with.

I want to go in depth about the state of Mario. Mario fans will be feasting soon with Wonder and RPG, and I'm one of them. Super Mario RPG is, if you couldn't tell, my favorite RPG, and I'm incredibly ecstatic for the remake. I have faith it'll sell well and be given the recognition it deserves. The music and graphics seem phenomenal in the remake, and everything seems like how we viewed it in the original; our minds were brought to life with this game.

Next is Wonder, which is an interesting beast I would love to tackle. The art style is amazing and a big step from New, just as much as the soundtrack is. It's all soft and colorful while remaining fast and enjoyable; such an appealing game hasn't happened for 2D Mario in over a decade. I love the new voice lines - despite Martinet possibly being replaced - and the new sound effects are great too. It's so experimental yet seems to be promising.

3D Mario games are pretty much due for a new game at this point. We haven't seen one since Bowser's Fury, which was only about half a game, if that. The last full game was Odyssey all the way back in 2017. It's understandable why it would take so long, but at least throw us a hint once the new system is revealed. It would be cool for it to be inspired by Wonder, but I could see it branching off of Odyssey or Galaxy too.

Super Smash Bros. should be getting a new game within the next 5 years. Whether it be a reboot, Ultimate Deluxe, or a continuation, I'm certain it'll be good. If they reboot the series, I imagine they'll keep a handful of characters and add a lot of new ones while also making completely new movesets for most fighters. Ones without new movesets would obviously have some changes though. The stages have a chance to be completely new. A continuation would likely cut some of the roster while adding new ones and do the same with stages. A continuation could be Deluxe but with different features and a new story. There are lots of debates about what characters would get in no matter what way they take, but I think the few that are locked in are Geno, Shantae, Sans, and possibly Cuphead. Personally, I wish Springtrap and Reimu would be in too, but sadly I don't believe they would. Same for Goku who will never be in.

Mario Kart is the only thing left on my mind, as it hasn't had a new game in about 10 years, less if you count Tour (but who would; it's a live service mobile game based on Mario Kart 7). It needs a new game very soon after the DLC is done, but there's one question that everyone has: where do they go next? I think they could take the Sonic R route and have it be more open world. Mix that up with all of the items in Tour and maybe some new stuff inspired by 2D and 3D Mario, and you've got something magical. Doing something like Double Dash and having two drivers per kart would be cool too. The roster needs an update as well, but Tour has added plenty of characters over time. They could bring back all characters, and if possible, add a separate menu for costumes and alternate colors. Tracks could be more based on games and even the recent movie. I would love to race around in something like Beach Bowl Galaxy or a fire flower field.

[frosted-night]

Jack Frost Designs Review

Yes it’s finally his time. This is going to include his book designs including previous incarnations in said books. There are more movie concept designs than book so, let’s dig in shall we?

This was in fact the first ever Jack Joyce designed while he came up with The Guardians Of Childhood. He even comes with his own backstory! (Which was cut. Sorry Joyce posts walls of text so it’s a girthy read.)

So instead of a young mischievous trickster, we got a much more depressing story of Jack. (Jack by default is sad obviously) but this one... It kind of hits differently and almost reminds me of the story he crafted for Pitch. A dad who tried to defend his family but through tragic events was ripped from them and changed completely. Design wise, he’s a lot more tree than snow. There doesn’t exist a colored version of this so we’ll never know if he sported winter and dull dead leaf colors rather than grassy greens.This Jack has a weird presence to him, I can’t put my finger on it. Rating: 6/10 He’s really neat! Just a little too Autumn feeling rather than a blend of both Autumn and Winter.

Nightlight feels like the baby evolution if Jack was a pokemon and that's what I’m gonna stick with. Below is a more recent version of him colored.

In all honesty that one is easier on the eyes proportion wise because sometimes Joyce has ‘interesting’ anatomy choices but we aint going into that today. It’s interesting how his hair somehow looks shorter and longer than Jack’s at the same time. Could be because the longer strands float seamlessly but star boy hair physics what can ya do. It’s a little hard to tell what is his skin and what is his armor, so that is a casuality in making a character only have one or two colors in their color scheme. I love other artist’s depictions of Nightlight but the canon one feels a little weak color wise. Rating: 5/10 Sorry, get some better LEDs and then come back.

Here we have a book Jack but I can’t entirely recall if this was used in the books or not. I digress. This design looks like him still wearing very Nightlight-esque armor/clothing and slowly growing into his new persona as Jack Frost. The intricacies are hard to make out but we’ll work with it. This one is very interesting to me because he very much looks like an older teen close to young adult. His hair looks very fluffy too. Not many complaints about this one but not much praise either.

Rating: 6/10 Not great but doesn’t stand out that much.

Remember when I said Joyce had ‘interesting’ anatomy decisions? Jack looks like he has half a head here and it bothers me GREATLY. This is the adult Jack design he went with. Supposedly he likes the opera and he sure looks it. This! Exists!! Kind of wish it didn’t. The outfit is nice but it just doesn’t fit Jack as a whole. This just screams to me that it’s someone else with a similar-ish hairstyle.

Rating: 3/10 Guess he’d be the...Phantom Of The Opera. (I’ll go home and so should he.)

And finally the final Jack. This is the one that almost exactly resembles the Jack we got in the movies(Probably because it was made after the movie but w/e) but just add a cape on him. I can’t really tell if hes got a hoodie and a cape, or just a cloak+hood on top of a sweatshirt. It isn’t too important because my thoughts on this one are obvious. Rating: 10/10 Edna Mode would have a field day with you boy.

MOVIE DESIGN TIME

Joyce claims this is a design he drafted when Leonardo DiCaprio was considered to voice Jack and I can kind of see that with how his face is drawn here. This Jack looks a lot more like a warrior and less of that trickster look. I can’t say I’m a fan of the weird antenna his hood has but his sword is really cool looking.

Rating: 4/10 Nice bow and sword but it can’t save your fashion choices.

This looks like a lanky 11-13 year old who would put rocks or slugs in my shoes and relish in my disgust. He has the exact look of a snot nose kid and I’m unsure how to feel about it.

His various hairstyles drafted here sort of make him softer looking or just more of a snot nose, no in between. Maybe even an Anime Protagonist.

The top right one almost looks like Hiccup from How To Train Your Dragon if you squint. It’ll be a little hard to rate them all as one individual but why not.

Rating: 5/10 I don’t hate them but they aren’t my cup of tea.

AH- IS THAT A FUCKIN GREMLIN?

Oh wait no it isn’t he looks like a 10 year old. Whatever don’t feed him after midnight. The staff’s design of not being shaped like a G is an interesting tidbit but the whole design looks like he’s really young or like a troll etc. This Jack looks like he thinks girls have cooties uses outdated slang.

Rating: 4/10 This is me being generous.

It honestly looks like he hiked his pants up all the way to his chest. A late teen with horrid fashion choices once again. Not many other thoughts here.

Rating: 2/10 Get a sweater on or something.

This is one is very interesting looking to me. His clothes looked a lot more leather based and very human-like. The tatters, tears and frays all make him look like he was a victim of an accident that never changed his clothes. It makes me wonder if this Jack had the same death as the final movie Jack or something else entirely. Either way, this one looks like hes a mid to late teen which really adds to my intrigue.

This was another image that greatly resembled the design so I included it here. It almost looks like his skin is blue here which is pretty neat to me at least. He’s also got leaf motifs here, which from the first Jack design Joyce made, we can see a pattern here.

Rating: 8 /10 I was originally weirded out by his head but now its not so bad.

This Jack is definitely dressed more like a nature boy rather than him having human influenced fashion and it’s an appealing touch. The tiny leaf sprouting from his staff is also kind of cute since the designers seemed to want to put leafs somewhere on his designs. His hairstyle is also very cute but it reminds me of Sasuke Uchiha in a sense. (Not a setback for me at least)

Rating: 7/10 13 year old Jack is going thru a phase.

I thought this Jack didn’t show up again in story boards but I was wrong!

They look a little different from each other but just similar enough to pair together, so bare with me. The first one obviously has looser pants, slightly longer sleeves and got his leaf motif going. This second Jack is a VERY green. It gives the impression that this Jack made his clothes out of plants and natural materials. Again I’m not wholly sure if greens fit his color scheme but they sure went for it for a while. I can’t say I’m a fan of it because it heavily reminds me of Peter Pan.

However a very similar looking Jack could be found in this storyboard. It doesn’t look as green as the other storyboards made it out to be and looks more like dead grass. Which is a pretty nice touch.

Rating: 5/10 I don’t hate it but it just doesn’t vibe yknow.

Speaking of a vibe...hoo this certainly has one.  This Jack isn’t old but certainly doesn’t look very young, maybe in the 20-30 range, thats just me. He has facial features that remind me of Pitch but resembles the Jack Frost of Santa Clause 3

That being said, I wondered if him looking similar to Pitch was in the storyline of them being brothers.(Which was a scrapped thing, who knew.) He’s a bit more menacing in this design but certainly seems like he relishes in his work.

Rating: 4/10 I’d make it a lower score but I gotta give it props

NOW THIS JACK IS KINDA INTERESTING. This one looks like he’s 16 and going through a grunge phase. He’s gonna play Nirvana loudly and not turn it down even if you tell him too. His staff itself has mini icicles hanging off of it and leafs look stuck to his shirt. Did you glue or staple those on Jack? His hair also looks much longer than his other designs and I kind of dig it( Shut up I’m bias.) I’m not wholly sure why else this design has stuck with me but it just has something about it that I just love. I wish there was a full body drawing of it.

(He also kinda has the same hair as the Jack Frost in Runescape but I wont go on about that hoo hoo)

Rating: 9/10 *Bad Boy by Cascada plays in the distance*

This one definitely feels like middleschooler trying to be in a band. His sticks just resemble drumsticks to me what can I say. I’m a big fan of his shoes and his color scheme screams a hibernating tree in winter. His hair also looks like it’s covered in frost rather than it being wholly white, which is very neat!! He looks like he wants to fight but has slight hesitance. Overall a very balanced Jack.

Rating: 8/10 He’s ready for band practice

Not many thoughts here, I just found these tiny Jack designs cute. His hoodie being a jacket instead just adds to the charm of this one.

No talk to him he angy.

Rating: 6/10 fun sized boi

Now this Jack resembles the one earlier that dressed entirely in leather brown colors, however he clearly is different than that one. I’m gonna say it, he looks like a zombie or undead in this design and its pretty fucking gnarly. I don’t know whats going on with his hair but I’m gonna assume it’s just the wind making it look like that. He just has the vibe that he was once human but was turned into something else entirely. It isnt in uncanny territory but borders that. This version of Jack meeting Pitch and the others would have been *very* interesting. Rating: 7/10 Eat a twinkie Jack you’ll feel better.

The final design! I can’t complain much about this one. The way his staff subtly has a G shape and a hexagon(his signature shape) is a wonderful touch. Additionally, the way the frost is gathered mostly where his hand is such an intricate detail. His signature hoodie is iconic at this point so I can’t bad mouth that either.(I can’t anyway because there's no complaints from me here.) Although, I never understood the leather straps that his pants had or their functions. I couldn’t find any colonial outfits that resembled Jack’s pants so its a total mystery to me at least.

And I can’t go on about this design until I mention the snowflake pattern in his eyes

Pure beauty. It’s at a hue of blue that almost looks impossible to have, combined with the electric blue color of the snowflake in his eyes. The amount of detail in this movie amazes me to this day. Rating: One Great Blizzard <3/10

[kingskwing]

Hello! Just wanted to say I love your writing ( ◜‿◝ )♡ (specially bcus ur a Marius simp too) but can I request headcannons for MC/Rosa, Vyn and Marius reacting to finding out their s/o has tattoos and plan to get even more in the future? Feel free to ignore! I hope you have a good day ( ꈍᴗꈍ)

Yall I'm going in order of requests and I'm so mf excited to be getting some

Thank you for the compliment anon I'm so glad u enjoy my work 😭 pls come yell about Marius in my inbox I'm BEGGING

This fic only contains the three mentioned in the ask ♡

》 M.list

the nxx members react to you having tats

He's PSYCHED

No matter their intricacy or significance, you having tattoos is the best thing that could ever happen to him

Asks if you'd wear a design of his one day while you're cuddling, you say yes and he literally runs out of bed to rifle through his reserve designs and start working on one just for you

If you say no he'll pout whine and tickle you until you give in :/

Loves to trace over them and hear stories

When you tell him you plan on getting more (other than his design ofc) he insists you take him with you

Hes a teensy bit squeamish abt it but is super interested at the technique, gets into a discussion abt art with the artist while the needle is waving abt bc they're talking,,, marius this can wait please don't distract the person putting ink permanently into my body

Asks to get discreet matching ones, what a sweetheart

Hes this 👌 close to getting his codename tattooed somewhere convenient for a dramatic reveal, likely on his collarbone smh

Kisses the ones you regret :( and will pay if you need any lasered

Let's be real he pays for all your future tats too

He's less enthusiastic, they're just another part of you to him :)

Little eccentricities of yours and more targets to press kisses to

Likes to see how much you blush based on which he kisses

Will get a matching one if you ask and likes it very much! Presses a finger to it when he needs a lil reminder of you

Records your emotional state after each new tat dont ask why aha

He's a little possessive so seeing his codename or smth related to him tattooed on your body is. Yes please

Just all soft smiles and likes watching your reactions when he goes with you to the tattoo parlor

She's so soft about it

Doesn't have a high pain tolerance so she's super impressed that you have the courage to get tats, regardless if you're stoic or crying under the needle

Doesn't like needles so she'll come with you to the parlor and hold your hand but she's gotta look away :(

Dw plenty of kisses after to make up for it

Will also match with you but you have to ask her and it can't be bigger than a centimeter shes so baby wjwjudjwjrw

Praises them so often,,,, thinks about them at work,,,,, celestine can tell when MC remembers one she particularly likes bc she blushes and scrambles back to work

Won't go out of her way to touch them normally but when the mood turns more heated she pays more attention to them

Likes the pure black ones more than the colored ones

She's so soft omfg asks about the stories behind each over and over, likes to fall asleep to you telling her about them

She starts drawing on her skin in black ink and thinks it looks so cool until she remembers she's at work,,, if you listen closely from artem's couch you can hear her slam the marker back into her desk drawer

[ivyaugustetc]

how the dead poets would react to you asking if you can draw on their hands

Neil: we all know that this boy loves art, and, by extension, artists, so he would be more than happy to let you draw on his hand, probably responding with an enthusiastic "sure", or "cool!". Would be very patient as you drew, understanding that the best art takes time, but he would still ask you a bunch of questions about what you were drawing, if you had been drawing for a while, if you liked any other mediums. just fellow art kid questions, you know the drill. he would sometimes accidentally interrupt you to ask "hey can you draw [insert random thing]?" and pick out specific colors. when you were done he'd take his time looking at every little detail. it'd mean a lot to him. he'd give you a heartfelt thank you and probably compliment your artistic ability, even if you weren't very confident in it. he'd definitely show charlie first with so much freaking pride because look at what you drew!! but he'd try to show it to all the other dead poets, pointing out all the little details he likes.

Todd: would go silent for a few moments and probably ask you to repeat the question even though he heard why you said—he just wanted to make sure that you were correct in asking him. once confirming that, he gives you a nod and smiles a bit when you immediately dump out a pencil case full of markers in every color. he tries to look anywhere but directly at you as you work, drawing constellations and quotes from your favorite book (which he’d ask about afterwards). he’d thank you quietly afterwards, not really making a big deal about it, but every time he sees it, it would make his day all over again.

Charlie: immediately rolls his sleeve up and declares that he is your canvas in a very, very flirtatious manner. would literally not give a shit about what you put on his hand and would smirk proudly the entire time you were drawing because you wanted to draw on him. he'd tell you random stories about cool shit he's done (whether the stories are true or not). "i'm actually an artist, too you know. saxophone. stage name is nuwanda." afterwards he’d show it to the entire club with immense pride and a general feeling of superiority because you chose him out of all others as your canvas.

Pitts: just the question alone makes him smile really big. like, he gets so happy that you asked that he deadass forgets how to respond verbally and nods to tell you to go for it. and tall boy has very wide hands and when you make a small comment about lots of space to draw, he genuinely feels happy that you feel that way, rather than seeing him as someone who's just incredibly tall. would show it to meeks first and fanboy over the drawings for a good few hours, maybe a few hours depending on how long the drawings stay.

(Fanon) Knox: from the moment you put your marker to this boy’s hand, he is already imagining a whole relationship with you. he asks for specific doodles just so that he can make 100% certain that it’s perfect—and that it won’t taint his incredibly romanticized and wholesome idea of you. he wants the drawing to be as perfect as you are. he silently questions whether or not you would think it was sweet if he asked you to draw on his hand every time you had that class together—the last thing he wanted was to come off as creepy. but he wouldn't be able to take his eyes off of you as you drew.

Meeks: he legit asks to pick his color palette before you begin—a mix of reds and blues and purples that he really likes. you end up connecting the freckles on his hands into constellations and he starts to realize what you’re doing and tells you the names + stories behind the constellations you draw. before you know it, there's a dozen constellations drawn on his hands in his choice of colors—very organized and methodical, but with a touch of chaos to the way some are very far apart and some are close together. he would definitely go around showing people, happy to re-explain the stories behind each and every constellation marked on his hands.

Cameron: when you ask, he first looks between you and the teacher at the front of the classroom for a few moments, silently trying to decide whether or not to take his attention from class long enough for you to draw on his hand. Eventually he says yes, asking that you draw on his right hand so he can take notes with his left hand (idc, he's left handed!!!!!). He tries for a bit to pay attention to the words on the board and take notes, but he keeps getting distracted by the dedication you're putting into the drawings on his hand. every once in a while when you look up and whisper a question about what kind of drawings he'd like, he gives you rushed whispery answers, hoping to god that the teacher doesn't hear you two. but when you make a comment about how he's "cute when he's stressed" his face goes RED AS HELL and suddenly he is physically incapable of taking notes or doing anything for a few moments. he then turns to look at the drawing you've done and is a bit surprised by the intricacy and attention to detail. when you finished, you don't wait a moment before snapping straight back in your seat and going to take notes like nothing happened, and suddenly the roles are reversed: you're trying to stick to your studies and he's staring at the drawings on his hand (and also possibly at you).

Stick: this adorable lil nerd would probably ask to draw on your hand at the same time, resulting in both of you hunched over the others' hand, markers in the other. "move your shadow, i can't see." "sorry. can i use that blue when you're done?". afterwards you'd put your hands up next to each other, comparing them. you'd jokingly fight for like five minutes over who's was better ("wh—do you see that star you drew? it's perfect.") and then after class you'd go around to random people, shoving your color-covered hands in their faces and asking them which looks better. you each cheer when someone picks the others' drawing.

[erigold13261]

What do the NSR Megastars think of the Mural Man?

Depends on which headcannon you go with.

If we go with the retired CEO then I can see the other NSRtists barely knowing about him except that he used to run NSR. They would have basically no connection to him other than Eve who would know him as someone who Tatiana sometimes hangs out with. Eve would have no real feelings to him other than he needs some more color in his wardrobe.

If we go with my headcannon that he controls the Festival Plaza, then it would go like this:

-DJSS: Couldn't care less about him. He barely comes to NSR meetings and isn't worth DJ's time. DJ might even look down on him a bit because Mural Man is a charter who doesn't make music (as far as DJ knows). However, if something does go wrong in Cast Tech and DJ needs an immediate response, they usually go to Mural Man instead of Tatiana because the distance between Festival Plaza and Cast Tech is much smaller than the distance between Cast Tech and NSR Tower.

-Sayu: Sayu and crew actually think he's pretty cool because he will let them infodump him and even talks with them about the ocean and the creatures in it. He probably gives tips to them about how to make cool water effects in their animations/drawings without making the effects too distracting. Mural Man really just tries to make sure these kids are on the right track and will do what he can to help them out or give advice when needed.

-Yinu and Mama: Yinu honestly forgets he exists at times because he isn't very present in her life. She doesn't mind him though, especially when he lets her wear his hat. Mama and him are actually old friends because he was a friend of her husband. She doesn't like to hang out with him anymore though because he reminds her too much of happier times. He understands and keeps his distance but wishes she will reach out again one day.

-Neon J and 1010: As Mural Man helps out running all of Vinyl City from the Festival Plaza, Neon J actually has a lot of respect for him. The two of them work together a lot of the time to make sure everything is going smoothly for the whole city, even though Neon is supposed to only care about Metro Division. Rin doesn't mind him. They haven't had many interaction other than a few meetings it's sat in with Neon J and Mural Man and even a few between Mural Man and Tatiana. Purl-hew is mostly indifferent, if a little negative to Mural Man. They aren't very keen on talking to someone they don't know or have to interact with, so there is no real relation between the two. Zimelu loves making fun of Purl and saying they stole their glasses/style from Mural Man which annoys Purl to no end. She does like to talk with him sometimes to learn more about what he does, but she is more interested in his stories than him as a potential friend. Haym is similar to Zimelu where he will talk with him for stories and to generally annoy him. Mural Man is very calm and really hard to upset, so Haym has made it his mission to see Mural Man annoyed or upset or even for him to raise his voice. Mural Man has fun keeping his cool and seeing Haym get upset. The two could be considered friends. Eloni is really too shy to go out of their way and talk with Mural Man whenever he is around. Eloni actually has never said a word to Mural Man, not even signed anything to him. Mural Man keeps his distance because he can tell Eloni isn't very talkative and doesn't want to upset her.

-Eve: She has a professional relationship with him. Out of all the NSRtists she is the one to talk with him the most since she is Tatiana's right hand woman. Eve, Tatiana and Mural Man have meetings about the organization of the city as a whole and then Eve and Tatiana will converse with each other and relay what they want to the other NSRtists in their monthly meetings. Eve still thinks that Mural Man can use more color in his life and offers to make him some clothes but he always declines.

-Tatiana: The two are professional colleagues during work and bar buddies afterwards. They will go out for some drinks every now and then. Both have a lot of respect for each other and how they both run the city, Tatiana as the main leader and Mural Man taking care of all the hidden intricacies that Tatiana is too busy for. They trust each other very much, so much that if Tatiana ever needs to step away from work for any reason, she puts Mural Man in charge while Eve is a figurehead until she can come back to work.

[thedistrictsleepsalonetonight]

Space girl

The beginning of most love stories: the moon falls in love with the sun.

(The problem, however, is that most love stories aren’t set in the Boiling Isles. To confirm that the metaphor works adequately, there must exist at least one moon and one sun in your admittedly bonkers world. Is there a sun? A moon?)

Amity shivers where she’s sitting at her window, stares up at the bright bluish orb hanging over the sky and decides it does, in fact, qualify as a celestial body, whatever the hell that means. Luz has been teaching them about the intricacies of the human world, every bit of knowledge that they would require if in case they ever got transported there accidentally, and that includes something called a smartphone, a bus and the shortest way to the nearest vending machine, preferably a vending machine that stocks Mars Bars. Amity suspects the last is just another one of Luz’s whims, but has no way of confirming.

(And what is the point of confirming anything anyways? It is enough to sit in front of Luz, or beside her or anywhere with a direct line of sight to her, so Amity can listen to her blabber on about chocolate chips and scrambled eggs and something called a Tumblr; enough to get lost in the insistent, sunshine shaped cadence of her voice and forget about the perils of the week.

Plus, is the sun ever wrong?)

A month ago, Amity would have been alarmed at how easily she writes down her utter devotion towards a very human someone who gets beaten up on the regular by some ancient eldritch horror. Now the words just walk out of her quill and plant themselves firmly on the page like they couldn’t belong anywhere else, except maybe her paramour’s heart. That’s the problem with the moon falling in love with the sun. it’s annoying yet ineffable and inevitable. It’s also the easiest thing she’s ever done.

*****

Emira figures it out first. Which probably means that Edric knows as well, since Amity is pretty sure the twins share a single mind and keep passing it to each other like they’re in an eternal Grudgby match. However, he’s not the one who appears in her room in the middle of the night to scare her half to death. That’s all Emira.

“What,” Amity starts, one hand on her chest, other reaching instinctively for her training wand at the sight of a green cloud of smoke that’s materialized in her room out of nowhere, “in the world are you doing here?”

Her sister leans against the doorway, like she’s been there all along, takes in her room. Amity knows it’s clean, knows that there is not a speck of dust hiding beneath the floorboards or an errant cape strewn on her bed, and yet can’t help following Emira’s gaze anxiously as it travels across her neatly arranged trophy on the shelf, her table and the loose floorboard she now hides her diary under, before she comes to rest on hers.

“You never told us what happened at the library the other day,” she says, finally.

Amity blinks. “I did tell you what happened. Otabin turned into a monster and tried to sew me, literally, into a book. Had to be fought off.”  

She doesn’t continue with the subsequent thoughts in her head. Luz was there. Brave, idiotic Luz with a tendency of barging into adventures without a second thought. Luz, who I would’ve jumped into fire for. Luz, who made (makes) me laugh.

“You mean you and Luz?” Emira asks, innocently.

She bites the inside of her cheek, tries hard not to betray the smile that’s trying to creep up her face at the sound of Luz’s name. Nods.

“Luz is pretty cool, is she not?” Emira continues, and okay, there’s no reason to say someone’s name this much in one conversation. She ambles around her room, touching things at random, while Amity regulates her breathing. This was pathetic. The sound of someone’s name wasn’t supposed to make her feel like her heart was going to burst out of her, wasn’t supposed to climb up her throat and turn into absolute warmth all over her face.  

“Uh huh,” she manages. “I guess. Yeah. Eh. Yeah.” Too much too much too much too much.

Emira is suddenly in her face then. She places her hand on Amity’s shoulders, stares right into her eyes.

“Aw, Mittens,” she chuckles. “You’re adorable when you have a crush.”

And then she disappears.

Amity does manage to chuck the object nearest to her (which happens to be her training wand) at Emira’s retreating figure. Then she sits on the floor and curls up into an embarrassed ball. You know, as one does.

*****

The whole jumping into danger for Luz thing would be a lot more avoidable if Luz didn’t have an equally huge jumping into danger for Amity thing as well.

Which is such a godforsaken Luz thing to do. The idiot immersed herself in a cauldron full of sludge for Willow, who she had met minutes ago, of course she would take on her burden for Grom night. Of course she would somehow break the cage Amity had conjured up for her to come save Eda and Edric and Emira and of course she would help her make things right with Willow. If the girl had one coherent thought when she woke up every morning, it was probably this – Ooh, someone’s in trouble? Let me fix it!

(She does inevitably manage to turn a tiny cut into a gushing wound in absolutely no time at all, but would Luz even be Luz without shenanigans?)

Amity loves it. It gives her a heart attack, but she loves how Luz is always ready to help out a random stranger. She’s never met anyone with a heart bigger than Luz’s and a personality sunnier than hers.

(Also hasn’t met anyone who’s cuter, or prettier, or better-looking in a strange black-pink-frilly-yet-well-tailored attire, but let’s not go there)

Either way, it’s completely understandable that she immediately reaches for her wand when Luz climbs up onto her balcony after Grom night, ready to fight whatever it was that was evidently bothering her.

“No!” Luz holds up her hands, shoots her a quick smile. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Oh,” she says, feeling herself relax. “So, um — why are you — here?”

“I could go! If you — wanted to, sleep or—”

“—no! Absolutely not!” Curse her for picking the absolute worst way to phrase a question. Why hadn’t she said Hey Luz, it’s so nice to see you, what brings you here? Or Hey Luz, please walk into my room and never leave.

(You know. Either works)

“I’m glad you’re here,” Amity says, then fumbles for something, anything, to add on to that revealing statement. “I mean, I couldn’t sleep anyways.”

Luz nods, and then giggles when Amity joins her onto the balcony and in the moonlight.

“What?” she asks, a little self-conscious. Also very charmed. Making Luz laugh was like some form of intoxicating elixir; Amity was hooked onto the feeling. Luz laughing made the world brighter.

(God, she was so gone for this idiot.)

“Your pajamas have tiny owls all over them,” Luz points out.

“Okay, that’s it!” she says, half-turning to go back into her room, when Luz’s hand grabs her.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Luz is still laughing. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. You look cute.”

Thank you, Luz. That’s very nice of you, Luz. You look nice in your strange clothes and oversized jacket as well, Luz. Those were all potential responses she could deliver.

Instead, she makes a choked-off noise that sounds suspiciously like hngg and closes her eyes.  

(She’s so gone for this idiot)

*****

“Does your moon look like the one here?” Amity asks, one night of many, when they’re sitting on her balcony staring up at the gigantic thing. There’s some quiet song about stars and lovers that’s playing on that infernal device Luz is always toting around, and Luz is next to her, her arm brushing against Amity’s, radiating warmth out from the point of contact.

Amity wouldn’t mind if she died happy right at this moment.

“It’s a little different, I think,” Luz tilts her head, regarding it thoughtfully. Then she picks up her phone, taps at it and holds it out in front of Amity. “Here, that’s the moon back home.”

It isn’t bluish like this one. Nor is it smooth, unblemished. It’s got marks all over it, remnants, Amity presumes of outside forces long gone by. Enraptured, she leans in for a closer look.

“It’s orange!”

“It was just that day,” Luz informs her. “It isn’t orange all the time.”

“It changes colors?” That was surprising. Also fascinating.

“Not — not all the time. It’s complicated, I guess.”

Amity likes the wide smile Luz holds when she talks about this. Luz is so expressive, she couldn’t hide her feelings to save her life. Most of the time in school, when being faced down by exasperated teachers Amity thinks of it as a curse. Now, however, at midnight, while it’s just the two of them, and she is privy to this unbridled display of everything that makes up Luz, she’s enamored.

“Why do you like the moon so much?” she asks, curious.

“Why do you like the sun so much?” Luz shoots back, playfully.

Oh. That one’s easy. “Because it turns everything golden. Because it’s airy and light. Because it makes me feel warm inside.” Because your eyes turn a particular shade in the sunlight and it’s hard to look at you directly, you shine so bright. Because every time the sun comes up, it is a precursor to me seeing you in school.  

Because it reminds me of you.

Luz looks at her, her eyes uncharacteristically wide and serious. “I like the moon because it makes me feel seen. Because it’s almost as lonely as I am. Because I can trust it enough to know that it’s mostly always there, even if it’s behind the clouds at the moment.”

They’re staring at each other, eyes wide, and Amity can’t breathe. She thinks of a lonely Luz staring up at the night sky back in the human world, talking to the moon, and it twinges, sorrowfully, like a ukulele out of tune, at a place deep underneath her chest. Some strange mixture of I’m sorry you had no one to talk to and I wish I’d been there, I wish I’d known you back then — I’d have listened to all your stories.  

“Plus,” Luz smiles, “it’s pretty.”

Amity blinks, and the spell is broken. Luz jerks, as if coming out of a dream, and stands up straight. Stammers, fumbles, makes a truly terrible joke about broomsticks and King and the annoying owl slash security guard slash housekeeper and runs off, leaving her completely confused.

*****

It’s when Gus finds out that Amity discovers that everyone and their parent has known about her Grometheus sized crush on Luz the entire time.  

“But why didn’t you tell me?” He’s still sulking about it in a corner, while Amity is faced down by Willow, Edric, Emira, Eda and King at the same time.

“Nobody told anyone, strange little child,” Eda waves a hand impatiently at him. “We just have eyes.”

Edric casts a momentary silencing spell on him, but Amity is pretty sure he’s mouthing the words “But I have eyes too”. Not that she’s too worried about Gus. He’ll be fine.... eventually. It’s more the fact that she now has to figure out which parts of her behavior have apparently clued in the whole world to the fact that her heart is waddling around in an idiot’s chest, most times.

“How about the fact that you can’t stop smiling when I bring her up?” She does not—

“Or that you did some pretty advanced magic trying to save her when that Slither-Beast had us?” How did he-

“You nearly combusted when she picked you up after our Grudgby match?” It wasn’t that bad.

She buries her head in her hands. Then looks up at King.

“Do you want to add anything?”

“No,” he replies. “I had no idea until today. I just didn’t want to be lumped in with Gus over there.”

She stands up, picks up her bag. “Okay, I am clearly at a disadvantage here—”

“Mittens, come back,” Edric grabs the back of her shirt, lets her flail for a minute before she gives up.

“I just — I just wanted to get her something nice for her birthday tomorrow, okay? And instead I’m being ambushed by the entirety of Boiling Isles.”

“But we are trying to help you, kid,” Eda tells her, now lounging on the couch with King on her lap. “God knows I love that child, but she has not an ounce of common sense in her. There is no way she’s ever going to figure out you’re in love with her if you don’t—”

“—whoa, whoa, whoa, love? That’s — please — completely crazy — idea. I’m not — in — love. That’s—”

She’s not. She’s not. So what if she keeps interrogating Gus on human things so she can impress Luz with her admittedly flawed knowledge on all things non-Boiling Isles? So what if she hasn’t slept more than five hours for the past one month because Luz comes over at night and they end up talking until past midnight? What does it even matter that Luz is the only person who she feels any form of innate comfort around? Or that every time she lends Luz her jacket when it gets chilly, the sight of an awkwardly clad Luz in that oversized thing makes her heart feel full to the point of bursting?  

That’s not love.  

(Some strange whisper echoes through her head, leaving echoes of But it could be behind)

Luz is the sun, okay? Bright and beautiful and adored by everyone. There’s no reason she could, or that she even should pay attention to Amity. Her affection is easily given, evenly split between all her friends and the citizens of the world; there’s no way Amity could ever hope to exert enough gravity to make Luz notice her, no way she could dare to hope for a greater portion in Luz’s long list of priorities.

(After all, does the sun even know that moon exists?)

*****

“Come on, Amity!”

She presses her lips flat, tries not to burst into laughter at the sight of an impatient Luz, vibrating by her side, hands opening and closing in the air.  

“I know you have a gift for me! And you’ve been hiding it from everyone! Nobody at the party knew!”

“Aren’t you tired from the party?” she asks, knowing the abrupt change in topic is just going to annoy Luz more. It had been a hectic affair, after all. Monster complications in the morning aside, the Owl House had seen an impressive number of guests who wanted to wish Luz a very happy birthday. An impressive number of guests along with an impressive number of gifts.

All except one.

“Nope. Not tired at all,” Luz tells her, promptly. “Completely alert and ready to receive the gift that I know you’ve gotten me but aren’t giving me yet, because you like messing with me.”

Amity twists her face into the visual equivalent of Who, me but conjures up a wrapped box either way. It falls into Luz’s outstretched hands, and then she has to tell her to shush unless they want Amity’s parents grounding her, forever.

(Not that it pleases her, much. She hates telling Luz to quiet down, because it tends to break her out of whatever spiel she is embarking upon, and Amity adores it when Luz rambles. Her eyes shine, and her hands move around animatedly, and her voice, her voice is so, so sweet she doesn’t mind it telling her about things she cannot comprehend)

She puts a hand on Luz’s right arm just as she’s about to unwrap it. “Luz,” she starts, already embarrassed, but determined to power through, “this, is probably not the best gift, and probably not even accurate as well, so you have to tell me if you don’t like it, okay? I’ve got other backup gifts I’d planned on giving you, so no worries, okay? Just—”

“Amity,” Luz cuts in, her excited smile morphing into something a little quieter, gentler, “I already love it.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet.”

Luz shrugs, like it doesn’t matter, still looking at her. Only resumes unwrapping it when Amity nods. Opens the box, and thankfully isn’t looking at her when Amity starts talking.

“I tried — to make it as close to the real thing as possible,” she says, watching Luz look at the off-white orb in wonder. “King helped. He went on something called the, the internet? And turns out your moon has a lot of craters! But it’s pretty regardless, so I tried — to. Yeah.”

She’s not exactly surprised when Luz leans over and hugs her. They’re sitting side by side so the angle’s a little off, but it’s not like she cares. Luz, beautiful, happy, Luz is here and she’s solid in her arms, and she can feel her smile against her neck and Amity is going to die—

“Thank you.” Luz disentangles herself from the embrace, but still pretty close. “I — Amity. Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

But I want to. I want to give you things, and I want to give you things that you like and that will maybe remind you of me. She places a hand on the orb between them, sees it light up.

“It also does this,” she informs Luz, unnecessarily. Then places a hand again, watches it turn orange. “Changes colors. Like yours does.”

She finally looks at Luz again, after a moment of complete silence, only to see her staring back. The look in her eyes is so — so intense (Amity can think of no other way to describe it), that it makes her want to turn away and cover her face. Like it’s going to burn her up if she keeps looking into her eyes.  

And then Luz quickly darts forward to press a kiss to her cheek, and Amity combusts.

(Only inside. You’d think it was possible, wouldn’t you? It was the Boiling Isles, after all. But no. Nobody had spontaneously combusted since Elaric the Great and as far as anybody could tell, it didn’t have anything to do with romance)

The kiss lands half on her half and half on her skin because she’s pretty sure Luz hasn’t exactly thought it through either. There’s a single, blissful moment of peace, and then then her heart goes into overdrive, beating away like it’s trying to catch a train.

Speaking of things trying to catch a train, however....

“I have to go!” Luz scrambles away, gets up. Her face looks red as well, and Amity, a little stumped, watches it happen, as though in slow motion. Even through her haste, she picks up the replica of the moon carefully and wraps it up in her jacket. “I’ll — see you tomorrow! At school! Where we both.... go. So. Yeah. Goodnight!”

“Goodnight?” Amity replies, softly.

Right before she’s about to climb down, Luz stops. Turns around, and very quickly says something that Amity for the life of her cannot figure out.

(Also, because she’s still in the tummy-woozy, mind-blank state of just having a kiss pressed to her cheek by the most perfect girl in the world)

“Can you say that again?”

“I, uh,” Luz slows down, deliberately, her voice coming out quieter. “Did you totally hate that?”

Oh.

Oh, gosh, the idiot.

Amity shakes her head, grins at her, hoping that says what she isn’t brave enough to say yet. “No, Luz. I didn’t hate that.”

*****

She keeps the picture of Luz’s tremulous, answering smile wrapped in the fist she presses to her heart a long time after she’s gone.

*****

And that’s how the story ends. With the sun smiling at the moon.  

[trashydemigodmess]

macey and Rory pls and thanks 😇

macey will never shut up about them missing the chance to have this be real because it took rory too long to have a gay awakening ⚡️💞✨

Who is more aggressive in bed? .......macey 😬 but also, uh, you're welcome rory? girl u got a sexy gf who's gonna make sure u have the best sex of ur life sorry not sorry

Lights on or off? something in me says rory would prefer lights off and macey is a-okay with that. but also, they absolutely have those colored led lights everywhere and those aren't really that bright and make good ambiance, so sometimes like, a nice colored light on for the ~mood~

Who does what chores? macey will do the dishes if rory can do the laundry lol

Who gets babied when they’re sick? rory would have to baby a dramatic and whiny macey (sorry rory)

Who makes breakfast? I feel like they're both very simple breakfast people, like, cereal or toast and coffee and out the door kinda thing. and if they want a bigger breakfast they just go out to brunch lol

Where would they go on their honeymoon? someplace fun and adventurous and different like iceland!! with all the pretty black sand and gorgeous waterfalls and icebergs?? imagine rory flying them up along the side of a waterfall?? wtf macey is Swooning

What are their quirks while sleeping? rory strikes me as someone (like me LOL) who rolls around constantly while she's sleeping and wakes up in the most random positions gfdjskgs this sometimes leads to macey accidentally getting a hand in her face or kicked in the shin

What is their favorite activity as a family? game nights, movie nights, basically just cute domestic shit? rory the sweet nerd is explaining how to play this board game or the intricacies of the lore of this movie to macey who it kinda just goes over her head but she is always fully present and listening and does her best to follow along lmao

Who is the stricter parent? oh rory absolutely would be lmao macey is the one who would let most things slide

Who would be the big spoon? I feel like they would happily take turns being big spoon because they are the same size, so, perf for cuddling 😌

Who would wake up first? I feel like...macey, shockingly lmao rory just seems like she'd sleep in a bit more than her and they'd kinda run on opposite schedules with their jobs

Do they have nicknames for each other? they are mace and ror 😌 but also they seem like major babe/baby people to me lol, and double also macey would lovingly call her "nerd" all the time

What happened when they met each other’s parents? macey's family loves rory she is always welcome

How do they apologize after an argument? I feel like it depends on the argument who would cave and apologize first, but more importantly I think after a while rory would get really fed up with macey just in general because she's so dramatic and needs her partner to be Obsessed™️ with her and rory is so much more lowkey and chill? they work fantastically as best friends, but long story short this would not be an endgame sort of ship and they'd def break up 😪

What would they be like as parents? they would be such cool moms like I can't even stand it

Who is the better cook? they're living off of hellofresh and doordash lmao

Who is more romantic? I think macey, she's all about big displays of affection and lots of romance

What sort of gifts do they get for each other? they both give such cute sentimental gifts and just little things all the time it makes my heart swell up

Who gets jealous easiest? I kept switching my answer back and forth so I'm just gonna say both lol, they're leos they don't like not being the center of the other's attention

Who gets more excited for events? I think they both get excited for different holidays and events, like, macey is a slut for christmas and rory seems like she'd be big on thanksgiving and halloween

Who is the most adventurous? macey!!!! she'd take rory on so many fun adventures

Who is the most protective? also macey but like, rory could zap you to a crisp so probably don't mess with her girl

What would they have been like as childhood sweethearts? friends to lovers EXCELLENCE

Song to sum them up? I'll be honest i'm running out of steam and I for the life of me cannot think of one

[mytwistedhome]

𝔼𝕡𝕖𝕝 𝔽𝕖𝕝𝕞𝕚𝕖𝕣 ~ ℍ𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕠𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕟

Epel x GN Reader

Although this is being written on Halloween night, this particularly story is meant to take place several days before the Halloween event <3

written in present tense and second person

Stepping down the beautiful halls of the Pomefiore dorm upon emerging from the shimmering mirror, you can hear Vil's scolding voice clearer with each stride towards the main lounge; nearer, you walk, and nearer.

And now, you've walked so far that you are now there... standing just outside the doorframe of the lounge where you can see every beautiful thing that fashions the room. It all seems to glitter and shine as the light hits each fracture. It's beautiful and breathtaking, but at the same time... a little overwhelming.

You lean your head forward, peering further into the room. You can now clearly see Epel, Vil, and Rook standing together at the corner. Vil is standing close to Epel—perhaps too close, even—with his handsome scowl and tense fists gripping the fabrics Epel wears. Rook stands more to a distance, separate from the two responsible for the tensive atmosphere.

Epel stands between Vil and Rook, his head tilted up and glaring at the tall, demeaning dorm leader. His effortless beauty is striking, even despite his current scowl. And—oh! What lovely attire he had on! A costume meant for the upcoming Halloween celebration that you have heard vaguely about. The fabric is of a deep purple that seem to match perfect with the dormitory's staple colors, with floral patterns all around and all adorned in chains that glitter, and complete with a long cape and high boots. Every detail is elaborate and created with fine care. It is gorgeous but... perhaps, also, too much. At least, you think so, for you are certain that such intricacy is not to Epel's taste.

In concern, you step into the lounge, yet immediately regret doing so. It strikes you now that perhaps your presence here is a bit inappropriate. With Vil and Epel at each other... it seems unfit for you to stumble in.

But... Epel had asked you to come, hadn't he? So the others must expect you, yes?

You press your lips together, hoping so, as you lean your back against the wall beside the door frame, wishing to blend in and wishing you could have something else to focus on other than the grueling banter.

But how can you possibly put your attention on anything else? You had heard Vil even before entering the lounge, and his harsh words against the way Epel had worn the costume he'd fashioned accompanied by his hard handling in the way his hands fixed it upon Epel's body... It makes you flinch, and you are the one furthest away.

Rook, on occasion, as you notice, attempts to ease the rising tension and pass Epel a sparing compliment to reel away his growing frustration. But Rook goes overheard, and you, as well, begin to feel the fever of the argument. You try and fix your eyes onto Rook, for at least his air is calm and free of care for much of the aggression in the room.

Rook looks to you and smiles. Are his eyes communicating something that he wishes to speak? You think so, but he pulls his attention away from you in an instant and focuses once more on Vil's criticism of Epel.

Hopeless, all you can do is stand back and bite your tongue as the brutal exchange goes on.

~'~

And, fortunately, it did not last long.

You watch as both Vil and Rook leave the room, and you give a polite nod toward the passing two, though avoiding all eye contact.

You see Epel still standing in the same spot, looking at you, expecting you, and you walk towards him as the aggression leaves his body with every short breath.

With compassion in your eyes, you try a gentle smile, "Vil is mean, isn't he?" you say softly with care, and Epel looks to you in alarm, almost lost in your stare. He would never expect you to say such a thing in Vil's regard, however passive of a thing it was, but now you have said so, and he gazes with parted, plush lips to the fondness of your concern.

"Very much..." is all he says; his voice a whisper in the air with a tone of clarity and flair.

The strings that hold your gaze in his are growing taut and tense as your pupils shake and fixate from the right eye to the left.

And you feel it, suddenly; the depth you somehow share. You feel it and look down quickly but break that intensive stare.

"I'm sorry.." you try to say, but the words can barely come, for you suddenly feel so shy as your throat closes up. It aches you, and it suffocates you, but you fight pass that white lump that feels forced inside your lungs, "I'm sorry you have to deal with him for so long."

Heat rises to your face. Oh, why are you this way? Why do you get nervous and unraveled when you have but little to say?

You don't sense much as your heavy thoughts seem to seize your very breath, but fighting panic, you fill your chest with a deep inhale of a cooling fragrance from the dorm, releasing it slowly in attempt to calm your nervous storm. Epel takes a step your way, and you hear the heels of his boots give a delightful "clink". How very much like Vil you think as the heels tap in sync.

Epel, now standing so close to you, spills what he never could before, "H-He is always this way, and every time I think that I have accepted it, I.... I find myself growing angry again," he touches your shoulder, you feel the room a little warmer, the atmosphere a little woozier, "But thank you for coming," you hear his smile, "you always bring me back down. You always put me in a better mood. I'm not sure why."

You say nothing but look up into his glittering blue eyes. You grin, and the gentleness withheld in his expression melts you and makes you eager all at once. You wrap an arm around his waist and search his gaze.

Thank you the words don't even need to be said as Epel pulls you to an embrace.

[let-it-raines]

What a Wicked Game {12/15}

Killian met her in a pub on a rainy night in March. Going inside was only supposed to be a way for him to avoid the rain and fight off the demons in his head. It was a place for him to pass through, not stay. But then he was charmed by a blonde woman with a quick wit who had absolutely no interest in him or who he was.

That was a first. It was also the beginning of Emma Nolan helping to bring him back to life. It was the beginning of everything.

Five years later, with their worlds crumbling around them, Killian can’t help but wonder if this is the end of the peace they have known now that his family knows about his relationship. It wouldn’t be a problem if his father wasn’t the King of England.

rating: mature

a/n: thank you to the mods at @captainswanbigbang​ for running this event and helping to encourage writers to finish their wonderful stories, to @resident-of-storybrooke​ for reading all these words, and to @captainsjedi​ for making the beautiful artwork ❤️

ao3: beginning | current

tumblr:  1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 

-/-

October 19th, 2018

October dawns bright and warm, but as it settles in, the warmth disappears into a chill and the brightness of the sky turns to the gray for which London is often known. Leaves are still in the midst of changing colors, from a dull green to vibrant oranges and reds that contrast the sky, and Emma finds herself staring out the large window in Killian’s bedroom to look at the leaves falling from a tree and drifting through the air until they eventually land on the edge of the roof. It’s been seven weeks since she slept in her own bed and had her parents just down the hall from her, and as weird as it’s been, she’s thankful for this.

She’s thankful that every day she is actively making the choice to be with Killian and to work at adjusting to all of the complications that come with this life.

It’s more than a lot, but as she looks down at her arm and sees it without the ugly white plaster and stretches her arms above her head without any pain, Emma reminds herself that time and a little extra care can heal things. The immediate reaction and pain doesn’t stay. It changes and lessens. Her body is healing, her heart too, and the darkness that surrounded her for all of August seems to have almost been extinguished.

Nothing about this has been easy, but Emma doesn’t want to retreat back and walk away again. She still believes that her reasons were sound, that she had to do it in order to take care of herself and protect her heart, and in a weird way, coming out on the other side has made her thankful for it.

Getting into a car crash and possibly almost dying because photographers wanted a picture of her sitting in a car after they found out about she and Killian’s breakup wasn’t great. She could have done without that. She still could. And she definitely won’t be getting in a car on a rainy night anytime soon.

Her physical scars may be lessening, most of them non-existent now, but she’s not ready for that. She’s not ready for a lot of things, but when has she ever been?

“Darling,” Killian calls out, and she gets a little smile on her face at how much his accent thickens on that word, “do you know where my solid navy tie is? It should be with all of the others, but I can’t find it.”

“Where did you last see it?”

“If I bloody well knew that, I wouldn’t be asking where it is.”

He pokes his head out of the bathroom before walking outside and finishing the buttons on his dress shirt. He looks handsome today in his navy pants and light blue dress shirt, and she really doesn’t see why he needs to wear a tie when he looks fine without it. Royal dress code or something. She doesn’t know. Over the past few weeks as she’s isolated herself in Killian’s apartment at Kensington or wandered over to Liam and Elsa’s to spend time with Elsa, she’s found herself going through guidebooks that Elsa had made when she got engaged to Liam. There are all these rules and regulations from how to cross your legs to what nail polish she’s supposed to wear, and while Emma thinks a lot of it is bullshit, it’s the territory that comes with being in this relationship.

Emma will paint her nails ballet slipper pink and cross her legs at the ankle every damn day if that’s what it takes. What she won’t do is be suffocated by the press and by Brennan.

What she won’t do is make Killian leave his family and break his mom’s heart simply because she couldn’t handle the pressure.

If he wants to leave, if it is truly his decision outside of her, she’s more than happy for them to live their lives in a simpler way where Killian doesn’t have to worry about where his solid navy tie is. Leaving may be in their future, but they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it.

But if they’re staying and doing this, she wants to make the best out of the situation. She wants to work with charities that help empower women and children. She wants to do that for men too, to educate them on the intricacies over an ever-changing world. She wants to do good and be good. This family is insane, the money and the traditions and the vault full of actual tiaras like something out of a movie, but they can use their privilege to do good.

Emma knows what it’s like to not have this kind of privilege, and now she may be in a position to help.

“Cool down, Casanova. No need to get all snippy over your tie. Where are you even going today?”

“The opening of a hospital wing and then I’m meeting with a slew of new security guards to interview.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Killian arches a brow. “Haven’t you spent enough time in hospitals lately?”

“I meant to the interviews, dumbass. Isn’t this for my security, too?”

Killian fidgets with the neck of his shirt, buttoning and then unbuttoning it so that black tufts of chest hair show. “Aye, but I figured I’d go through the candidates first, and then you could meet the top few to see which ones you’re most comfortable with.”

“I can come with you. It’s really not a big deal. I don’t have any plans for the day.”

“Swan, it’s fine. I promise.” Killian walks over to her and sits down on the edge of the bed next to her before taking her hand and bringing it to his mouth. “This is a dreadfully boring process, and my father is unfortunately going to be there for some of it, though I’ll likely leave the room when he does his own interviews. I don’t - after August, he’s convinced that I can’t pick out my own security team.”

“August was...I mean, he was selling information about us because his dad is sick and can’t afford the surgeries and medication back in America. He was willing to risk prison to save his dad. That’s not something you could have predicted.”

A part of Emma understands the words she’s telling Killian, but the other part of her wants to punch August’s fucking teeth out for making her life hell and inadvertently causing her crash.

“You’ve met Brennan. You know how he can be. I could do everything perfectly, but one screw up that’s outside of my control, and I’m incompetent.”

“Your dad sucks.”

Killian leans his head back with his laugh before leaning forward and pressing his lips to her knuckles once more. “In three words, you’ve managed to sum up quite a bit of my life.”

“I’m magical like that.”

“That you are, my love. That you are.” Killian sighs and blinks at her a few times. She thinks he’s going to say something to her, but then there’s a slight shake of his head and she knows the moment has passed. “Give me a little more time, and I swear I’ll talk to him. Seriously. He and I may never get along, but that’s okay. I simply need him to publicly accept you and to sign off on all of these protection measures for you.”

“Killian, you know you don’t have to do - ”

“No, I do. I will do everything I can to protect you, and if that means I have to have an actual conversation with my father where I don’t leave the room until I get what I want, I will. We’ve missed so much time not talking and not taking action. I don’t want to miss any more.”

Emma leans forward and presses her mouth to Killian’s cheek. “I love you. You should wear the white and navy striped tie instead of the solid one.”

He raises his hand to his forehead as he stands from the bed. “Aye, that’s a good idea.”

“And babe?”

“Yeah, love?”

“If Graham Humbert doesn’t make it to the final interview stage for security, Ruby and I will both be pissed at you. He’s who I want protecting me.”

“That doesn’t terrify me as much as it should.”

“Ruby will be vicious.”

“Eh.”

“I can withhold sex, and you just got that back.”

Killian mock gasps, placing his hand over his heart. “You’re a liar, Emma Nolan. I know you find me too attractive to ever do that.”

He catches the pillow she throws with annoying ease, and she hates him for it.

(Not really.)

After Killian leaves, Emma falls back into bed and thinks that she’ll spend her day watching Netflix or doing something else as equally lazy. What better way is there to spend her last day of being twenty-five?

None.

But that lasts approximately two episodes of a show before guilt nags at her, and she’s moving the covers off of her legs and standing from the bed with a frown etched on her lips and the idea that she needs to clean something. Cleaning is not at all her thing unless she’s working at the pub, but she’s been pretty much on vacation (if vacation included recovering from a car crash and having a million talks with your boyfriend over all of the problems in your relationship) for two months, and she’s probably genetically unable to not work for such long periods of time.

She’s in a literal palace, even if it’s nothing like any of the movies or shows, and instead of relaxing, she wants to clean up the spots Killian has let go over the past few weeks from not having a maid to aid him in his ridiculously specific cleaning rituals.

What even is her life?

She starts in the kitchen, going through Killian’s fridge and throwing out everything that’s expired or has gone bad, and she quickly moves on from that to vacuuming every rug and sweeping or dusting the places that get missed. It’s a lot, and if it wasn’t for the music that is playing over the system, she’d have quit hours ago. She’s about to quit now when she remembers just how messy Killian’s closet is because of her absolute inability to hang up her own clothes.

They’ve probably had more fights about that than, oh, you know, whether or not the actual King of England wants to behead her or not.

(Currently, they’re leaning more toward him wanting to lock her away in a dungeon so she can’t cause any more unintentional media frenzies. It’s apparently less dramatic than a beheading because at least she gets to live...this is a weird train of thought.)

Emma’s phone starts ringing, and she pulls it out of her pocket to answer as she walks up the stairs.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” David greets. “How are you feeling today? Old? Young? Like your life is over because you’re getting closer to late-twenties than early-twenties?”

“You are the most encouraging person alive.”

“I try.”

Emma chuckles and turns down the hallway to go into the bedroom, picking up her bra from where Killian must have tossed it last night and placing it in the hamper. “I’m fine. Killian’s at work opening a new hospital wing, apparently. I’m cleaning. How are you? What are you guys up to today?”

“I’m sorry. Did you say you were cleaning? Are we sure that you don’t have a concussion?”

“Your dad jokes are not good.”

“Every joke I’ve told since the day you were born has been a dad joke, and they’ve all been fabulous.”

She groans and walks into the closet before placing her phone on the table in the center of the room and putting it on speaker so she can do a little work before she loses momentum.

“I’m taking your dad joke privileges away, and to answer your question, I really am fine. I’m just messy, and Killian hasn’t had any of his usual staff in the apartment while I’ve been here. I think the whole August thing freaked him out so that he doesn’t trust anyone around me.”

“Someone close to him was selling information about you that harmed you. I’d be freaked out too. Hell, I am freaked out. If I wouldn’t get arrested for assault, I’d confront the guy.”

Everyone she loves wants to punch everyone who has hurt her, but they all stop themselves because of the fear of getting arrested for assault…she’s not sure if that’s flattering or concerning.

“What are you and Mom up to today?” she questions again, wanting to change the subject. She doesn’t want to talk about all of the shitty stuff that’s been happening to her lately. All she wants is to pick up all of her sweaters from the ground and figure out which ones need to be washed. Focusing on the bad is not how she’s going to move forward.

(And maybe not having to see August Booth’s face.)

“Your mom is downstairs with Will going over some possible menu changes, and I’ve been told I’m not allowed in the pub until I fix whatever is up with this toilet.”

“Ah, so you called me to procrastinate on doing that?”

“You know me so well.”

Emma fills in her dad on everything that’s been going on over the past few days. She tells him that her arm almost doesn’t feel weird anymore and that Ruby came over for dinner two nights again and brought Graham along with her. David is nearly as shocked by that as she was. This might be the longest relationship Ruby has ever had, and it’s good to see her so happy. It’s good that Emma likes Graham in that he’s dating her best friend and also might be protecting Emma’s life from now on if his next round of interviews goes well. In return, her dad gives her far too much information on the date he and her mom went on last night, and then he spends at least ten minutes talking about the difference in two brands of tomatoes.

All the while Emma has almost the entire closet (seriously, her dad talked for way too long and gave too much information about the date like he was talking to a friend and not his daughter) cleaned up. When she moves a pair of jeans that are on Killian’s side of the closet, she finds his solid blue navy tie he was searching for earlier.

“Ha,” she mumbles before reaching down to grab the tie.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says to her dad before tugging on the tie and pulling it up only for a small black box to roll out of it and tumble down onto the ground. “Holy shit.”

“Emma, are you okay?” David asks, but Emma barely hears him over the pounding of her heart. There might as well be an entire drumline in the room.

“Emma?”

“Y-yeah,” she lies even as her fingers tug so tightly on the tie that it might tear. “Hey, Dad? Has Killian talked to you about any...future type things?”

“What do you mean?”

Emma huffs and goes to pick up the box. They could be earrings, right? Or a necklace? Or another ring? She’s got a sapphire one she wears on her right hand. Killian has given her a ring before that wasn’t an engagement ring. That doesn’t mean what’s in this box is one. He buys her jewelry, and it’s not a big deal.

Except…

When the hell did he have time to get this?

How long has he had it? What made him decide to get it? When does he plan on using it? Does he still plan on using it after their breakup?

“You know what I mean. Has he - you know what,” Emma decides, placing the box on the table, “never mind. Don’t tell me anything. I think I’m going to have to call you back later.”

“Whatever you want,” David sighs, confused. “I love you, kiddo.”

“I love you, too, Dad.”

And then the phone line disconnects and she’s left with nothing except for the sound of that damn drumline and the jewelry box that she doesn’t know what to do with. She’s not going to look. She can’t look. There’s no good that would come out of it.

She really wants to look.

Like, really.

“No,” Emma tells herself, grabbing the box off the table and moving to put it back where it must have been before it got tangled in her jeans and in the tie. She puts the tie back for good measure as well, and she’s absolutely going to bite her tongue on bragging about finding the tie when Killian gets home.

He wants to marry her.

She wants to marry him.

Maybe cleaning was worth something.

-/-

Killian comes home that night with grilled cheese sandwiches, which he hates, and onion rings from Ruby’s grandmother’s restaurant, and she doesn’t think she’s ever loved him more.

He tells her that Graham has moved onto the final selections even with Brennan’s hounding and worry over Graham not being trained in the same way as their usual security.

Emma knows that she wants him to be the one who’s hired. She’s not going to trust anyone else, not after everything that’s happened.

-/-

He doesn’t give her any kind of jewelry for her birthday the next day, and she knows what was in the box.

There’s no definite proof, but Emma knows.

Right now, where they are, she’s not ready to get married, but she will be someday. Probably soon. So if Killian were to ask her, she’d say yes over and over again, but the actual getting married part would have to be put on hold until her emotions, Killian’s too, were a little less chaotic.

Love is a really funny thing.

-/-

November 10th, 2018

The cool of the marble pebbles Emma’s skin as Killian helps guide her on top of the counter. His fingers inch over the back of her thighs and up behind her knees where she’s sensitive, and she giggles into his neck while trying to keep herself from bursting into hysterical laughter. Killian keeps the apartment so warm that she didn’t bother to put on anything more than her sleep shorts and a t-shirt last night before going to bed, and she’s regretting that now with every shift over her body over the countertop. But Killian is warm, especially when he steps in between her thighs and she hooks her ankles around his back right over his ass, and every touch of his fingers, gentle and teasing, brings a little more fire to her body.

Especially if he’d stop trying to tickle her while hotly running his tongue down the side of her throat and leaving open-mouthed kisses there.

He’s particularly good at those, and she could spend day after day close to him as he covers her body with affectionate words and delicate brushes of lips that turn into more.

Really, that’s been the last two months, even with her having to wear that atrocious cast for most of it, but they found simple ways to fix that. Being apart and not having those beautiful blue eyes to look into or that laugh to hear after a funny joke was absolutely torture, and having him back in her life, having him back as her person, is something Emma doesn’t ever want to take for granted again.

She will inevitably. It’s human nature. But she doesn’t want to.

Being with Killian is the easy thing. Fighting off the demons is what makes it difficult, but fighting off the demons and conquering them has made her realize that good things often come after struggles that seem impossible.

She’s a sentimental fool now, and she doesn’t care.

(Finding the engagement ring two weeks ago has made her even more sentimental.)

She especially doesn’t care as Killian’s tongue dips into her collarbone and his hands snake up underneath her shirt, warm palms against cool skin in a combination of which she’ll never tire. Emma knows that Killian is a sentimental fool now too. He was before, definitely more than her, but she can see all of the little ways he’s being more affectionate than he was before.

That’s saying something.

But his affection has been obvious lately. In the mornings, she always wakes to him curled around her, hand resting between her breasts and chin nuzzled into the back of her neck. That’s not how they sleep, not usually, so she knows that he does that when he wakes up in the morning while she’s still sleeping. He’s always touching her - hands intertwined, arm around her waist, ankles hooked together - like he’s looking for constant reassurance that she’s real.

That they’re real.

Killian has gone to war for her on multiple occasions, and she has seen the intensity and the fighting spirit that he possesses. She watched him break down over her accident and watched him absolutely vilify every single press association that was involved in that incident or any of the ones that have attacked her in the past or stolen private information from her. She’s watched him deal with the Neal interviews that seem to keep coming despite their falsities, and she’s watched him do absolutely everything that he can to protect her.

Emma never wanted protection or help. She thought that it made her weak to not be able to handle things on her own, but that was wrong.

All of it.

People are going to tell you who you are your whole life. You have to punch back and say “no, this is who I am.” If you want people to look at you differently, make them. If you want to change things, you’re going to have to go out there and change them yourself. Because there are no fairy godmothers in this world.

But there are supportive partners who punch back with you or stand to the side and cheer you on when you need it the most.

“I hate these bloody shorts,” Killian mumbles into her skin as the deep timbre of his voice vibrates down her spine. “I seem to both want you in them and out of them all at once.”

“That’s quite the conundrum you have going on, Jones.”

Killian chuckles before nipping at her jaw and pulling back so that she sees his eyes are blown black. “You are the conundrum, Nolan,” he softly says as his thumbs ghost over both of her nipples, slowly but surely bringing them to peaks. “It’s a funny thing. I seem to always want you. I want you in the mornings, at night, in the middle of the damn day…”

Emma hums while pleasure continues to curl between her thighs, and she wraps her arms loosely around his neck, playing with his hair and running the gemstone of her ring down the back of his neck. “Tell me more about this wanting me in the morning thing.”

The look on his face is positively dirty, and it’s exactly what she wants. So when his hands leave her breasts and move to take her shirt off, she stretches her arms in the air and allows him to undress her until the warm air of the heater is touching her skin. Killian shifts against her so that she can feel his length brushing against where she wants him, a perfect fit in a position that shouldn’t be comfortable, and she melts at his touch as the roughness of his unshaven scruff scratches against her neck and down her sternum to be between her breasts.

“You’re a damn temptress,” he mutters, voice deep and raspy with sleep still lingering. “I wake up and see the smoothness of your skin laid out before me, and my mind is only filled with thoughts of you. I’ve never wanted someone like this.”

“Funny thing, I feel the same way.”

“Do you now?” His fingers tug into her shorts and her underwear, and she lifts her hips as he pulls them down and off of her ankles so that she’s left bare before him, the marble chilling her skin has goosebumps pop up and spread over her.

“I do. Most definitely. You’re quite the catch.”

Killian laughs as he captures her lips, so soft and pliant and warm, with her own. There’s something to be said for kissing just for the sake of kissing, the feeling it sends through her body, and when Emma gently runs her tongue across his bottom lip, asking for entrance, he gladly grants it, tangling their tongues together in one of his favorite dances. She’s definitely picked a partner who knows what he’s doing.

Emma runs her hands through the hair at the nape of his neck and keeps her hand anchored there while the other runs up his spine, soft little taps of her fingertips against the bone underneath his shirt. They stay that way for awhile, lips moving together, until Emma’s hand leaves his hair to move underneath his shirt as well, pulling up at the material until he pulls back and tugs it over his head.

“I feel like we’re on a little bit more equal footing now. You were wearing too many clothes.”

“Was I? I hadn’t noticed. I was a little bit distracted by how unsanitary it’s going to be for us to fuck in the kitchen.”

“That’s literally never stopped you before.”

He huffs and leans forward to kiss her, slow and so impossibly thorough that she feels it all the way down to her toes. “I know,” he grins. “Are you okay up there, or do you want to move upstairs?”

“As long as you don’t hit my head into a cabinet, I’m fine.”

“You’re so beautiful, my love,” he whispers against her skin, kissing the tops of her breasts as her eyelids flutter closed and she recovers from the whiplash in the change of his tone. “I remember the first time I saw you, Emma,” he speaks into her skin as his nose drags along her stomach and arousal tugs at her belly. “You were – are so bloody gorgeous, the curls of your ponytail framing your face and the dark of your eyelashes looking down at me as you told me to get my soggy ass out of the booth.”

“I didn’t say that,” she protests, running her hand through the hair and tugging him down closer to where she’s desperately aching for her.

There’s something about the night that they met that Killian always thinks about. It’s a frequent remembrance, this conversation one they’ve had before, and Emma knows that in moments where Killian is nostalgic, where he’s thinking about how much she means to him, his mind goes back to that night and piecing together all of the circumstances for their meeting.

She doesn’t care how it happened. Just that it did.

No one was ever supposed to love her or treasure her like this. This wasn’t supposed to be how it is for her. She wasn’t supposed to get the good guy. It wasn’t in the cards.

Life has apparently decided to deal her a new hand altogether.

“But you were thinking it,” he whispers against skin, lips pressing against her small tattoo and lingering there. She thought getting that might be a mistake, that the desperation was too much, but over the past few weeks, Killian has held onto it like a glimmer of hope. She did the same. “You looked so frustrated with me, like how dare I walk into your pub in order to get out of the rain.”

“Shameful, really,” she teases, and when she opens her mouth to say something else, she can’t, her throat suddenly too tight to speak while the entirety of the English language escapes from her brain.

Killian’s hands hook around the back of her knees, and this time there’s no playful teasing. Instead, he spreads her legs further apart and bends down to his own knees. She’s about to make a joke about him not hurting himself, a tease over his twenty-ninth birthday last month and how dramatic he was over being nearly thirty, but then he’s kissing her exactly where she wants him, where she needs him.

His tongue drags roughly against her like a perfected routine, and Emma’s eyes tighten. She can’t bear to open them, but then she does and sees the dark mess of hair between the paleness of her thighs. Even more than that, she sees the blue of his eyes under the hood of his eyelid, and she wonders if today is going to be the day that this is all too much for her.

Never.

Killian shifts underneath her, his right hand leaving the curve of her knee to join with his tongue as he kisses her and kisses her and kisses her. Moans filter between them, hers and his, and the tension could be cut with one of the knives that’s in the drawer beneath her ass. It’s all too much - too much pleasure and want and love - and when he slips two fingers into her and curls them, she gasps out his name as a chant that never seems to stop.

“Magnificent,” he mumbles, the sound of his voice like liquid fire in her veins. “Bloody magnificent. Your noises, my darling. Fuck.”

There’s something about knowing that Killian is as affected by things like this as she is, even if he’s the one giving all of the pleasure, and that with the combination of his mouth moving over her bundle of nerves and his fingers moving within her as her falling apart little by little, like the waves cresting onto the shore.

Damn.

Killian presses a kiss to where she’s still fluttering before moving to her thigh, light touches that are nothing more than a blink, a whisper. When he rises from the ground, he grunts, probably from having his knees pressed into hardwood for so long, but she doesn’t think about that for too long when she can feel him hard against her and pressing into her thigh. “Mmm,” Emma hums, pulling herself up and tugging Killian closer to her so that she buries her face in his neck, kissing the straining cord. “You are wonderful.” “Ah, well, that tends to be your reaction after we do something like that.” “Are you fishing for compliments?” “Never.” She chuckles while he does the same, and even without looking, she knows that his eyes are crinkled, joy written across his face.

“Do you want to move upstairs or…”

“Upstairs. Definitely upstairs.”

They move quickly, neither of them in the mood to wait, and while it would have been faster to move to the couch in the living room, this is better. Killian falls back to the bed with laughter on his lips, and Emma immediately hooks her thumbs into his sweats and pulls them down as much as she can before he lifts his hips off the bed to help her out, kicking them off his ankles and onto the floor while she is busy kissing up his thigh, her hand running up his length, feeling the warm hardness in her palms.

“Emma,” Killian moans, voice gruntled. She smirks into his thigh and keeps her hand on his length.

“I am romancing you, Killian,” she promises against his lightning bolt scar before crawling up his body, peppering open mouthed kisses against the trail of his chest hair until she’s leaning over his mouth, her folds teasing him at their hips. “Like you do to me.”

“Darling - ”

“Your eyes, even blown black with desire like they are right now,” she whispers, circling her hips above him to lightly grind down, “are the most gorgeous blue I’ve ever seen.”

She touches his face then, running her fingers over his jaw. “I love your stubble, how it’s black with a little bit of red peppered in, and I love when you don’t shave for a few days and it’s full and just the right mix of soft and prickly. I love the way it feels when you rub it against my cheek in the mornings when you’re waking me up or how it feels against the inside of my thighs.”

She kisses his jaw, running her tongue behind her lips, and the grunt Killian makes curls as little bursts of fire down her spine.

“I love,” she says, running her hands down his biceps as she sits on his lap, right below where she knows he wants her, “the strength of your arms when you hold me, no matter what the occasion. And I love,” she moves her hands through the hair at his chest as Killian twitches beneath her touch, “this hair and how it pokes through the top of all of your shirts. I love the ways that your eyes crinkle when you’re truly smiling.”

I love that you love me enough to want to marry me, she thinks to herself before saying. “I love that you fight for me every day no matter the circumstances.”

She rises on her legs and scoots forward, guiding him to her entrance before slowly, slowly, slowly sinking down onto him. It’s a perfect fit. Maybe not physically, but emotionally, and Killian’s hands grapple for her hips, nails digging into skin. She doesn’t think he’s ever been this quiet for such a long period of time during sex.

“And mostly, at least for our purposes right now, what I love is the feeling of you inside me, thick and full and perfect.”

At that, she starts to move, rolling her hips against him, and it feels so goddamn good that her brief stint as the verbose one in the relationship has ended and Killian is the one to start muttering words of encouragement and curses that would have anyone blushing. She sets a slow, unhurried pace that she knows will draw out pleasure, but Killian doesn’t let her do that for long before he takes control of their movements, speeding up the pace as he thrusts up into her. She lets out a whimper as he hits the exact right spot, and Killian captures the next one with his mouth, kissing her like a man starved of affection and like it’s not ten in the morning.

Suddenly, Killian grabs her hips and rolls them over to change their position, his body encasing hers. He mutters a “bloody fuck” when she clenches her thighs to try to keep him from slipping out, and Emma throws her head back with laughter even if she shouldn’t.

Killian nips at her neck, but she can feel his smile too.

He must be able to tell that she’s getting close, rising higher and higher to her peak, because he releases her hips to grab her wrists, sliding his hands until their fingers are interlaced above her head. He tilts his hips so that his thrusts catch her clit.  Her breath hitches and her legs wrap around his backside, and Emma might actually melt. She thinks that she has. Her limbs are all jelly, and Killian isn’t much better above her.

This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

There are a million things they should probably do today, but they never seem to move away from bed besides getting food from the kitchen. That’s what she’d been trying to do this morning when Killian distracted her, but she’s not going to complain. This is good and nice and Emma could wrap herself in these blankets and in Killian for the rest of time.

When she wakes later, it’s to the slap of a hand to her skin, and Emma immediately flinches and jolts up, blinking into the darkness.

“Ow, shit, Killian. What was that for?”

“I was just making sure you’re here,” he mumbles, voice groggy.

“By slapping me?”

“Killian,” a voice says, and Emma realizes that Killian is on the phone. He might not even realize he’s on the phone. “Killian are you there? “Killian, have you heard a single word I’ve said?”

Liam. He’s talking to Liam.

Holy shit. Why is Liam calling him in the middle of the night?

“I’ll be honest, no. I’m still mostly asleep.”

“Asleep my ass,” Emma mumbles before reaching over to put the call on speaker phone so she doesn’t have to keep straining her ears to hear him. Killian grumbles something, but she ignores him as she settles herself underneath his arm. “Liam, what’s wrong? Is everyone okay?”

“Elsa is in labor, and we sent all of our nannies home for the night. Can the two of you watch Alex for us?”

“Of course,” Emma sighs. “Bring him over when you guys leave, okay?”

“I will, lass. Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem,” Killian promises, finally waking up. “Congratulations, brother.” At that, the line goes dead, and Emma immediately moves to get out of bed only for Killian tugs her back into him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Emma raises a brow and motions down to the distinct lack of clothes on both of their bodies. “I know Alex is about to have a sibling, which is definite proof of his parents having sex, but I don’t want to be the one to have to explain why his uncle was having a naked sleepover with me.”

“Really? You don’t want to explain sex to a toddler? Shocker.”

She huffs and leans forward to brush her lips over his forehead. “Congratulations on being an uncle again, babe.”

Emma hears his swallow as his head nods up and down in affirmation. “Thanks, love. Let’s go put on some clothes so we don’t scar the lad.”

-/-

-/-

The next chapter is technically the last official chapter. How is that even possible? Thank you all for coming along for this ride ❤️

tag list: @mrtinski​ @klynn-stormz​ @jonirobinson64​ @snowbellewells​ @therealstartraveller776​ @thejollyroger-writer​ @sherifemma​ @shardminds​ @captainsjedi​ @galaxyzxstark​ @galadriel26​ @idristardis​ @karenfrommisthaven​ @teamhook​ @spartanguard​ @searchingwardrobes​ @itsfabianadocarmo​ @owlways-and-forever​ @jamif​ @shireness-says​ @ultimiflos​ @nikkiemms​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @onepunintendid​ @bluewildcatfanatic​ @397bartonstreet​ @killianswannn​ @carpedzem​ @captainkillianswanjones​ @mayquita​ @jennjenn615​ @onceuponaprincessworld​ @a-faekindagirl​ @scientificapricot​ @scarletslippers​ @xellewoods​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @stahlop​ @kmomof4​ @tiganasummertree​ @singersdd​ @captainswanbigbang​

[ravenwolfie97]

30, 36, 24, 65, 86, 91

Stick your right arm out; what do you touch first? Do the same with your left arm. - Right arm: pencil pouch. Left arm: sketchbook and pencil. :p

Define Art. - Art is in everything we do. It’s beauty, it’s action, it’s in the way we talk, walk, eat, sleep, and so on. Anything can become art if it affects you with some emotion. The intricacies of nature, the mundanities of daily life, the simple and the fantastic, the terrific and the horrific, the good and the bad and the neutral things of the world can all be expressed through and immortalized in art.

Do you have a collection of anything? - I have two main collections at this point: my rocks and my pictures. I keep them both because they’re pretty and they make me happy when I look at them.

Give me your top 5 favorite blogs on Tumblr. - all of my friends’ blogs :> nah that’s cheap, i’m gonna choose ones that aren’t my friends lmao thechekhov/ask-whitepearl-and-steven everydaylouie doubleca5t glumshoe drxgonfly

Basic question: what’s your favorite color(s)? - Okay let’s start with a funny story to make this interesting So, back when I was a little kid, I said my favorite color was pink because it had to be bc i’m g*rl, right? BUT I always also said my favorite color was Rainbow because i just loved colors in general but now if you asked me my favorite color, I’d say blue, but not just any kind of blue, it’s that dark, muted, slightly desaturated kind of blue. I have very specific tastes now khbjlbj I also like purple, black, and red :3

You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow you with the superpower of your choice! What is that power? - if i ate radioactive vegetables, wouldn’t that mean i get Vegetable Powers? the ability to shoot infinitely-long tendrils out of my body would be pretty cool

[garazza]

Action Comics #1022 Review

“The House of Kent: Part 1″

Starting off, we have the 9-panel grid. Because Tom King likes to use it to show off that he read Watchmen (before promptly abusing the layout to death), everyone and their mother has been scrambling to shove it somewhere in their work and try to get a useless amount of perceived street cred to show that they too had read Watchmen (killing the layout even more). Since it’s all the rage, Bendis does it here.

I actually like the third panel. As Stan Lee said, every comic is someone’s first comic (and this is the first chapter in a “highly” anticipated arc). Instead of an editor’s note, Bendis explains Kelex through dialogue that is expositional but not unnatural or clunky. But why explain Kelex of all things? My answer is well, why not? Supposedly, Conner is as unformed about a lot of things as is a potential new reader and Superman informs him in a manner that is not entirely out place, even to current readers.

Then Conner explains his origin and touches upon the fact that we’ve had a few different continuities since his creation in 1993. He is excited and curious in the first four panels and then immediately deflates in the last four. I think Bendis is trying to have the best of both worlds by writing both an excited Conner (something that fans are supposed to respond positively towards) and a depressed Conner (because he has been a victim of the discontinuity perpetuated by DC editorial and made no better by Bendis).

We get a double-page splash of the two Kents conversing that I like, especially the color of the Fortress. The conversation is very Bendis, but not offensively so. It serves its purpose, can’t be too upset about that. He tries to depict Conner as nervous, but I really hate how it’s done, it’s like reading an accent phonetically.

uwu what’s this? A fundamental misunderstanding and misinterpretation of a character? In my Bendis book? It’s more likely than you think.

Conner has literally never been little. He was created as a teenage clone of Superman and he stayed a teenage clone of Superman. He came out the test tube the punk Metropolis Kid, not the toddling Metropolis Tyke. A really big conceit of his character is that he will never look older or younger than a teenager. That’s why a lot of eyebrows were raised when in his first reappearance Bendis chose to depict him with stubble.

Another example of Bendis-speak that is fun and full of charm and character, but the characterization for the characters who are conversing is just…off. It’s a conversation these types of characters would have, just not these characters specifically.

You know, for a character that supposedly Bendis hates and wants to write off and make inaccessible to all other writers and artists, he sure writes about Jon a lot. Bendis forces Jon into the future, cutting him off not just from everything he knows and loves, but from, more importantly, the readers. This reinforces the gravity and seriousness of him being written off, but Bendis constantly undermines this hostage situation of his own creation by having him come back to the present quite often. You put characters on a bus to make them go away forever, but the bus keeps returning to the station. And the most baffling part? You’re the driver, Bendis! Commit to the fucking bit!

Jon and Braniac 5 are chumming it up, because they are toooooootally buddies, you can read alllllll about Jon’s actual, very real, and totally not non-existent friendships with the Legionnaires in Legion of Super-Heroes by Brian Michael Bendis and Ryan Sook, because Jon totally has finished watching the Legion orientation film that totally didn’t take more than 5 issues to even get him to watch and he wasn’t even interrupted once. The book is soooooo well developed and evenly paced and not at alllllll bloated behind belief.

Jon acts like he came home from college to do laundry and eat some home cooking and forgot to call ahead, like he totally isn’t supposed to stay in the future.

Me, too, Conner. I don’t know who this character is either.

We also get to see his new costume here, which I hate. The one positive thing I could say about this new character when he was first introduced in Bendis’ Superman run was that I really liked his costume. It had the cyber-armor look of the New 52 Superman suit, but wasn’t too over-designed. It worked, it looked cool. This new look is just kinda bleh. It has the ugliness of the New 52 with none of the intricacies that made it look cool and unique.

We were never going to any meeting between the two Superboys that can even remotely be called good or worthwhile. I appreciate the naiveté of certain fans who enjoy things at face value because, factually, they got what they wanted. Fans wanted this meeting and they got it, which will make the happy, but it is not at all satisfying, which is what they should care about.

Bendis has a firm understanding of Superman and his voice. The same cannot be for Jon Kent. This character is not Jon Kent. He is not written out of character because this is not his character. What we got here is not what we wanted. This is Bendis and DC editorial banking that fans will rationalize to themselves that the crumbs they deigned to give fans is actually a feast worthy of praise and exaltation (look no further than Superman #16).

Oh and by the way, this is all we get for the meeting. The rest of the issue is “wHaT’S ThE DeAl cOnNeR KeNt?”

I’m skipping over the Daily Planet stuff because I don’t care about it and it doesn’t piss me off.

Instead, I will quickly address this: “The rumor come out, does Jonathan Kent is gay?”

I want to say this came about because Jon called Conner’s leather jacket “fabulous”, but it seems this idea existed before this issue was even released. The most I can find in relation to Jon being gay is this article written 2016 and this funny little exchange in the comments of one of Bendis’ Instagram posts.

I knew I was not straight when I was in grade school and it would be amazing if such a high profile character like Jon came out. It would normalize the idea that being gay isn’t something exclusively sexual or adult, but that there is nothing wrong for kids to have feelings for someone their own age who is the same sex. But I don’t trust DC to even attempt this. If they can’t even make Dick Grayson bi, then it’s not likely for any other character to come out.

And just because he described something as “fabulous”, that doesn’t make him gay. It’s an odd choice of words, sure, but word choice is no real indication of sexuality. In an interview with ComicPOP, Todd McFarlane described a box for a figure as “sexy” and “sassy” that I might have instead referred to as “cool” or “awesome.” I think Todd’s word choice is oddly fitting, but it was not something I would have thought to use before hearing him use it in the interview, and it does not at all call into his sexuality. I have a similar sentiment about “fabulous.”

Back to the story, Superman takes Conner to meet some of the intellectual experts in the DC universe to help figure out his deal. They have some “fun” Bendis dialogue and touch upon the multiverse and continuity that Bendis has been helping shape even though he literally has never worked for DC until very recently, relatively speakingm and yet is being trusted with the word “crisis.”  And what do you mean you’ve been rebooted at least three times, I thought it was seven times according to Young Justice #1, one of the first issues Bendis wrote for DC.

I saw a Reddit post a little while back that compiled clues and subtle hints that were spread out among several titles, including Tom King, Scott Snynder, and Bendis’ various books, that tied them all together with Doomsday Clock. It demonstrated a remarkable amount of coordination that I thought impossible given who it involved, but the evidence was pretty convincing. However, this was before Dan Didio was fired and they were able to avert 5G. Now that they’ve had time to regroup, I think this issue is sowing some more of those seeds that’ll eventually be dealt with by Synder’s Death Metal.

Here’s some more of that fundamental misunderstanding and misinterpretation of a character. Conner was not “raised” by the Kents. They cared for him, sure, but I wouldn’t call what they did raising.

What is being referred to here is Geoff Johns’ run with Conner Kent in Adventure Comics which took place in 2009. What that contributed to the character was only a relatively recent development in Conner’s history. It should be noted he started living with the Kents in 2002. His solo book was cancelled with Connor being dropped off by Clark at his parent’s house on the very last page. Any sort of “raising” would have occurred off panel during that time and is largely not expanded upon because there was literally no book to depict that kind of relationship until after he had died in 2006 and was brought back in 2009. They are not the sole contributors to his life like it is implied here. He lived in Hawaii and worked for Cadmus for far longer than he lived with the Kents.

And here we have Jon casually referring to Ma and Pa Kent as Grandma and Grandpa like he actually knew them instead of just knowing of them. For those of you don’t know, they were dead when Tomasi and Gleason were writing Superman and were only just recently brought back in Doomsday Clock which concluded well after Tomasi and Gleason had left the book, so Jon never met them. At the absolute most he’s heard stories, looked at pictures, and seen home movies of the Kents. You could say I’m nitpicking, but Bendis deserves it. You can feel his disregard for others’ work throughout his other books, and its panels like this that are the proof.

Jon literally has no reason to know that Ma and Pa Kent are alive. No reason. Jon’s smug face is Bendis’ way of say “Aren’t I a stinker?”

Fuck. You. Bendis.

You do not get to pretend that stories you made impossible to tell of Jon spending time with his grandparents actually did happen. Is this interaction cute and fun and a little bit wholesome? Yes. But is it genuine? Absolutely not. He’s just trying to cash in on what he thinks fans want to see with none of the heart and soul.

And now Clark is acting like Jon is visiting from college.

Piss your pants, Bendis. Jon would never refer to his best friend Damian Wayne like that. If someone else referred to Damian like that when Jon was around, he would correct them and say something along the lines of “He’s not so bad once you get to know him.” Stop pushing the narrative that Damian is some sort of demon hellspawn or psycho killer. He’s a flawed kid with a dark past that wants to be better but struggles with it and needs friends like Jon to support him. This continues to show that Bendis literally does not understand this character and why fans get upset when he writes him this way.

Another 9-panel grid, but this is not Tom King-inspired, but actually befitting the moment. Bendis still think Conner was literally raised by the Kents instead of just living with them, but I really have no skin the game of Conner being recognized as a part of the Kent family, so this doesn’t piss me off much.

I know this is supposed to be emotional because they just reunited, but the dialogue seems to suggest something more ominous and insidious is going on, something bigger than any one of them (Crisis, I know, but its kind of obnoxiously on the nose and yet unnecessarily vague).

The issue actually ends with the story I don’t really care about, so that’s the review.

Note: I realized about part way through writing this post how pissy and whiny I might sound, but I spent too much writing it to not post it.

[theadorablespderman]

Hair: Chapter 6

Stars Pt. 3

Peter/Michelle

Rated M for language

Wow, this has been crazy guys! I would not have continued this story without your love and support. This chapter is dedicated to everyone who pushed me to continue a story I lost track of. I really can’t express how grateful I am to everyone who has read Hair....So without further ado, I’d like to thank my amazing beta @you-guys--are-losers who has been with me from the start and is always my amazing friend. 

Now I want to present, after a long hiatus, the next chapter of Hair!

________________________________________________________________

Michelle flipped over another page of her book. The slight whispering of the page was the only sound in her room besides a small electric fan beside her. She’d managed to get halfway through Things Fall Apart in a few short hours. The intricacies of African culture pulled her into the pages early on. Sitting on crumpled white sheets atop her bed, head resting against the coarse brick exterior wall in her room, Michelle flipped over another page. With eyes flying across the pages, she thought about how much of African culture has been destroyed. The title indeed fit the book; things do fall apart, often, it would seem.

Dog-earing her page, Michelle took a sip of her long-forgotten tea. It was cold and bitter on her lips. Abandoned when she sunk into her book. Michelle made a note to make a new cup. When she picked the book up again, her eyes started tracing back over the pages until her phone vibrated against her leg. Placing her book down again, she used her good hand to pick up her phone. The message was from Peter.

Peter Parker (8:57 pm): can i come over?

Embers ran down her throat, stoking the small fire in her chest. The fire pulsed, each beat larger than the next. It echoed in the battered knuckles of her fist.

Michelle left Peter standing in the abandoned physics classroom this morning. Unable to release any words or explanations, she merely retreated to safety. Safety she found with a book in her hands, tucked away in her bedroom, and wishing she could disguise herself in a flash of sarcastic remarks and cool stares.

Michelle pored over the text a few times, her mind spinning. She didn’t know how to reply. If he just wanted to assault her with more questions, she’d rather sink further into her book.

You (9:01 pm): if you’re looking for your hobbit box set i didn’t take it because the movies sucked and the book was better.

Peter Parker (9:02 pm): what? no…i haven’t even mentioned that to you how the hell do you know about it

You (9:02 pm): I’m omniscient, Parker, I know all.

Peter Parker (9:03 pm): then youd know why i’m coming over. which would suck since it’s a surprise…

She stared down at her phone. Michelle wasn’t sure what Peter’s angle was. After a few minutes without her reply, another message popped up.

Peter Parker (9:06 pm): soooo…can I come over? promise not to annoy you

Grunting, Michelle tucked her legs closer to her body. Her interest had piqued. Besides, she thought, maybe it would be a good opportunity to shrink the gap expanding between them. Glancing out her window at the inky sky, Michelle decided on a reply that was neither an invitation nor denial.

You (9:08 pm): You annoy me regardless.

Peter Parker (9:08 pm): i’ll take that as a yes?

You (9:09 pm): Shut up and just come over, loser.

Peter Parker (9:10 pm): thank you! youre not gonna regret it!

Peter Parker (9:10 pm): be right there :)

Michelle glared down at her screen blaring harsh blue light back at her. She had no idea what Peter was planning, and she was frankly starting to wonder if she wanted to.

It would take him a few minutes to get to her house if May drove him, but he could easily walk, which could take as long as fifteen minutes. Michelle flopped back onto her bed, resisting the urge to go fix her hair, or change out of her pajamas. Peter had seen her at her literal worst, and if he hadn’t been chased away by now, a few snarls in her hair and some tattered pajamas wouldn’t make a difference. Besides, she wouldn’t try to make herself look nice for Ned, so why should she do it for Peter?

The thought of prom popped into her head. She clucked at the thought, telling herself that was different. If she wanted to get made up for prom she damn well could, because she wanted to. But right now, she didn’t give a shit. Maybe a little less than a shit, but still it wasn’t enough to make her do more than smooth out her pajama pants and throw on a hoodie to hide her braless chest.

Michelle was running her fingers through some of her worst snarls of hair when she heard a tap on the window, right beside her ear.

She wasn’t one to frighten easily, but she catapulted away from the window, her nerves buzzing.

Michelle’s apartment was on the fifth floor of her building, so getting random taps on her window was abnormal. A bird once flew into her window, but that had the sound of a sickening smack, very different from light tapping. She attempted to calm the rushing pressure pounding in her skull while she tried to see what had caused the noise. Her reading lamp cast only crude shadows outside. Whatever tapped her window was hanging upside down on the opposite side of the glass. It was too massive to be a bird.

Giant eyes glinted in the light of her lamp. The body looked blood-red. “What the fu—” More tapping. It pressed its face against the glass and that was when Michelle realized what it was. Or who.

It was none-other than Spider-Man. She had a hunch why Queen's resident superhero was currently tapping on her window. It was a suspicion she had for a while, but all she ever had in support was circumstantial evidence.

Spider-Man tapped again. It sounded like a finger tapping on a terrarium. Unsettling. Flipping upright, Spider-Man looked at her properly. “Is there a reason why you're tapping on my window?” She spoke loud enough that it would carry through the glass. Standing, she placed distance between herself and the window.

“MJ, it’s me.”

She stopped on her toes, tilting towards the muffled words a fraction. Her balance tipped, forcing her to take a step forward. Michelle’s knee knocked against her mattress. It buckled and gave way until she was back on her sheets.

The eyes on Spider-Man’s suit twitched. Something floated down her spine, exploding into a barrage of light and fire that took hold of her like flames on flash paper. Michelle felt it take over her the same way the reveal at the end of a book took hold of her system. It clicked and everything crashed into place. “Holy shit. I knew it!” Michelle yanked open her window, letting the masked hero slide into her room. His arm brushed against her as he smoothly bounced from her bed onto the floor. He pulled the mask from his head.

Under the mask, Peter Parker emerged. His hair stuck about at odd angles and his cheeks were flushed the slightest color of pink. Michelle hated to think it, but he looked damn good in that skin-tight suit. She sighed, looking away from him to take another chilling sip of her tea.

Trying to seem unaffected by his silent stare was harder than usual.

“So, you’re the one that’s been swinging around in pajamas.” Another sip. It was uncomfortable going down, cooling the flames licking at her ribs. Michelle focused on the smooth ceramic of the mug in her hands instead. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Peter fiddled with the mask in his hands, tugging the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. “I, uh—I’ve been thinking about telling you for a long time, but I just couldn’t bring myself to. I don’t really know why.” Peter looked down. “But now—”

The air between them swelled, wrapping suffocating hands around Michelle’s neck. Why would he be telling her this now? There was a devastating realization that maybe Peter thought this would get her to open up. Now that he’s shown her his cards, he would want to see hers.

A tear was breaking through her, right through her center. She was stuck on the growing crack, wondering where she might fall.

Michelle could plummet back to familiar ground. Where she buried so many emotions it was a graveyard for every broken piece of her. She could always tip to the other side. Into woods where she could pave pathways that would deliver the words writhing inside her out of the trees, and into the light. And, there was always the third option. If she fought to keep the earth inside her from splitting open, she could collapse into a chasm she had no way of escaping.

The earth was breaking, crumbling, and she still didn’t know which way to fall.

“Why are you telling me about this now?” It was a standoff. The defining moment. She could see so much swirling in Peter’s eyes. The flutter of his lashes showed a similar rift dividing him.

Peter leveled his eyes with hers. The intensity of his gaze swallowed her, sent crackling flames slithering over her arms, up her legs. Everywhere. His gaze was hollowing her out in the best way possible. He stepped toward her, one-foot fall after another. The fire was eating away all her oxygen. Michelle couldn’t possibly breathe. The air had been licked dry of her lungs. He was right there. They were stars orbiting each other once again. As if that space between them had shrunk in only the span of a breath. “I want to show you something.”

“You already showed me something. I’d say that whole Spider-Man reveal was a pretty big something.” Michelle crossed her arms, putting distance between them, until she realized Peter wasn’t even in arms reach. He felt so much closer.

Peter chuckled. Tension diffused from his shoulders and Michelle pictured it floating away like smoke. “Yeah. Sorry I didn’t give you more of a warning. It looked like I freaked you out.”

Michelle snatched the mask from his hands, hiding her embarrassment. “What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t freak out.” She held his mask up to the light. The stitching was incredible, and its milky eyes looked like camera lenses. Michelle flipped it over to peer inside. It looked like a regular mask. What she really wanted to know was how the eyes moved—and if there was a screen or onboard dash—how it was powered. She was just about to slip her head inside when Peter lifted it from her grip.

“You kinda freaked out.” He was smiling like an idiot and Michelle snatched the mask back. She did nothing but hold it, but she felt like it proved something.

“I didn’t freak out, nerd.” She tossed the mask up in the air and caught it before Peter could take it back. Running her fingers across the glassy eyes, she remembered DC; when he’d raced up the Washington Monument. She remembered the odd urgency to his voice; how it was muffled through the fabric. News feeds flashed through her mind. She’d seen this mask millions of times, yet now it changed. Now looking at it, all she pictured was Peter with his boyish grin and understanding gaze.

When she looked up Peter’s eyes were scouring her face. She wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find written on the surface of her skin. His gaze lingered on her cheeks, the corners of her eyes, the place where her hair kissed her forehead. The way it penetrated her already fragile mask made her uncomfortable. “So,” Effectively cutting the spell between them, Michelle threw Peter’s mask back across the short distance between their bodies. He caught it with ease. “What do you want?”

“Well,” Peter said, his fingers tracing the same stitches Michelle traced moments before. She averted her eyes, somehow feeling the moment to intimate to share with him. “I got to thinking about today and—If I’m crossing a line here, you can tell me,”

“I always do, don’t I?” The banter helped keep Michelle focused on reality, instead of the soft edges of his eyes or the agile curves of his fingers.

Chuckling, Peter squeezed the mask in his hands. He twisted the fabric, ringing out non-existent water. “Yeah, you do.” He cleared his throat, expelling nerves. “But what I’m trying to get at I suppose is—well, uh. When you were talking earlier today and said you wanted to escape and stuff. It, um—it really got me thinking, basically, that maybe I could help. And you’d mentioned stargazing, and I got this idea. And I thought, maybe—I don’t know. I thought, maybe, if you wanted, I could help you escape for a few hours. No strings attached. I mean we don’t even have to talk… If you don’t want to.” After a cumbersome sentence, and the constant avoidance of any visual contact, he finally looked her in the eye once more.

She hated how endearing he was. She hated he’d managed to chip away her walls to the point the thought of keeping everything from him seemed impossible. She hated everything about him, but it was coursing through her veins in the most intoxicating, beautiful way. She wondered for a moment if that was what love felt like. God, how much she wanted to scream at his persistence, yet the warmth of his selflessness melted and filled her at the same time. Looking at him—eyes warm, a soothing balm to her fiery soul—she thought, this must be what love feels like…

“MJ,” Her name floated in his voice, into her ears. The beautiful raspy sound was alcohol to her bloodstream. It enveloped her in light-headed warmth. She couldn’t focus on anything but him. Peter deserved so much more than her. He’d found so much more than Michelle ever could be. He found it in Gwen.

Michelle blinked, breaking her of her trance.

Looking at Peter was like gazing into the sun. The threat of falling hopelessly into him terrified her. If she fell, she’d be eaten by a disastrous fire before she even reached the surface. She fell back against her bed, not trusting the slight wobble of her knees. “MJ, did you hear me?” Peter asked, advancing the smallest bit toward her.

It took every fiber of her resolve, but she forced her face back into the cool mask. “Yeah I heard you,” She leveled her gaze at him, exuding a sense of calm indifference. Still, there was a pounding in her chest that screamed for help. Michelle cleared her throat, smirking. “You want to take me to some mystery place to ‘cheer me up’.”

Peter’s mouth jumped open, ready to disagree, because since when did MJ need cheering up? But he snapped his jaw shut as soon as she smacked him with a hearty glare. A laugh brushed past his lips. “Well, yeah.” He paused. “But the thing is—well, you need it. Not to say you need me—I mean…God—I just thought maybe you’d be interested in it, and now I realize I’m being stupid. I’m really sorry. I just thought that maybe—”

His words cut off when Michelle wrapped her fingers around Peter’s wrist. She had to tell herself fire didn’t exist just so she could ignore the delightful burn under all five of her fingers. “I’m in.”

“Really, you’ll go?” His smile faltered. It was nothing more than a flicker in his eye. Michelle saw it as the nervous smile it was. “Do you—I mean—well. Is it okay if I go with you?” His gloved fingers twisted around his mask once more, twisting a knot into Michelle’s gut.

The answer came easier than it should. It came a welcome rain to the desert floor. “Yes." Shrugging, she feigned aloofness. "Besides I have no idea where it is.”

“Right.” Peter stepped up to her, his arms reaching out for her. Until they stopped. They deflated, awkward, to his sides. Words tumbled from his lips. Michelle barely managed to catch the sentence; he spoke so fast. “Um, is-is it okay to, um, pick you up? I mean, it’s just...” He paused. Raked a hand through his already mused hair. The action managed to tame most of the strands, laying them back away from his face. “Do you trust me? Because I don’t know how to explain it.” He put his hand out, an invitation. Peter’s gravity was yanking at Michelle’s stomach.

Making show, so not to focus on the heat at the tip of her ribs, Michelle slapped her hand into Peter’s palm. “What is this? Aladdin? God, you’re so dramatic.” She may have imagined the way his thumb, covered in leather and cotton, swept along the back of her hand. Michelle told herself that his index finger had no ulterior motives when it kissed the tendon on the inside of her wrist.

Peter smirked, but she caught it out of the corner of her eye before he was stepping up to her and pulling her towards the open window. “You know me. Always one for the dramatics.”

If she was thinking, a snarky retort would have slithered out past her lips. But that didn’t happen because Peter stood on the ledge of the window and dragged her closer. It knocked the breath out of her. Each step was a kick to the gut. Fear was a winding serpent, squeezing her throat closed. When Peter let her go to put on his mask, she found herself reeling a few steps back. The eyes of the mask narrowed in her direction and Peter’s head tilted to the side. “What’s wrong?”

“Is there a reason why we have to jump out of my window?”

Peter stepped back into the room, his foot making a mark on her sheets. Michelle shot him a look and he stepped back over the sill. “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s either that or walk all the way downstairs, and then just climb back up another building.”

“And why are we climbing so much?” Michelle forced her eyes to harden, masking the anxiety writhing within her.

Peter’s head tilted from side to side, deciding if he should let her in on the little surprise. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Not with me.” Maybe he had that dorky, sweet smile beneath the mask. She would never know, but she liked to think he did. “I promise.” His voice came muffled through the mask, yet it pierced through Michelle. She swore his words rushed right through the space between her fifth and sixth ribs. They lodged somewhere in the flesh beyond. She could feel them, and if she gasped in just the right way, they pushed up against her heart.

This time she took his offered hand softer, gliding her fingers into his palm. For a moment, she couldn’t distinguish if there was fabric between their skin.

Peter pulled her up on the bed. She wasn’t wearing shoes, but she had a feeling she wouldn’t need them.

“I’m gonna wrap my arm around you, so don’t hit me or anything.”

He was taller than her for this one moment, and the way his head ducked minutely closer to her ear sent shivers down her arms. “No promises.”

The solid weight of Peter's arm drifted around her waist. Once he trailed his hands around her waist's circumstance, he latched her against his body. Firm, strong... She felt every inch of his chest along her own. Michelle’s toes lifted from the bed, skimmed the edge of her windowsill, then there was nothing but air and Peter. Her arms, which wound loose around his neck, squeezed tight enough to cause a grunt. “MJ,” Peter sounded strangled, so she forced herself to let up. “MJ,”

“What?” From the spot in Peter’s neck where she buried her face, her voice wafted into the wind.

"Choking. Not breathing." He rasped; she allowed her arms to relax until she had just a firm hold around his neck.

"Sorry."

Hearing something smacking against the wall, she dared to look around. Peter had strung up a web against the wall of her apartment. She could see small strands of it glistening in the light, leading back to Peter’s hand. She tried to disassociate with the fact she was dangling off the side of a building by stating, “That’s some crazy chemistry, Parker.”

“Yeah, I know.” Michelle felt Peter’s chuckle in her chest, felt the rush of air pass through the mask onto her neck as he leaned back against the strand. Her entire body fell against his. The solid warmth of him pushed against her chest. She was mesmerized by the way he’d exhale just as she’d inhale. It was pure harmony. Like the way the sun kissed the horizon goodbye and the moon kissed it hello.

They were at a forty-five-degree angle when Peter turned his head, his chin trailing across her forehead. “I’m gonna let go for a minute, okay?”

The delusional world of touch and sound faded away into crushing anxiety winding back around her chest. Her arms squeezed him ever tighter. “What?”

“I’m just gonna close the window. You just need to lean into me, and you’ll be fine. You know, because of gravity and all.” She swore she could feel his smirk through the mask against her right brow. “It’s basic science, MJ. I thought you’d have known that.”

She’d smack him if she wasn’t dangling five stories in the air with nothing between her and death except a teenage boy. “You’re such a dick sometimes.”

The muscles in Peter’s chest stretched as his arm strained to pull her window shut. Every detailed movement of his arm translated into Michelle.  She felt the flex and elongation of his shoulders under her arms.

“A nice dick, though.” Peter exhaled across her neck. It sparked little fires on her skin. When he inhaled it left a breathless vacuum.

It took approximately three exhales for Michelle to think up a proper thing to say. “I’m sure the girls fall all over that.” Michelle tilted her lips towards the faint outline of Peter’s ears. She brushed the fabric with each whispered word. “Hi, I’m Peter Parker and I’m a very nice dick.”

A shiver passed through Peter. He slipped a few inches, causing his body to turn ridged against Michelle’s. She felt her heart drop into the acid of her stomach. Peter yanked her impossibly closer. Her arms tightened around his neck, his pulse racing against her own. “J-Jesus, MJ. You can’t say things like that.”

Not factoring in the actuality that she could have just died, Michelle smirked against the tough fibers covering Peter’s neck. “I say things like that all the time.” She was breathless; her lungs starved of oxygen.  

The slap of her window closing delayed Peter’s retort. As he began pulling them into an upright position, he finally grunted out a response. “You know, I could let you fall right now. I have that power.” Michelle felt her body sliding down Peter's as he pulled them upright.

Gravity was daunting as Peter’s weight shifted from beneath her. “Such a charmer. You tell all the girls that?” She allowed sarcasm to soothe her.

“Shut up.”

She heaved a breathy laugh as her arms flexed around his shoulders. The more they straightened the more her feet found a perch atop his. Her back kissed the wall. Peter stuck to it as his moniker implied. He was Spider-Man after all.  Michelle would have to ask about how he stuck to flat surfaces later; because right now she could only focus on a few things at a time. At the current moment, it was the utter fear gripping her system. And then it was the way Peter’s nose bumped into her chin. She was at least three inches taller than him with her feet resting atop his.

The pull of gravity itched to yank her away from Peter, yet his arm seemed unbreakable around her waist.

There was something different about when someone was the ground beneath you, and the stars above you. His arm reached above her, his hand holding them against the wall, He was no more than a breath away. Michelle never felt so completely entangled in another person. She briefly wondered if Peter felt the same, even though she knew he didn’t. Not in the way she wanted him to.

Peter swung around Michelle, positioning himself in a makeshift squat against the wall. Michelle sat on his bent legs.

He pulled something out from a pocket in his suit that was virtually invisible. It looked like it was a rope woven from web. Careful not to let her go with his other arm, he hung the rope around his neck, before his free hand slapped back to the wall. “Just in case, thread that around my waist and around yours.”

Michelle laughed. “You know, people use full harnesses for rock climbing? If I fall, tying this around my waist isn’t gonna do shit.”

“It’s a work in progress. Jesus, why are you so difficult?”

Regardless of how absurd it was, she leaned into his bent legs, loosening her arms from his neck. She picked the rope up. It felt oddly cold, but it was more so the texture that made it feel that way. The elasticity and strength of the stand was astonishing. She threaded it around their bodies, careful of Peter’s hand wrapped around her, and tied it in a figure eight knot.  

And then, they were ready.

It took them ten minutes of swinging to get to Peter’s mystery location. Michelle swore she’d jump off a building before she let Peter swing her around Queens again.

He was now scaling the side of a building, slower than she was sure he could go, but then he was only using one hand. Michelle kept Peter in a bear hug, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. After they passed the tenth floor, she glued her eyes shut to keep from throwing up. Peter was trying to keep her talking. He could probably feel the thundering of her heart against his chest and knew she was scared out of her mind. If there weren’t more pressing things to worry about, Michelle would be embarrassed by how typical she was acting. Shouldn’t she be able to dangle fifteen stories in the air and be completely neutral about it?

She forced her eyes open, convincing herself that she was being ridiculous. If she was on the other side of the glass, looking down from the interior of the building, she would be fine. Now, seeing the shrunken effect on cars and the few people mulling about below, Michelle felt a new wave of nausea and promptly shut her eyes again.

Peter was babbling on about something, she could hear snippets of Star Wars, and how The Last Jedi wasn’t that bad after he watched it again. A particularly nippy gust of wind washed through her hair, smacking into her body, Michelle shivered through her teeth, “Peter, this is not the time to nerd out on me.”

“Are you cold?”

“What was the first clue?”

Peter huffed, pulling them both up another floor. “You know, I drag you up her with your boney hips and I don’t even get a thank you. Frankly I’m shocked. Your manners are appalling.” He said it with a quiver of laughter in his voice.

“First of all, I was fine sitting at home, you begged me to come. Secondly, you can shut the hell up about my boney hips because literally you’ve got the boniest everything ever, so suck it up.” Michelle looked up to the sky because it was better than gazing at the distance between her feet and the unforgiving pavement beneath. She was pretty sure they were at the top of the building Peter had scaled for the better part of thirty minutes.

Peter hauled them both onto the flat surface of the roof. It took some work for him to pull them up as a unified pair.

His foot slipped against the gothic trimming of the building, causing him to crash into Michelle. The force knocked her off kilter. Gravel bit into her back. Peter fell on top of her, flopping on her chest and panting with anxiety. “Sorry. I slipped, but it’s okay. We’re okay… Are you okay?” He yanked the mask off, his breath washing across her cheeks, prickling her neck. His weight was still pushing into her. He asked his question again when she didn’t answer. His face was close. It’d been this close before, but this felt different. “MJ, are you okay?” It was a whisper, at least that’s what it felt like. Whispering always felt so intimate.

Gulping down the burn aching in her throat, Michelle shoved him away to save from doing something stupid. “Yeah I’m great. I really loved the part where we almost died.”

Peter laughed. He rolled from her and stored his mask in his backpack. “We didn’t almost die.”

“So, swinging around Queens and scaling buildings with crazy superpowers that make no scientific sense is completely safe? My life was in danger, Parker.”

Eyes rolled in his head, a smirk twitched on his face “For someone who seems so chill, you really are a drama queen.”

With a sly grin, Michelle started to pull herself to her feet. This banter was the most normal her and Peter had been in weeks. “I couldn’t possibly take Her Majesty's crown away from her.” Rolling to her feet, she slapped Peter twice on the shoulder. Her pointed look conveyed what her words didn’t.

Peter pulled back, placing a hand to his heart. “You can’t possibly mean me?”

“Seeing how you’re the one who wears red and blue pajamas while saving the city, I’d say yes.” The gravel was biting into her feet, poking her heels and toes with jagged edges. Without thinking, her weight shifted from foot to foot, trying to find a comfortable position. “What did you want to show me anyways, loser?”

Perking up, Peter slung his backpack from his shoulder to the ground. He reached into the mouth of it, searching for something until his face shifted into delight. He pulled a cube, matte black with glowing blue edges, from the bag.  

Peter handed her the cube and she explored the surface with prying fingers. Smooth metal, cool to the touch greeted her fingertips. The neon blue lights flickered when her fingers brushed against them. “What is it?”

Peter took it from her palm. His eyes flickered over her injured hand and she knew he wanted to ask how she was doing. Instead he reverted his attention back to the cube. Fast as lightning, but Michelle picked up on it.

“Come on, I’ll show you.” He slung his backpack onto one shoulder and hopped away from her. Grinning wide, he was already halfway across the roof. He hunched over something that looked like blankets. He set the cube down as Michelle started to make her way across the gravel. She should have put shoes on. Every step lodged jagged rocks into the pads of her feet. She took her steps light and slow.  

Once she managed her way to Peter and came up beside him, she saw blankets laid out over the center of the roof, taking up a good radius of space. Michelle stepped behind him and onto the layers of blankets. He was crouched down over the cube he’d been showing to her. He set it up around the fringe of the blankets. She noticed there were three more set up around the perimeter just like it. “What's—” she began to ask, until she realized Peter had his phone pressed against his cheek.

“Mr. Stark,” With Peter’s back turned toward her, he spoke hushed into the phone. She stared at the spider graphic sprawled across his shoulder blades. Peter continued on, “Well I just figured—no! I mean, yes. I know I shouldn’t have—but it was right there and—What? No, she isn’t. Oh my God, please stop. Mr. Stark, can you please just—? She isn’t my girlfriend. I’m just trying to be a good friend. Please can you stop asking me about—Oh my God.” Peter’s head dropped low enough that Michelle could see only his neck.

He was listening intent to Tony Stark on the other line, and Michelle couldn’t resist messing with him. Padding over, she placed her lips close enough to his ear that her voice could fill them completely. “What’cha doin’, Spidey?”

He shot into the air. Literally, Peter went about three feet in the air. “MJ!” he screeched. The phone was still tight in his fist. “Jesus! You scared the shit out of me.”

She shrugged, feigning innocence, and plopped down on the blankets. Peter must have layered them up because she couldn’t feel the gravel beneath her. “You didn’t happen to steal this tech from Tony Stark, did you?”

Peter yelped and covered the receiver of his phone. “I borrowed it!”

“Typical white person response.” Laying back, Michelle turned her face toward the sky. There was always the impenetrable glow of the city below. No stars, only light slung up into the heavens. It was the vast nothingness she accepted.

“How is that a—" Peter shot her a dirty look. His face always looked too much like a puppy to take him seriously. “Nevermind.” He spoke a few more hushed words into the receiver Michelle couldn’t make out. Not that she was trying to eavesdrop. She was naturally curious. All she managed to hear was an elated, “Thank you so much, Mr. Stark!” before Peter hung up the phone. He kneeled next to one of the cubes around the blankets and fidgeted with it. In the darkness Michelle could only see the flash of his fingers over blue light before the washed-out sky above her dissolved into a clear view of the stars.

Bolting up, Michelle’s eyes roamed over the dome now above her. Black around the edges, fading into a glittered peak. She curled her fingers through the flicker of the dome. The glowing pricks above her head dimmed as her hand moved through them. “Is this a hologram?”

Peter’s weight dropped beside her and he brought a blanket over their legs. His arm brushed hers. “Sort of. Mr. Stark created it to keep an eye on the sky after everything that’s happened. But living in light polluted areas he couldn’t just go stargazing. I thought he’d have like a giant observatory, but he doesn’t. Well, I don’t think he does…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. If he does, I don’t think he uses it. Either way, he started looking into creating a mini observatory that he could carry with him. It uses holotech to create a filter for light pollution, and since it creates a dome over the viewer, the micro telescope can filter everything out. Then, if you want, you can zoom, and the dome will project the magnified image. Watch.” With a proud smile, Peter swept his hands in front of the dome. His actions caused the sky to zoom inwards until Michelle was looking directly into the Milky Way. There were so many more stars above her than she had ever seen. Inhaling deeply, the pure sight of the sky filled her.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Peter asked, glancing at her for approval.

Michelle, with her eyes brimming in stars and her vision a typhoon of galaxies, smiled and nodded. “I’ve never seen so many stars. This is incredible.” Her breath hitched when she glanced away enough to look at Peter. All nose and eyebrows from the side. His lips a thin line per usual. “Thank you.” It was no more than a whisper.

Peter met her eyes. Only half of his face was visible in the reduced light, but Michelle could see the tender smile across his face. “You’re welcome.”  

The realization that she’d been treating her entire team and best friends as punching bags because of her own personal insecurities struck her. The thought of her father bubbled up, knowing that was how he dealt with his issues. She couldn’t bear to look at Peter with the thought and turned her face away. Clearing his throat, Peter also turned his face back to the sky.

“So, if you want, I can show you how to work this. It's pretty easy. I'm sure you can figure it out yourself.... but just in case.” He made no assumptions and didn’t instantly begin explaining.

“You can just do it. I’d rather sit back and enjoy.”

“You sure?”

Nodding, Michelle adjusted to a more comfortable position. She inadvertently brushed against Peter’s arm and stayed with her skin pressed against his warmth.

Peter began zooming in on constellations. Text appeared next to the stars providing the information that Peter would ask for aloud. Michelle began asking questions too. The experience was incredible. They looked at the crater marked surface of the Moon in detail Michelle could barely believe. Peter was able to find the sea of Tranquility without the AI’s help. When they turned their focus to Mars, Michelle then pointed out Olympus Mons. The detail was crystal clear. It was raw, celestial beauty.

Being in their own world, with the filtered dome overhead, Michelle couldn’t help feeling a surge of fire in her stomach. Rolling against her ribs and licking lower into her abdomen. She could feel the gratitude crashing over her. The wave of gratitude gave way to purity. A sense that she’d been stripped of her barriers. Peter found a way to take away her varnish and find the natural grain under her surface.

Michelle felt the heat of the stars burning over her skin. They both stared at the Milky Way shining over their heads. Peter’s knuckles brushed against hers, and she forced her hand away, assuming it was an accident. The burn coursing over her skin contradicted wildly with the emptiness inside. She’d been decimated in the past weeks. Looking up at those twinkling lights in the sky, she realized many of them may have already met her same fate. “Isn’t it so weird that a lot of these stars could’ve collapsed, burnt out, or exploded eons ago, and we wouldn’t know. A star could’ve exploded yesterday, and we wouldn’t know on Earth until billions of years from now. It’s unnerving, when you think of it.”

Peter gazed at her, caressing the profile of her face with his gentle stare. Invisible burns arched up her cheeks and rounded over her nose under his steady observation. No mockery masked Peter’s face as a closed-mouth smile reached up to crinkle his eyes. “Yeah, that’s crazy,” He trailed his eyes back to the stars, prompting Michelle to bring her attention back to the glitter filled sky. Peter continued his sentence with his face still turned up. “It really makes you think about the power of those balls of gas. Even our Sun distributes heat for millions of miles. All that raw, plasmic energy. All that heat and power. And someday, it'll be gone. It’s crazy that things so powerful in the universe can just be gone one day.” Glancing at Michelle he began to rectify what he said. “Well I mean obviously they don’t just die out of the blue. They decline, or expand, or collapse. So, it’s obvious that the death is coming, but—I mean, you get what I mean.” He paused, “But they sure are pretty to look at right now.”

Words were picking up speed in her thoughts. She thought about the death of stars. Stars which cut such a puncture through space that with her naked eye she gazed at them; trillions of miles away. And one day, they would die.

Inside, she felt a decline. The plasmic core of her universe dropping in temperature by the day. One day, the gravity wouldn’t be enough to keep her together. She’d hurtle through the universe in billions of tiny pieces. She would turn into asteroids that left destruction in their wake. Peter’s words echoed in her mind at that moment. But they sure are pretty to look at right now.

“They’re harmless from all the way down here. But if you get too close to them, they can only cause destruction. You fall into them and you burn.” Her voice was small. The words muttered at a volume reserved for reverent prayers.

Peter turned his face away from the sky and back to focus on her. “MJ?” Some questions need not be asked. Knowing what Peter would gather from her dreary comment, Michelle knew the question he was asking with just her name. He wanted to understand.

With a heavy sigh she closed her eyes and counted to five. It was the same as jumping from a cliff into the waters below. The countdown until launch. “I feel like I blew up in every meaning of the word except physically.” Swallowing, Michelle continued beyond the grip of her insecurities wrapping around her throat. They coiled in her lungs. “There’s all of this stuff that I don’t like to think about, about my past. I’ve been thinking about it so much recently.” Taking a deep breath, she continued, “It all stems to my damn father. I have so many insecurities because of what he did to my mom and me. I’ve spent my entire life trying to distance myself from him, but there’s this part inside that just feels so disgustingly like him. Like he’s passed on being a shitty human to me.” She could feel Peter’s intent gaze.

Another swallow. Deep breath. “He’d beat my mother, and I was ‘always the cause of everything’.” Sarcasm bit her tone, a sharp bark to her words. “We weren’t enough for him. Not that I give a shit about that, because he didn’t deserve my mom. But he tried to solve all his problems with anger. I felt like it was my fault, I guess and so I just started building these walls. I looked into his eyes the night they took him to prison and told myself I’d never be like him. I never wanted to be someone I wasn’t so people might like me. It never worked on my dad, and after trying so hard to change his mind I wasn't interested in changing anyone else's. I just built up those walls so he couldn’t hurt me anymore, so no one would be able to hurt me. And I’m happy with the person I’ve become, because I made myself the way I am….” She swallowed. Pushed the emotions behind her exterior and kept her eyes trained towards the galaxies.

A long silence followed. From the corner of her eye Michelle could tell Peter was listening intently to her. His lips didn’t twitch to fill the void. He waited until she was ready. A minuscule smile flashed on her lips before disappearing into smoke.

“But there’s this feeling that he’s lurking in there somewhere when I get angry or feel like I’m not the person people want me to be. All I can hear is him berating me, and all I can see is what he did to my mother, over and over. The walls I build... I feel like I’m protecting myself as much as everyone else. Because if I’m even a fraction of the person he is, I can’t let that be who I am. And when the walls crumble, I feel that part of myself lash out and it just goes to show he’s part of me. No matter how much I’ve tried to purge him. So much has been falling apart recently. And I’ve had to see that I’m not the—” …person you want…

Michelle cleared her throat, loud and violent to compensate for her near slip up. “I’ve just felt attacked for stupid reasons. Then, because I was mad, I pushed you away and acted out. And because I’ve been spiraling, the decathlon thing happened, then I punched Flash. And now to top it all off my dad wants me to come visit him in prison. And, Jesus, I’m actually thinking of going just to give him a giant, ‘fuck you for fucking up my life!’ But then I think it’s not even worth it because he doesn’t deserve that much.”

Michelle’s eyes stayed miraculously dry, but tremors crawled down her body. Her lip quivered in the slightest as she focused on trying to keep it still. Trying to laugh it off. “I’m not trying to throw a pity party here or play the misogynistic trope of the damsel in emotional distress who’s in need of your rescue.”

Reflections of the stars sparkled in Peter’s eyes. Every point of light highlighted the sincerity that Peter oozed. “That would make me your knight in shining armor.” And he chuckled, light and full of air. The breath of it broke over Michelle’s face.

She chuckled too. Now able to crease her lips into a smile, Michelle replied. “In your dreams.”

Smiling back at her, Peter said. “Yeah,” His eyes flitted down to trace the curve of her jaw. “You don't need a guy to save you.”

“I’d take Spider-Man if I was in a jam.

Peter threw his head back against the blankets with an infectious laugh. “Good to know.” When he turned back to her, that genuine, supporting gaze returned. “But seriously, MJ, you are nothing like your dad. I mean, you’re my best friend, and I like to think I know you. The real you. You could never be like your dad. Not from what you just told me. I think you know that somewhere deep inside. You could tame the sea, MJ. I mean—I’m pretty sure that you are God. I mean,” He blushed ever so slightly. “You’re one of the most badass, caring, mindful, intelligent, beautiful people I know. That may not help at all, because I get insecurities and have bad anxiety. I know that sometimes no matter what people say—I just know that sometimes it doesn’t help. You’re having a hard time right now, but just please remember that I—everyone—Ned, Aunt May, and I, all love you. I love you so much I—” He cleared his throat. “Ned does too. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Much less us. You are Michelle Goddamn Jones. And you, ma’am...” He brushed the knuckle of his index finger down the bridge of her nose. Fire woke in its path. “You are a national treasure.”

“Laying it on pretty thick, huh?” The smile wobbled on her face, but felt firm, her cheeks filled with burning plasma. A tear slipped from the edge of her eye and slid halfway down her cheek before Peter’s thumb caught it.

“Maybe.” As Peter shrugged, he shifted closer to her. His forehead a brush away from her own. In that minuscule void he whispered, “But it’s true.”

Images of her father flashed through her thoughts.

Before Peter showed up at her window, she’d thought of all the things she’d say to her father. The words she’d use to prove that she was nothing like him. That he had no control over her life. She wanted him to know the garbage he was as a father and human. With Peter’s words now swirling around her brain, a bubbling realization took over her.

At some point she’d lost herself in the rubble her father left. Somewhere along the line, she gave too many pieces of herself to the ghosts she chased. There were things she couldn’t control. She sure as hell wouldn't allow anything to control her.

In that moment, with her head pressed against Peter’s, their eyes closed and breath braiding together, Michelle let go of her father. She owed no piece of herself to him. The memories would always hurt, but she wouldn’t waste her time on him.

When Peter’s nose skimmed her own Michelle let the guilt and pain boil away.

She was not a statue carved from stone, unable to bend or move. Stuck in eternity as one person. She was an imposing wave that battered shore, and she was the wave caressing the sand as it tumbled back to the ocean. She would not be imprisoned in her own misconceptions of what she could and couldn't be.

The resinous smell of Peter engulfed her. His cheek was soft as velvet under her lips. In that moment, she realized he was not hers to keep. She knew that all she needed from him was friendship. Anything else beyond his friendship was something she wanted but would not allow herself to need.

“Thank you.” It dripped as honey would from her lips. It was a pure murmur into Peter’s ear. Michelle put to rest the idea that Peter’s glances and smiles meant anything beyond friendship. Regardless of if he would or could love her, it didn't matter. She was not his, and he was not hers. They both belonged to each other only in friendship. She accepted it and let that longing inside diminish to nothing more than a vague ache.

She pulled away from Peter, her lips brushing faint along his skin. As her body created space between them, she began filling the emptiness inside herself.

Finally, she was beginning to feel whole.

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