#spotify wrapped is here and it feels like christmas

[runningupthatvecna]

[katyobsesses]

I think my glee obsession is returning in full force

[greensagephase]

Nonviolent Communication - Part 19

Pairing: Spider-Man!Miguel O'Hara x Spider-Woman!Reader Summary: It's time. Word Count: 9.6k Warnings: angst; Miguel crying; mention of injuries; mention of death; mention of someone sacrificing their life; use of sedatives; Nonviolent Communication? More like Nonviolent [lack of] Communication Music (Spotify playlist): "Present" - Lloyd Vaan "Fade Into You" - Vitamin String Quartet "That Home" - The Cinematic Orchestra Masterlist A/N: Another update so soon? It's a Christmas miracle in October!

Part 19

Miguel tenderly gazes at you from his hammock, his pinky finger wrapped around yours. He feels a gentle breeze rustling his hair, a contrast to the warmth emitted from your hand near his. He can hear music and conversation taking place from afar, but none of that matters.

Miguel is so at peace right now, he even forgets that next week you’ll likely be moving out of the penthouse.

He simply focuses on the now, on this moment of tranquility with you.

Gazing at you, Miguel can’t help but think about how he’ll remember this weekend forever, even when he’s seventy. He’ll gaze at the moon and be reminded of tonight, how you’re sharing a thermos with freshly brewed coffee and holding each other’s pinky fingers under the moonlight. He’ll recall your whispered question about the children you were meant to have, but didn’t, and the way his answer seemed to satisfied your thoughts. He’ll remember the way you subtly lowered your arm, trying to play it off as nothing, and how he knew what you hoped, maybe even longed for: his touch.

His crimson eyes shining like rubies in the night gaze up at you one moment and the next they’re closed.

His eyes move rapidly under his eyelids, confused.

He opens them, but his vision is a blur. He’s suddenly overwhelmed with an ache all over his body, as if he hasn’t moved in days. Miguel repeatedly blinks, his mind trying to figure out what’s going on. He succeeds in clearing his vision, but the confusion remains.

Miguel was at the beach with you just now, hanging on a hammock below yours and holding your pinky finger, but now he’s here.

At an infirmary room.

Alone.

Miguel feels frozen for a second before he looks down at himself, finding his body clad in a hospital gown and laying on the bed. His confusion grows tenfold. Dread spreads throughout Miguel’s chest while he searches the empty and cold room he was in last year.

Why is he here? He was just on the hammock, his pinky finger wrapped around yours.

Where are you?

That thought has Miguel instantly sitting up despite the pain shooting through his body. His eyes search for you, for any sign of you in this room. He looks at the floor, the tables, and the uncomfortable chair you slept on last year pressed to the wall a few feet away. It’s empty, no sign of a pillow or blanket on it. He looks around once more, wondering where your duffel bag is at. It should be here somewhere, right?

Yet, Miguel finds nothing. No trace of you.

Where are you?

Where did you go?

The dread in his chest intensifies with every second, his mind a mess with thoughts. His heart rate shoots up, triggering an alarm that has the infirmary staff rushing through the door. In seconds, a doctor and nurses are at his side, trying to assess what’s wrong. They find the usual distant and stoic boss under distress.

“Why am I here? How did I get here? I was somewhere else,” Miguel says while they check the monitors, his voice filled with stress. “I was at the beach just now — with Dulzura. Where’s Dulzura at? Y/N?” he asks. “Where is she?”

“Sir, you need to calm down. Everything is okay,” the doctor replies in a calmly manner that only seems to frustrate Miguel even more.

“Where is she? Why isn’t she here?” Miguel continues to ask.

“We’re going to call Mrs. Jess and Mr. Peter B., alright?” the doctor replies, giving a subtle nod to a nurse on the other side of the bed.

“I’m not asking for either Jess or Peter. I’m asking you for Y/N. Just tell me where she is!” Miguel says, his voice rising out of frustration. All he wishes to know is that you’re here somewhere, somewhere close to him so the dread in his heart can cease.

Yet, the staff refuses to answer his questions and instead, fill his bloodstream with a drug.

“¿Dónde está? [Where is she?]” Miguel says softly, the sedative doing its job. “I was at the beach. I was with her,” he adds. “Dulzura?” he whispers, eyes fluttering. “Por favor, Dulzura… [Please]” he continues, his vision becoming blurry once more. “Stay…”

♡

When Miguel wakes up again, he detects voices in the room. For a few seconds, they sound far, far away.

He groans when he begins to feel the body ache all over again, still there. “Dulzura,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Miguel - it’s alright. We’re here,” a voice says.

“You’re going to be okay, pal,” another one adds.

“Where’s Dulzura?” Miguel manages to say, his eyes struggling to open. “Where is she?”

“Who’s Dulzura?” the second voice asks.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” the first voice says. “He never called Gabriella that.”

“Then, who… is he calling for?” the second voice questions.

“God knows what’s going on in his mind right now,” the first voice replies. “Look, his eyes are fluttering. Miguel? Can you hear us?”

At last, Miguel opens his eyes, groaning. He looks around, his vision blurry for a few seconds before they focus on the faces near him.

Jess and Peter.

“What - what happened?” Miguel asks, searching for you once more. He tries to spot your favorite blanket, the one you had over your legs just yesterday while reading a book in front of the fireplace at the bungalow, but he can’t find it. Your sweatshirt is nowhere in sight, too. There’s not even a hint of your scent in the air, as if you haven’t been here in days.

“You’ve been out for a few days, pal,” Peter says gently, eyebrows furrowed. “You took a lot during the fight trying to help Miles save his dad. By the way, he’s safe. They both are. And, we defeated the Spot, too.”

“Wh-what?” Miguel whispers, his mouth feeling dry. This makes no sense.

Jess sighs, giving Peter a look before turning to face him again. “We’ll explain everything, okay? But you need to remain calm.” With that, Jess tells Miguel everything. Peter listens, adding a few details here and there when necessary.

Miguel listens, his heart sinking and sinking with every word. His chest is filled with such a heaviness, he feels that if he was standing, he’d surely drop to the ground due to the weight.

How could it be? None of what Jess and Peter are saying makes sense, but according to them, Miguel has been at the infirmary for days after Miles and him, along with half of the Spider Society, worked together to save Mr. Morales and stop the Spot from unleashing chaos on the multiverse.

Miguel didn’t go unscathed, however. He was seriously hurt during the encounter, putting his life at risk for the sake of the multiverse and Mr. Morales’s life.

He thought it was only fair — even just — after being incorrect about the canon event theory. So, Miguel went into the fight ready to sacrifice his life. He had nothing else to give, nothing else to lose.

He was ready to lose his life.

And he almost did.

Apparently, Miguel did in fact die for a few minutes, but the infirmary team resuscitated him. Due to the shock and trauma his body received during the fight, it’s taken several days for Miguel to wake up.

“We’re glad to have you back, pal,” Peter says, donning that pink robe he’s been wearing since Mayday was born, but Miguel can’t force himself to care about anything right now.

He doesn’t care about what everyone has been doing around HQ over the last few days when Jess fills him in. He doesn’t care that everything is running smoothly. He doesn’t care about anything at all.

Both Jess and Peter watch him, giving each other subtle looks, though they’re sure Miguel wouldn’t even notice them if they were obvious ones to begin with. Miguel is distant, more than ever. His body may be here in front of them, but his mind is elsewhere. Far, far, far away.

They have no idea of the immense longing and pain the leader is under while he stares at the windows with the same sentences echoing in his mind over and over again.

It was all a dream.

You were just a dream.

You don’t exist.

Miguel was hurt badly, so much to the point he died for a few minutes, but that doesn’t affect his intelligence to figure it out. He dreamed of a life after the events with the Spot — a total of two years with you at his side.

He tries to swallow the knot in his throat while Jess and Peter converse, not knowing what they’re talking about. He tries to focus on the conversation, tries to pretend to be okay, but there’s a horrible, heavy feeling that grows and grows in his chest with every second, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

He puts on a facade.

He’s okay.

He’s okay.

He’s okay.

Miguel repeats the sentence, trying to make himself believe the biggest lie he’s ever told himself.

He keeps himself at bay, but he’s like a weak dam that finally crumbles when Jess and Peter leave.

It’s only in his solitude, in this horrible loneliness, within his cold and empty infirmary room, that Miguel’s chest heaves dramatically. His breathing speeds up, his chest heavy like lead.

His beautiful crimson eyes swell with tears, his vision becoming blurry once again. The knot in his throat never left, just temporarily paused. He feels it grow in this horrible and cold loneliness. It hurts. The knot in his throat hurts so much, giving him a burning and sharp barbed wire-like feeling. The thought that actual barbed wire pressed to his skin would hurt less crosses his mind before the devastating reality weighs down on him.

Miguel presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, sobbing his gentle heart out.

It has to be a nightmare. It has to be.

His lips tremble before a cry escapes from within.

How was he just there with you? Holding your pinky finger in his, in perfect solitude on the beach?

Miguel can almost taste the coffee you made just to enjoy on the hammocks. He cries at that, at how much you love coffee and the way your eyes seem to twinkle when he says he’ll make café de olla [coffee pot] just for you.

“God — “ Miguel says through his sobbing, his face tear-stained. “Please, please wake me up. I’ll do anything. Just wake me up from this dream — I beg you.”

But Miguel doesn’t wake up.

This is his life and you’re not here.

There’s no you.

You don’t exist.

Miguel cries and cries, until those crimson eyes can’t cry anymore.

He spends the rest of the day mourning and longing for you, the bitter truth crashing over him like rogue waves. He’s longing for someone he’s never met, someone he’s not sure exists, not even out there in the multiverse.

♡

Despite doctor’s orders, Miguel is back in the lab the next day. He stands on his platform, crimson eyes scanning over his screens. His platform is elevated all the way to the ceiling, where Miguel wishes to be alone and undisturbed. He wants to forget, but he cannot.

The lab’s counters are unorganized, parts and tools scattered about.

No one will volunteer to help organize them every week, Miguel knows that now. There’s no quiet conversation between you and Lyla, who asks questions about your comfort food or plans for the weekend.

There’s no hidden Mexican candy in the cabinets for you to eat. There’s no hidden scarf in his drawers with your scent interwoven within its fibers.

Miguel freezes.

Your scent.

Your soft breathing when you sleep.

Your voice.

He slumps over his platform at the realization, wincing at his wounds from the movement. He can smell it, somehow, even now. There’s no trace of it anywhere, but he can remember it and God, he holds on to it, desperately, like a man half dead clinging to life.

Miguel hears your soft breathing and voice then, plays it his head. He prays to God and every saint he knows he never forgets either sounds.

“Mierda [shit],” Miguel murmurs, a slight tremor in his voice. “¿Donde estás? [where are you?]” He wonders, his chest tightening the same way it does every time he thinks of Gabriella and his brother, Gabriel.

And he knows… He is mourning you just the same despite being made up.

“Dulzura,” Miguel whispers, eyes closed as he remains slumped over his platform. Images of you flash in his mind like a movie.

The time he found you sick in your apartment, passed out and in pain. He made pasta for you and cleaned up your space a bit, even fixed the cabinets of your kitchen.

The night of Día de los Muertos [Day of the Dead] while you looked at his ofrenda [altar], the lit candles which gave your face a gentle glow.

Miguel recalls the times you brought him lunch and coffee cups too small to actually do much to his body, but him accepting them nonetheless after months of your offerings.

He remembers the Christmas Eve when you showed up with food, looking nervous because you were in his penthouse for the first time. He remembers your look of surprise seeing him dressed in normal clothes for once.

All these images flash in his mind, all the way to lunches on rooftops and sleeping on his living room floor to putting together that puzzle of two butterflies in a meadow during the beach trip.

“Miguel?” Lyla speaks suddenly. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“No,” Miguel replies, straightening up. His voice is weak with a hint of harshness as an attempt to hide his true feelings. “I’m fine.”

He repeats that to himself.

He’s fine.

He’s fine.

He’s fine.

He pushes through the first half of the day, his mind and heart a mess.

Even as the days go by and turn into weeks since the situation with Miles, Miguel feels lost.

One morning after showering at the penthouse, he stands in the halfway to the bedrooms. He knows better than to, but he pushes the door open to Gabriel’s old room. Of course, it’s the same as it’s always been since his brother’s death.

Somewhere in his long and intricate dream, you stayed here in this room after a fire on your building. You made it yours with a lot of hesitance, your idea being that you didn’t want to be a ‘burden’ to him.

Miguel recalls telling you to stop thinking that. You could never be a burden to him.

But now you are, only because he must carry on living with the mere imagination of your existence in his life.

♡

Miguel’s stomach grumbles while he works. He’s tempted to ignore the hunger and keep working to avoid his thoughts, but then he remembers that you would’ve disapproved of that behavior. An image of you frowning in disapproval flashes in his mind. Even though it’s just an image and he now knows he somehow made you up, he still can’t find it in himself to be the reason for a frown on your face, real or not real.

He engages the platform to lower it, deciding to go to the cafeteria. He stares at the ground, arms at his sides, a feeling of defeat filling him.

In that moment, Miguel wishes he would’ve never woken up.

Miguel sighs heavily in desperation and sorrow. He covers his face with both hands. He would’ve blissfully stayed in that dream, where things were great with his best friend. He swallows the knot in his throat now, the feeling all too familiar, for Miguel has cried every day since he woke up.

Miguel clears his throat and wipes the beginning of his tears away before dragging himself out of the lab, even though all he wants to do is stay in that dark and empty space — alone. He doesn’t want to look at the spider members, who’ll probably continue to stare hoping for something from him after everything that happened with Miles.

His mind hasn’t even wrapped itself around that situation and how everything he’s worked for has turned out to be wrong. Then, there’s the loss of Gabby, his sweet little Gabriella.

And of course, there’s the loss of someone he’s never met.

You.

He should’ve never woken up.

Miguel walks out into a hallway, a few spider members greeting his sight. He avoids their eyes, unable to meet their gazes. His steps feel heavy as he walks down one of the many hallways of their base, memories of him and you walking together flashing through his mind.

You’re everywhere.

And yet, you’re not.

Miguel almost turns around and heads back to the lab, even if it means not eating. How is he going to manage to walk past the conference rooms where you both spent time together each week, talking over coffee before meetings started? He doesn’t want to gaze inside because he knows only the ghost of you on your unassigned assigned chair next to his will greet him back.

He makes it past them, but only because he keeps his gaze down.

Somewhere, he hears a door open and a new set of footsteps join him. He doesn’t have it in himself to look up, even though the footsteps sound familiar in the midst of his internal turmoil. He hears a gizmo go off, probably the other person’s. He looks up, only by instinct, and freezes as his eyes capture the smallest glimpse of someone’s suit as they turn a corner.

It’s the smallest, shortest glimpse, but it’s there.

The colors of your suit.

His breath gets caught in his throat and before Miguel knows it, he’s walking faster. He turns and enters another hallway, missing the individual once again as they turn the corner. However, this time, his gaze is much more focused, so he’s able to spot not only the colors, but also part of the design of the suit for a fragment of a second, causing his heart to race.

His steps are determined as he continues to walk, following the person’s tracks. He can’t help but feel like he’s chasing his lifeline, feeling more alive than he has in weeks.

He must be going crazy, Miguel thinks.

It’s foolish and yet, Miguel follows.

He enters the cafeteria, met with a buzz from spider members having lunch. He looks around as they walk in front of him, blocking his way. He wishes he could silence them for a second as his gaze searches for you in the midst of the crowd. He spots the colors of your suit again, straight ahead, and follows, ready to push anyone if he must.

Miguel sighs in frustration as he pushes past a group, keeping his eyes in the same spot as to not miss the individual.

“Miguel-” someone says.

“Not now,” he replies as he keeps walking, not even sparing a glance.

At last, there’s the individual. Their back is to him but there’s your suit. Identical.

“No puede ser [it can’t be],” Miguel breathes out as he keeps walking, not sure what he’s even doing. All he knows is that there you are, or at least it seems so and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t talk to you, his best friend.

His steps slow down as Jess steps into view, facing him. She says something to you just as her eyes find Miguel. He watches as she gives him a nod and says something else to you, or at least he thinks it’s you.

With his heart racing, Miguel keeps approaching.

“Miguel,” Jess says, acknowledging him verbally. “I’m glad to see you. I was about to go and look for you to introduce someone to you — someone I think would be a great asset.”

He doesn’t say anything as he comes to a halt, just five feet away from you, your back to him still. As if in slow motion, he watches you turn around and there.

Your face meets Miguel’s eyes, your reflection finding a home in them.

There you are.

You are real.

You exist.

Miguel stares at you, his heart racing. He feels his breathing pick up but this time out of gratitude, happiness, and so much more. You’re here. You’re real.

You look at him with those eyes he knows so well, but there’s no recognition in them. You don’t recognize him at all.

“This is Y/N,” Jess starts.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” you say with a nod, not even offering your hand. “I’d shake your hand, but Jess has told me you…” you trail off.

“I’ve informed her,” Jess says, referring to no physical touch.

Miguel stares at you, his heart in pain. You’ve called him ‘sir’ instead of by his name or the nickname you gave him, Migs.

He lifts a hand, his pinky finger out, hoping you know.

You blink at the sight, an expression of confusion on your face when you see the gesture. You glance at Jess, hoping for an explanation.

Miguel gulps. “You don’t - You don’t remember… You don’t know me?”

“Sir…” you say gently, confused.

“Dulzura,” Miguel says, looking at you. “You really don’t remember me?”

“Miguel — what are you doing?” Jess asks, confused and alarmed.

“You don’t remember when I found you sick at your apartment?” he asks. “All the times I made you café de olla? You don’t remember the night we said we had each other. Always?”

“I don’t know what - Jess what’s going on?” you ask, turning to her.

“Dulzura, please,” Miguel says. “I’m begging you. I can’t bear this anymore,” he continues, feeling like he could die right now.

“Miguel, you need to calm down, okay? Please, get something to eat and rest. You’ve been working too much,” Jess says. “You’re scaring the recruit.”

“She’s not just a recruit. This is Dulzura,” Miguel says, frustrated. “She’s my best friend,” he adds, hoping you will remember, but no matter what he says, neither you nor Jess believe him.

“Dulzura, please. Please tell me you remember,” Miguel whispers, tears swelling in his eyes. “I’ve missed you so much. I’ve thought of you every day since I woke up, please. It’s been weeks since I woke up in that empty infirmary room, searching for you. We went to the beach because you invited me, remember? We bought groceries the day before, went shopping together. We made red chilaquiles [Mexican dish] that first morning we spent there and some of our friends showed up. We went for walks and I gave you a seashell. Don’t you remember?” Miguel asks in distress, noticing the lack of recognition on your face. “We put together a puzzle and talked about parenthood. You made me realize I’m open to the idea of one day experiencing that and romantic love, even if I’ve accepted I might not get to. Please, Dulzura! Please, please, please! How do you not remember? Dulzura, Dulzura, Dulzura…” Miguel repeats, brokenhearted and crying.

Miguel sits up in bed.

He gasps for air, chest heaving in the night. There’s tears streaming down his face and he feels sweaty as he looks around.

“Dulzura,” Miguel whispers, and at the thought of you, the bed covers go flying. He's on his feet in a second, walking barefoot towards the hallway.

Please, please, please… Miguel thinks as he walks past the door frame. He's barely taken three steps when he runs into something.

Someone.

“Miguel?” your sleepy voice breaks the silence of the penthouse, gently killing that dread in Miguel's chest and replacing it with a calmness — alleviating his soul.

“Dulzura,” Miguel breathes out, before turning the light on in the hallway. He needs to make sure you're really here, that you’re not a figment of his imagination. Relief washes over him when the sight of you in your pajamas, looking sleepily at him, greets him. He instinctively steps closer.

“Migs?” you ask softly. “What's wrong? I heard you calling for me. Are you alright?” You search his body and face for signs of injury, but find none.

Miguel raises his hands, that relief taking over along with the need to touch you, to feel your body to fully confirm you’re in the flesh. He moves them closer until they're near your face, in a cupping form. His hands tremble.

“Migs?” you whisper, noticing his trembling hands, a sight that breaks your heart, and their proximity to your face along with how they seem to be ready to cup your cheeks. “Did you have a nightmare?” you ask gently.

Miguel nods. “One of the worst nightmares of my life,” he answers, his hands growing closer.

You watch intently, sleep fading away quickly due to Miguel’s trembling hands and the fact that he seems to be seeking physical contact.

And Miguel would’ve, if only Lyla hadn’t popped up out of nowhere.

“What’s going on?” she asks, looking around. “Oh, you’re awake?”

Miguel’s hands drop to his sides, realizing what he was going to do.

“I - what?” you ask, confused by the entire moment. Miguel was just about to cup your face and now you’re left here in the hallway with Lyla floating between you.

“What’s wrong, Lyla?” Miguel asks quietly.

“Your gizmo detected you talking while the recording you always play at night was active. It’s past three in the morning. It made no sense for you to be talking at this hour if you have the recording playing, so I figured you were having a nightmare, but I see you’re actually awake and talking with Y/N, so,” Lyla explains.

“It’s alright,” Miguel forces himself to say. “Everything is okay.”

Looking between Miguel and you, as if trying to make sure it’s true, Lyla nods. “Alright, have a good night, you two!” With that, Lyla disappears just as fast she appeared.

You blink softly and turn to Miguel, noticing a bit of perspiration and his tear-stained face. He still looks somewhat startled from his nightmare.

“Come with me?” you ask softly.

Miguel nods, already having an idea of where you’re both going.

A few minutes later, he’s sat on one of the chairs in the kitchen with you at his side. There’s a pot with water and a few cinnamon sticks on the stove and two mugs on the counter ready to be filled with sweet canelita [cinnamon tea].

You stay quiet to give Miguel a few minutes to gather himself, some time to calm down. You glance at his hands, noticing they’re thankfully no longer trembling, which puts you at ease. Earlier, you were still sleepy and startled by everything, but the sight of his shaking hands broke your heart. You wonder if he dreamed about Gabby again, about losing her.

You sigh quietly, deciding not to ask right now and continue to give Miguel a moment, at least until the canelita is ready.

A few minutes later, you silently pour the liquid into both mugs and add a bit of sugar, before returning to the counter with them. You place one in front of Miguel and offer him a smile, hoping to comfort him.

“Thank you,” Miguel says softly, tired. He picks up the mug and blows on it gently, accepting the kind and warm gesture.

You gently stir yours with a spoon, looking at him. “Always…” you reply softly, lifting your mug to your lips now and also blowing on it to cool it off a bit. After some seconds of debating internally, you decide to speak. “Do you want to talk about it?” you ask.

Miguel closes his eyes, feeling better now that he’s out of that horrible dream. His breathing has gone back to normal and his mind is clearer. He nods. “Yes…” he simply responds before Miguel tells you everything about his nightmare.

Despite looking better, his voice falters at some points, especially when he reaches the part where he saw you at the end but you didn’t recognize him.

“And then, I woke up,” Miguel says. “I was - I was - I had to make sure you are here… That’s why I was going to your room.”

You nod, your heart aching for Miguel. You can imagine what he felt — feels — when you place yourself in his shoes. You’d be hyperventilating if you had dreamed of that.

“I’m sorry you dreamed that,” you say softly, wondering what triggered it to begin with. “It was just a dream though,” you add, hoping to reassure him. “I’m here.”

Miguel nods, looking over at you. “I know, you’re here. Safe.” Miguel is eternally grateful for that.

“And that dream isn’t realistic because I would remember you,” you say, trying to lighten up the mood. “There’s no way I would forget about my best friend.”

Miguel slowly smiles for the first time since waking up. “You would still remember me?”

“Always. How could I forget you?” you reply. “You’re…” you smile and look away for a few seconds. “You’re one of the most important people in my life. My brain, maybe because of some unfortunate injury might for a short period of time, but… My heart will always know you, always remember you.”

Miguel’s smile widens, his heart filled with tenderness. He forgets all about his nightmare with your words for now, comforted. “My heart will always know you, too, Dulzura. In every universe.”

You both keep smiling before turning your attention to the drink, both feeling more at peace right now. The two of you take notice of the time. Like Lyla said earlier, it’s past three in the morning, almost four at this point.

Miguel and you silently realize something. You’ve been in bed for hours at this point, since ten to be exact, but only an hour ago you both managed to get some sleep. Nerves, disappointment, dread, and God knows what other emotions has kept the two of you up because of what awaits in a few hours.

Your return to your apartment.

After arriving back to Nueva York from the beach trip, Miguel and you finally talked about you moving out. You realized you needed to address it, or at least you thought you had to, so you did.

After discussing with Miguel that you’re moving back, which he accepted and understood, knowing it’s time, you both went to the apartment to clean it. He’s helped you deep clean the space and move some things around, trying to be a supportive friend. The only space left to clean is your living room and of course, you’ll have to unpack the belongings that are now sitting in Miguel’s living room, ready to be transported in a few hours back to your universe.

Despite your silent and respective realizations at the same time and the fact that you’ve only managed to sleep for an hour, if even that, neither of you mention anything about it. Neither of you share that you’re unhappy with the situation.

Miguel doesn’t want you to leave, to move back to your apartment, but he knows he can’t ask you not to. He knows how much the apartment means to you because of Peter and all the memories it holds. It’s a special place, Miguel knows that, so he won’t, even if he wishes he could.

Even if the words are threatening to spill at any moment from his mouth.

Next to him, you refuse to say what’s on your mind, too. You don’t want to move out, even if you love your apartment so much. You do, you really do.

You love your building.

You love your little apartment, its coziness and warmth.

But most of all, you love the memories made within those walls. The moments you shared with your family, back when your parents were alive along with Aunt May and of course, Peter.

Just days ago, you stood outside it on the street and saw phantom memories play in your mind, like a film. You saw Peter and yourself walking side by side chatting, grocery bags in his hands, and remembered how he always tried to hold most of them despite your superhuman strength. You watched the two of you enter the building, still talking. Up above, you saw the light from the living room turn on before images of Peter sprawled on the old couch, which is still stored in Miguel’s building, with you on top of him came to mind.

Within a few seconds, you found yourself physically inside your empty apartment. You stood in the living room, looking at everything you left behind. Miguel offered many times to help you take everything to his universe for the time being, but you declined each time. The things that truly matter are here at his universe right now, everything else you can do without.

You took a turn around the room, realizing.

You stayed here, despite the years, even when everyone moved on. Your former friends kept their relationships, or found new partners. Some of them even have children of their own. They moved on and you stayed here, in this lovely apartment building you happened to come across one day. It was pure coincidence and later that week, Peter and you came to check it out. The apartment had opened up and rent was good, perfect for two people fresh out of college. Shortly after, you moved in and hosted your housewarming party.

It had its details, its little flaws, but it was your place. Peter’s and yours.

And nothing sounded better than that.

But as you stood there a few days ago, you couldn’t help but see it differently. Something happened while you were gone and you don’t know what it was, not yet, but it felt different.

Different in a good way.

That’s all you knew in that moment before you remembered you had somewhere to be. After some time of debating and debating, you finally decided to give Harry Osborn a chance to be a part of your life again. You hadn’t seen him in weeks at that point because he was out of the country for some business, but with his return a few days ago and your own from the beach trip, you decided to say yes.

You sighed when you gave the space one more look, holding on to that feeling, before you slipped out, stopping outside the window. You glanced back, trying to decipher that feeling one more time.

You gave up and swung off without a second glance of that apartment building you came across so many years ago.

So, yes, you do love your apartment, but… You turn the mug with canelita in your hand. You’d be lying if you said you’re ready to move back. You swallow the words and take a drink instead, thinking it’s not right.

It’s not like Miguel and you can simply continue to live like this, right? You both have your own spaces and you don’t want to overstay, even if Miguel has told you many times that you’re welcomed. That his home is your home.

You both have your own homes, so it’s time for you to return to yours.

Right?

Right.

So, then, why are you both still disappointed?

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the hour. Maybe these feelings will pass.

All Miguel and you know, respectively, is that the next fifteen or so hours are dreaded, but neither of you can say a thing out of respect for the other.

You both hide your true feelings about your move, thinking it’s the right thing to do.

Neither Miguel nor you say anything at four in the morning while drinking canelita. Not when you have breakfast together for the last time as his temporary roommate. Not when you both pick up your belongings and travel to your universe, knowing you’ve left a bedroom vacant of life once again. Not when Miguel and you deep clean the living room, move furniture around, and hang your pictures back again on the gallery wall.

Neither of you say anything, even when you order pizza for dinner after only eating sandwiches for lunch. At this point, everything is ready. Every single room in the apartment has been cleaned; surfaces have been dusted, the floors have been swept and mopped, furniture has been moved and found a new home within the space, and your belongings have been unpacked.

Your gallery of photographs is back. Peter’s record player sits on the bookcase and the records are back in its original spot. The box containing his belongings is back in the closet. Your clothes are in their appropriate spaces, though some laundry still needs to be done. Your personal hygiene items have taken residence in the bathroom and dresser once more.

Tomorrow you’ll just have to buy groceries to restock the now clean fridge.

You’re set to go, something you realize while having dinner with the TV on in the background. Miguel and you talk, avoiding your internal thoughts about this move, and opting to focus on other things — anything to forget that in a short while he’ll be leaving.

Yet, time reminds you both of the reality. The hours have flown by too fast.

When Miguel glances at his gizmo, he realizes he should probably head home now, but the truth is he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to leave you or your presence and go to an empty home that awaits him.

Noticing Miguel’s glance at his gizmo, makes you check the time yourself. You mentally wince. It’s getting late, and that only means Miguel will soon depart and leave you alone.

You push the feeling away, telling yourself that you shouldn’t even feel like this. This is your home after all. You should be happier to be here, to sleep on your old bed, not Gabriel’s.

Miguel frowns at the gizmo, it’s time.

“It’s late,” Miguel says slowly, noticing that his tone betrays his lack of enthusiasm to leave. “You’re probably very tired after all the cleaning we did. You should rest,” Miguel continues, telling himself to think of you. You’re probably tired and want to rest on your own bed at last after so many months of not doing so.

“I…” you trail off, wanting to say that you’re not tired, but you realize Miguel might be after helping you, and you don’t want to keep him up any longer. “Yes, a little.”

Miguel nods, your lie making him think he’s right about your exhaustion. He slowly stands up, straightening his top. He smiles at you. “I’ll let you rest, then,” he says, hesitantly reaching for his gizmo. “I’ll see you… tomorrow, maybe?” he says, not sure. Miguel realizes that he might not see you on both days of the weekend anymore, that you’ll both go back to your routines before the fire, in which you’d have Saturday dinners and see each other again until Monday at HQ.

“Yes, tomorrow. We can discuss what time to have dinner…?” you say, sounding more like a question as you stand, too.

“Yes, of course,” Miguel replies, nodding. He sighs and steps into a clearer area of your living room, opening a portal that takes him a few seconds to launch, not of out technical difficulties but because he’s stalling. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Rest, okay?”

Standing in front of him, you nod. You question why there’s a heavy feeling in your chest, one you don’t like, but hide with a smile. “I will, you, too.”

Stalling for several more seconds, Miguel finally takes a few steps back. “Bye,” he says, too softly, unwillingly.

“By-bye,” you say, stuttering a bit.

Miguel manages a smile, a small one despite his chest growing tighter. He turns around, forcing himself to or he might never leave. He stops himself from glancing back at you one more time because he has a feeling that if he does, he might just shut this damn portal and stay another hour. Or, two.

You watch gloomily as Miguel disappears into the portal, the sight obliging you to bite your lower lip because his name is at the tip of your tongue. You want to call out his name and ask him to stay another hour. Or, maybe two.

But you both refrain from doing what your bodies are begging you to do and in the end, you’re both alone in your homes with a portal that grows smaller and smaller unlike the heavy feeling in your chests.

You look around the apartment when the portal disappears entirely. This is home, but if it’s home, then why does it feel different? Something has changed in the space — something that now makes you feel like… It’s not yours entirely despite the furniture and memories you hold within it. You shake your head and decide to distract yourself with laundry, hoping it’ll help with that heavy feeling in your chest.

Back in Nueva York, Miguel gazes out of his living room’s windows. He sighs, noting the silence. There’s no music, no TV, no sound of your footsteps from somewhere - no sign of you here.

Miguel shakes his head. Okay, maybe that’s a lie. There’s traces of you across the penthouse because you helped him redecorate over the last few months. The penthouse feels better than it did in the past. There’s no denying that. It feels homier. He glances to Gabby’s altar, the candle flickering. That’s his favorite change to the penthouse, an addition you suggested on Gabby’s birthday.

There are signs of you in the penthouse, yet… Miguel turns around and faces the living room. Something left with you and now the penthouse feels different.

Miguel pushes the thoughts away. He can’t be thinking like this. It’ll do no good because it’s not like he can change anything about it. He can’t ask if you’re open to being roommates again, in a more permanent way. You love your apartment too much to leave it and Miguel would never ask you to abandon it, nor suggest some other kind of arrangement that involves you not living there. On top of that, you’re probably glad to have your own space again anyway.

He sighs again and looks at the time, realizing that just about now you’d be wishing each other a good night. His heart aches at the realization, knowing that you won’t be able to do that anymore, have that little endearing closure to the night.

“Shock,” Miguel says, realizing just how much your return to your own place is affecting him. He rubs his forehead, wondering how long it’ll take him to get used to this when his thoughts are interrupted by his gizmo. He hesitantly checks, hoping it’s not something from HQ because he doesn’t have the right mindset for it right now, but he finds your name instead and his heart leaps. He instantly opens the notification.

Dulzura Good night :)

He smiles, chuckling quietly to himself before he replies.

You sit on your bed, gizmo in hand while you wait. Of course you remembered that about this time you would’ve wished each other a good night, if only you were still there at the penthouse. You glance around the room again before laying down, the bed feeling strange now, too. A second later, your gizmo beeps, so you immediately bring it up to your face.

Migs Good night, Dulzura :)) sleep well

You smile, holding the gizmo close to you before you sigh. It’ll take some time to get used to this.

Miguel and you complete your night routines like every other night. You brush your teeth, wash your faces, and do the the rest of it as always until you get in bed, in respective universes.

You both lay to sleep, alone, in your homes.

That’s nothing new, of course. You’ve both slept alone for so long, but a loneliness creeps up on the two of you while you lay on your beds, unable to sleep. There was comfort, more than comfort, in knowing you were both down the hallway from each other — just feet away. Now, there’s universes between you.

You both try your best to sleep, but nothing works. For Miguel, not even your sweatshirt and the sound recording helps him.

Hours go by. You toss and turn, and do it again, and again, and again. Miguel wonders if you’re asleep now, then decides you must be. You’re sure Miguel is, too.

Another hour later and you can’t bear it any longer. It’s no use. You slip out of bed and change into your suit, placing your gizmo on your wrist. You leave your apartment a few minutes later in the middle of the night, ignoring the fact that you’re barely back at your apartment and for some reason leaving it in search of a distraction because you can’t sleep. You swing around your city, eyes scanning for a diversion of some kind. You almost wish there was a robbery.

Finding nothing, you stop on a rooftop and look through your gizmo. It’s past two in the morning and you’re here instead of home. You sigh and look around the empty rooftop before clicking on your gizmo again, quickly inputting information. A second later a portal opens. You step into it, leaving a rooftop just to step on another one.

You’re not even sure why you chose this dimension, but you find yourself on Earth-42, on top of the tallest building in the city where you once stood with Miguel to gaze at the city below and where you nearly lost him over a year ago.

You quietly walk around the area, staying clear of it because you don’t wish to sit where you found Miguel nearly dead, before sitting down with a huff.

“No sleep tonight,” you say to yourself, already giving up on the idea of getting some rest tonight. You slip off your mask, placing it on your thigh and lean back to observe the empty rooftop, surrounded by silence.

It doesn’t stay that way for long though. Your eyes widen when you see another portal open a few seconds later, making you wonder who’s stepping out. Your curiosity is satisfied a second later and you’re met with that familiar blue and red suit you know all too well, but the wearer of it even more.

Miguel steps out of the portal, his back to you. His eyes move across the rooftop, silently wondering why he even came here of all places. He decided to leave the penthouse a short while back and swung around Nueva York to distract and maybe tire himself out before deciding to travel here instead, something in his gut telling him to do so.

“Mi-Miguel?” you ask, causing him to turn around immediately.

His mask is disengaged instantly, his face revealed and indicating equal surprise. “Dulzura?” he says, walking immediately to you like a moth drawn to a flame. “What - what are you doing here? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Miguel asks, bombarding you with questions while his gaze searches your body for signs of injury.

“No, no, I’m okay,” you quickly reassure him, noticing the way his face relaxes at your words. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

“Yes, everything is okay. What are you doing here?” Miguel asks again, crouching in front of you now.

“I asked you the same thing,” you reply softly, trying to get Miguel to answer first because you’re suddenly too embarrassed to share that you couldn’t sleep, or rather, share the reason why.

Miguel mumbles something under his breath, not wanting to tell you his reasoning for being awake either. “I couldn’t - I had some trouble sleeping tonight,” he admits a few seconds later. “You?”

You sigh. “I couldn't sleep either,” you confess, looking down to fidget with your mask.

Miguel's eyes widen a little. For some reason, he didn't think that would be the reason for you being here, considering you hardly have issues sleeping. “Why?” Miguel asks softly, noticing the way you're avoiding his gaze. “Did you… have a nightmare?”

“Oh,” you glance at him again, shaking your head. “No, no, I didn't. I just couldn't sleep at all. I haven't slept even a bit. Maybe it's just, I don't know, my brain being weird,” you huff out. “Wait - did you have one?” You ask softly, remembering that about twenty four hours ago, Miguel was having that nightmare about you not existing.

Thankfully, Miguel shakes his head. “No, no nightmares for me. I just couldn't sleep,” he says, moving and taking a seat next to you now, leaning back.

“I'm glad to hear that,” you reply, genuinely relieved it wasn't another bad nightmare like the one he had several hours ago. You recall how Miguel’s hands trembled, the way he looked at you, and his erratic breathing. Of course, the fact that he almost cupped your face comes to mind, too. You wonder if Miguel would've gone for it, if Lyla hadn't popped out of nowhere.

You both sit there now, on that same rooftop Miguel nearly lost his life at over a year ago. Your eyes sweep across the city, staying silent for a few minutes before Miguel breaks the silence.

“May I be honest?” he asks softly.

“Always, please,” you reply.

“I couldn't sleep because I missed — I missed you and your presence,” Miguel confesses with some trouble, his cheeks feeling warm due to the revelation.

You turn to look at him, smiling slowly. “Already?”

“Already.”

“I missed you, too, Migs,” you admit, smiling.

Miguel smiles now, sleepily. “You did?”

“Yes, I did.”

“It's relieving to know I'm not the only one,” he says, comforted, but also touched that you've been missing him, too. “I’m sorry you haven't slept, though. Are you not tired?” Miguel asks, his eyes searching your face.

You nod now, feeling some exhaustion within you that wasn't there earlier.

Miguel hums, still staring at you and thinking about how you’re both far more comforted with each other on this open rooftop in the late hours of the night than alone in the safety and comfort of your respective beds. He smiles softly when he notices your gaze become more and more sleepy.

“Maybe we need to…” Miguel starts quietly, thinking. “Maybe we need — or should consider — something.”

“Something?” you ask before a small yawn escapes your lips.

“We’re on a rooftop, instead of at home,” Miguel states, raising his eyebrow.

You nod, realizing what Miguel is saying. You missed each other on the first night and found yourselves in another universe without even planning it because neither of you could sleep. You wonder if Miguel is thinking what you’re thinking about.

“What are you suggesting?” you ask, intrigued.

“We can discuss it tomorrow, or well, later,” Miguel replies gently with a smile, glad that you seem interested on this ‘something’, too. “How about we leave this place?”

Leave? That’s the last thing you wish to do now that you’re in Miguel’s presence, but you can’t just stay on this rooftop all night, can you? “Home?” you ask, disappointed.

“Home,” Miguel says, standing up in seconds and offering you a hand to help you up.

You accept it and stand up with his help, dreading going home. You’re likely just going to stay up anyway. However, you nod to avoid showing your disappointment, even when Miguel opens a portal for you. He gestures with his hand towards it.

“Alright, we can discuss the something else later,” you say, stepping closer to the portal.

“We can. When we get some rest,” Miguel replies gently as you walk further in.

“Right, okay,” you mumble. “After some rest.”

You sigh subtly and step into the portal, touching ground again a second later. You look around, eyes going a little wide. Behind you, Miguel steps out of the portal, too, and straight into his penthouse’s living room.

Home.

You turn around to face him, surprised, and Miguel can only give you a sleepy grin.

“You can go upstairs to your bedroom, or we can stay here in the living room,” Miguel offers, feeling sleepy at last. He very briefly recalls something Lyla said a while back. Something about important people in your lives bringing you comfort and making it easier to sleep. Maybe that study was right after all because he’s suddenly feeling sleepy within a few minutes of being in your presence after he spent hours laying in bed, tossing and turning, helplessly seeking sleep but not finding it. Despite feeling sleepy, Miguel realizes he’s still not ready to part ways, even if it’s just rooms apart.

“I’m still not that tired,” you lie, not ready either.

“Me neither,” Miguel lies, too. “So… Living room?”

You nod. “Living room.”

“Do you want something to drink?” Miguel asks. “I can make some canelita.”

Half an hour later, Miguel and you sit on the living room floor. This time, though, you’re both sitting on the same side of the coffee table. There’s blankets and pillows on the couch behind you for later, but for now, you talk while enjoying the warm drink — growing sleepier and sleepier in each other’s presence when you couldn’t feel even an ounce of sleep before.

“It’s almost fall,” you state sleepily before taking a drink.

“Almost that time of year,” Miguel replies, realizing it’s true. The summer will soon end, another season approaching your lives. “The best time of the year.”

You chuckle. “Pumpkins everywhere, cold weather, sweaters — the best time of the year indeed.” You yawn.

“You’re sleepy,” Miguel comments, glancing at you.

“I’m not,” you counter softly.

“Right,” he replies, amused.

“I’m not. I’m just — yawning.”

“Because you’re sleepy,” Miguel says, noticing the way you’re blinking to stay awake.

You hum. “Nope, I’m still wide awake.” You yawn once more. “Do you remember the puzzle we completed last week? At the beach?”

“Yes, of course,” Miguel replies, sleepily. How could he forget? You both discussed something so personal while putting it together.

“I think I’m going to buy some,” you share, eyes feeling heavy.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Do you want to, maybe, do another one with me?” you ask, half awake and half asleep.

“It’d be a privilege,” Miguel replies, gazing at you sleepily.

“Yayyy, maybe I can find a jigsaw of a thousand pieces.”

Miguel chuckles next to you, noticing the way you’re leaning back. “I’m sure we can put it together in two or three days.”

“That sounds reasonable,” you state, unwillingly succumbing to sleep. “I’ll buy some this weekend.”

“I can get some, too,” Miguel says, picking up his mug to take a drink and stay awake. “If you want to come along you —” Miguel stops talking when he feels something on his bicep. He turns, still holding his mug with the other hand.

His gaze softens when he realizes you’ve fallen asleep on him and now your head rests on his arm after claiming not to be sleepy only a minute ago. He quietly chuckles through his nose to avoid waking you up. After putting his mug away, Miguel gently pulls the blankets off the couch and places them over the two of you before he gets comfortable, ready to give in to his sleep, too.

He relishes the warmth of your body next to his, knowing that later today, maybe you’ll both agree to something because sleepless nights are no way to live. Miguel knows that better than anyone else. While the Miguel of two years ago sought those nights because they were a refuge from his nightmares, the Miguel next to you now does not. He’s open to staying up late to talk or watch a movie with you, or something of that sort, but staying up to avoid sleep and nightmares?

Not anymore.

Never again.

And so, Miguel finally dozes off next to you, sleeping peacefully at last and without nightmares of losing you.

Previous ⋅ ♡ ─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ── ♡ ⋅ Next

A/N: Ummm, this is weird...? I'm back already, so, hiiiii! Another update is here! I hope you don't hate me after the first half of this chapter 😔 it was just a dream! But hehe, thank you for reading!! Also, thank you so much for the lovely comments on the last update! I have yet to reply to everyone because I had the motivation to write this chapter and basically I've been doing this all day, but I'm so happy a lot of you enjoyed it and liked the latter part of the chapter!! :))

Thank you again so much!! See you very soon...!!😌

Alondra❤️

taglist:

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credit for green divider to @/vysleix

[aflame4goinghome]

Antithesis

j.t.k x reader & j.m.k. x reader

part I

summary: You’ve been going out with Josh for a few months now, but his twin brother still hasn’t warmed up to you. Despite your efforts, Jake can’t stand you and he makes sure to tell you every chance he gets. Finally, one night it seems like you’re about to get some answers, but the truth is a lot more complicated than you ever could have hoped.

word count: 4k

warnings: THIS STORY CONTAINS SMUT, MINORS DNI!! swearing, mentions of smoking (tobacco & marijuana), drinking, kissing, sexually implicit language, heavy petting, cheating *kind of* SMUT: semi-public sex, fingering (f. receiving), dirty talk, praise kink if you squint

listen to the official playlist on Spotify here

✺⋅∘⋅•⋅∘⋅✧⋅∘⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅∘⋅✧⋅∘⋅∙⋅∘⋅✺

“Baby, you almost ready to go?” Josh pokes his head into the threshold of the bathroom from your bedroom with a soft smile.

“Oh, yeah, just another minute,” you reply, putting on the finishing touches of your mascara before turning toward him and slinging your arms around his neck. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in.

“You look breathtaking, as always,” he says with a smirk.

You and Josh have been going out casually for about six months now, but it never got to be very serious. You went on a few dates and had some heated nights together, but his band started its newest tour a month after you met, so the time that you’ve spent together since then has been sparse.

You first met Josh one night while out with your friends at your local bar. You’d gone to get yourself and the other girls another round when you saw him sitting there at the bar next to you. Almost immediately, his honeyed words and sweet smile drew you in. He told the bartender to put your drinks on his tab, you took the drinks to your friends, then you sat down next to him and the two of you got comfortable rather quickly.

You took him home with you that night and you couldn’t seem to forget him after, no matter how hard you tried. He was handsome, sweet, and ridiculously good in bed. You’ve had your fair share of flings over the years, but nothing could compare to him. As you fell asleep that night with his arm draped over your torso, you knew you were done for. Living in Nashville your whole life, you always vowed to never date a musician. You knew that they were wild and unreliable, but damn, this one just trapped you.

Soon after, he embarked on the band’s world tour. You didn’t always hear from him that often, but you never expected to. He called you after a show every once in a while, usually half-drunk and looking for some relief after a stressful day, missing you. You miss him too while he’s gone, but you’re still trying to avoid getting too attached to the idea of him being yours. You knew that he’d eventually get tired of you or find someone else while on the road. But despite never putting a label on it, he’s remained loyal, which surprised you.

After getting home from the European leg of his tour, he invited you to go with him as his date to a Christmas party at his brother’s house. Events like this made you nervous, considering the complicated nature of your relationship, but you could never really find it in you to say no to him. You’re feeling reluctant to go to this party in particular though, and not for the usual reason.

Josh’s twin brother, Jake, hates you. Yes, hate is a strong word, but you are convinced that he absolutely loathes you. You still haven’t been able to figure out why, no matter how hard you tried. You haven’t encountered him that many times, but all of the times you’ve seen him, he would never lay off you. He would question everything you said, scoff at your remarks, and you even caught him glaring once or twice from across the room when he thought you weren’t looking.

After every time, you would ask Josh about it and he would make excuse after excuse. “Oh, I’m sure he’s just having a tough day,” or “Maybe he just misheard you,” or “He’s probably just feeling a bit protective of me.” Whatever the reasons were, you had no interest in entertaining it.

The two of you aren’t even that serious, so you feel no desire to impress his brother. Besides, his younger brother Sam and their best friend and bandmate Danny have both taken quite a liking for you. Screw Jake, you didn’t need his approval anyway. So why were you nervous to go to his house?

You snap out of your daydream and come back to reality, looking up at Josh with a smile. “Thank you, baby. You look quite dashing yourself, you know.”

You’d decided to wear a midi-length black dress with a high slit, pairing it with a pair of black heels. You opted for simple makeup and added red lipstick for the season. It was a simple look, but elegant for a Christmas party. Josh was wearing a pair of khaki pants with a white pullover sweater, adorned with his favorite symbol, and some tan winter boots. His cheeks were rosy from the cold weather, a perfect canvas for the little white dots that decorated his cheekbones. They’re lifted slightly as he smiles at your compliment, revealing a toothy grin.

“You’re an angel. Shall we?” he asks, placing a soft kiss on your forehead.

“We shall.”

✺⋅∘⋅•⋅∘ ⋅✧⋅∘⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅∘⋅✧⋅∘⋅•⋅∘⋅✺

You both pull into Jake’s driveway and when you notice the lack of cars in front of the house, it becomes clear to you that you’ve arrived early. Great.

Josh turns the car off and gets out to round the car and open your door for you. You smile timidly at him as he takes your hand and helps you out of the car, then laces his fingers with yours and walks you to the porch.

“I promise, you’ll have a great time. Trust me,” he assures you as he knocks a few times on the large mahogany door. Much to your delight, it’s not Jake who opens the door, but Sam.

“Hey guys! Thank god you’re here. Jake thinks he’s running behind so he’s become so insufferable. Come on,” he says, clearly exasperated by his older brother already. The two of you follow Sam into the kitchen where you find Danny standing at the kitchen island, plating an array of cookies and appetizers.

“Oh, hey Josh. Y/N,” he says with a soft smile, then goes back to his task. You turn to your right to see Jake standing at the oven, hastily taking out a roast and placing it on top of the stove with a sigh. When he hears Daniel’s greeting, he turns his head and captures your gaze. You watch his eyes droop a bit as he turns back around, removes his oven mitts, and approaches you.

“Hello, brother. Nice of you to finally join us,” Jake mutters sarcastically, reaching over to grip Josh’s arm and giving it a light smack before turning to you. “Was this one holding you back? Probably takes hours to get ready, doesn’t she?” he jokes, stepping toward you to pull you into a one-armed hug, which is surely a formality. “To no avail, it seems,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, so quietly that only you can hear.

You scoff at him and roll your eyes as he pulls away, and turns around to head back to the oven. He speaks to you both as he walks away, facing away from you. “Would you both prepare the bar? All the booze is out in the garage, I’d like it in here.” Josh looks over at you apologetically then answers, “Yeah, Jake. We’ll go get it.” He takes your hand in his once again and you both walk back to the foyer to step out and grab the drinks.

Josh puts in the code and the garage door slowly rises, revealing the large pile of alcohol on the side wall. As you go to grab a few grocery bags of liquor bottles, Josh takes a pack of beer in each hand, opting to take the heavier stuff.

“I’m sorry about him. That’s just how he is, you know? He’ll warm up to you,” he says, looking at you and trying to gauge your reaction.

“How long does it take to warm up to a person? We’ve been seeing each other since June, Josh. Sam and Danny don’t seem to have any issues with me. So why him?” you ask, feeling frustrated.

Josh lets out a heavy sigh, looking at you with softened eyes. “I don’t know, Y/N. I’m sure he has his reasons. He doesn’t exactly wear his heart on his sleeve. I’ve known him since the womb and I still can’t always figure him out.”

“Well, it’s making me crazy,” you pout. He puts the cases of beer down and walks over to you, wrapping his arms around you and rubbing your shoulders. “I’m sorry, baby. Just ignore him for tonight, okay? I just wanna have a nice night with my girl…” he says, placing his hand on your chin to tilt it up to meet your eyes.

“Fine… but you owe me,” you tease with a smile, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

“Oh, I’ll make it worth your while, darling, trust me on that,” he replies with a smirk, biting his lip. He leans down to capture your lips in his for a moment, moving his hand from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you into him. His other hand which was once planted on your waist moves down to grip your bare thigh, exposed by the long slit in your dress. You sigh against his lips as his grip on your thigh tightens, pulling away from him slowly.

“We should get back…” you whisper. “Sorry, I’m just insatiable for you,” he says with a wink before reaching down to grab the beer and turning to walk out of the garage. You quickly follow, pressing the button the shut the door and then returning inside Jake’s house.

When you and Josh return inside, Jake has finished cooking and went upstairs to change into his party attire. The two of you stand around the kitchen island with Sam and Danny, chatting for a while as you wait for Jake to return downstairs in time for the rest of the guests to arrive.

You hear footsteps down the stairs and turn your attention to see Jake waltz back into the room. He’s put on a black button-down shirt, only fastening a few of the buttons on the bottom, leaving his bare chest exposed. An array of silver necklaces sits upon his exposed chest, the coins attached to the chains lying just right against his smooth skin. His wavy brown hair rests almost perfectly on his shoulders, which you notice has grown quite a bit since the last time you saw him. You think for a moment that it suits him, but you quickly shake that thought out of your head.

He’s wearing a pair of simple black dress pants with matching black ankle-length boots, seemingly leather. And of course, he could not go without his dark sunglasses, despite it being nighttime… and winter. Arrogant asshole.

Through the lenses, you panic as you see his eyes find yours. A smirk forms on his face as he finally approaches, and you already know that he’s about to piss you off.

“Didn’t anyone teach you that it’s impolite to stare, sunshine?” Jake says proudly, leaning against the kitchen island awaiting your response.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Jacob,” you scoff, standing up from your seat in the kitchen to go to the bar and make yourself a drink. Your cheeks flush as your back is turned to the rest of the group and you try to shake off the sudden feeling of embarrassment as you reach down to pour some tequila into your glass, topping it off with soda water.

Convinced that your face has finally returned to its natural color, you walk back to the kitchen, retrieve some ice from the freezer, and add it to your glass. You return to the island and stand behind where Josh is seated, placing your hand on his back and rubbing it slightly.

They’re caught up in a conversation regarding their time in the studio a few days back, but your eyes meet Jake’s once again. He takes a sip of his glass of neat whiskey, which he’s seemingly already poured for himself, not taking his eyes off of yours for a second.

What the hell is his problem? It can never just be a simple night, can it? Before you have the chance to question him, the doorbell rings and Jake retreats to open the door and greet his new guests. Perhaps you can catch him later to question him, but for now, you plan to just have a good time.

✺⋅∘⋅•⋅∘ ⋅✧⋅∘⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅∘⋅✧⋅∘⋅•⋅∘⋅✺

The night has gone smoothly so far, despite your concerns. Jake’s stayed out of your way, spending most of the time speaking with some record executives in the living area by the record player, attending to the music once the record ends every once and a while.

You’ve stayed by Josh’s side all evening, standing by the bar talking to Sam and Danny. You’ve already had three tequila sodas in and are luckily feeling much more relaxed. Not only that, but about three drinks in is usually when you start to crave a cigarette or two. So, you excuse yourself from the group and retreat to Jake’s back porch, stopping in the foyer quickly to grab your coat.

You slink out of the back door and sit down on the porch swing, pulling out a pack of American Spirit cigarettes and a black lighter. The porch is lit dimly by a string of lights, extending from the porch to the small garden next to it. The ground is laid with a thin layer of snow, probably only about an inch or two, and the pine trees in his backyard also have little blankets of snow resting upon them. It’s quiet, almost too quiet.

Then, as if the universe heard your thoughts, you hear the door open from your right. Much to your dismay, it’s Jake who walks out of the house onto the porch, with a joint already hanging out of his mouth as his eyes meet yours. He removes his sunglasses and his lips turn upward slightly as he walks over to sit next to you on the swing. You sigh quietly as you put your cigarettes back into your pocket, picking up on his hint and opting to smoke with him instead. What did you have to lose?

You reach up with your lighter still in your hand, lighting the joint between his lips for him. His eyes burn through yours as he inhales for a few moments before removing it from his mouth and blowing the smoke out to the side.

“Needed a break from the festivities, sunshine?” he asks, raising his eyebrow at you with a smirk, offering you a hit. You take it willingly, taking a drag and shaking your head.

“Not necessarily. It’s just about that time of night when I’d want a smoke,” you answer candidly, shrugging a bit before passing the joint back to him.

“Didn’t want your boyfriend to come with you?” he teases, taking a long drag. You roll your eyes at him, leaning back onto the back of the swing as he hands you the joint back and you take another hit.

“He’s not my boyfriend. And no, I just wanted to have a few minutes alone. You can see how well that worked out,” you say, taking one more hit before giving it back. He just looks at you for a moment with a puzzled look on his face, which soon turns back into a smirk.

“Well, who am I to let a lady sit out in the cold by herself?” he says, turning his body toward you more on the seat. His left arm moves to rest on the back of the seat, with his hand gripping the seat behind your head. You’re suddenly very thankful for the dim lighting, which you hope is successfully hiding the newfound pink tint of your cheeks from the proximity.

“What a gentleman,” you say sarcastically, taking a drag of the joint and crossing your legs as you turn your body toward him to mirror him. He takes it from your fingers and puts it out in the ashtray on the table in front of you, then sits back in his original position. The slit on your left leg causes your legs to become much more exposed to the cold, causing you to pull your coat over your legs slightly. To your surprise, Jake moves his right hand from his lap and slides it slowly to rest on your exposed knee, underneath your coat.

“You are cold, I can feel it,” he mutters, moving to sit a bit closer to you, looking down at your knee and then back up to meet your eyes.

“What are you doing?” you ask with a confused look, searching his eyes for any hint of what he’s thinking. You’ve never been this close to him before and for some reason, your immediate reaction wasn’t to pull away.

“I’m warming you up, sunshine…” he answers, his gaze still not breaking away from yours as he moves his hand from your knee to your outer thigh, rubbing it with his thumb.

“Jake, why do you call me that? I don’t get it,” you ask, hoping to finally get some answers about how he feels about you. Now was as good a time as ever. His lips turn up into a cocky smile, even showing a hint of teeth as he formulates a reply.

“Because you light up the sky, Y/N… and I shouldn’t look at you, or else I’ll go blind,” he finally answers, stroking your thigh again with a bit more force this time, causing you to take a deep breath and swallow harshly. “I shouldn’t touch you, or else I’ll get burned.”

Your eyes soften as you look back at him, still trying to wrap your head around what he’s trying to say. Before you have a chance to question him further, he continues.

“So, if I shouldn’t look at you… or touch you… then why do I still desire to?” he says inquisitively, gazing down at your lips for a moment before returning to your eyes. "Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of the fearless flight… For the greatest tragedy of them all, Is never to feel the burning light… Perhaps my own desire will be my downfall, hm?”

Your heart is beating out of your chest as you gaze up at him in shock. “Jake… what are you saying? I thought you hated me…” you say, in almost a whisper now.

“Sunshine, I’ve never hated you,” he answers, moving his hand slightly further up your exposed thigh. “I’ve just been resisting the light… but I’m not afraid to get burned anymore.” Oh. Your mind is spinning, from the combination of alcohol, weed, and hushed confessions.

Before you have the chance to tell yourself that you should take some time to think about this, your body acts without your permission and your lips crash against his. Immediately his hand snakes into your hair on the back of your neck, pulling you into him as his other hand continues to grip your thigh. Both of your hands find themselves tangled in his hair, tugging on it lightly, eliciting a groan from him into your mouth.

He pulls away from you for a moment as he moves his hand toward the inside of your thigh, inching closer to your already aching core. “Can I?...” he asks, and you nod feverishly. His lips find your neck as you lean your head back against the back of the seat, his fingers snaking slowly up the inside of your thigh.

His fingers find the black lace covering your lower lips, which is already soaked through from all the buildup. You feel him smirk against the skin of your neck as he feels the slick between your legs and then moves the fabric to the side. He runs his fingers through your folds, collecting your wetness before sliding one finger inside of you, causing you to gasp quietly.

His thumb rubs small, quick circles around your clit as he moves his pointer finger in and out of you, then inserts a second finger along with it. “Fuck, sunshine, so tight for me. Bet that feels so good, huh? Did you need it bad?” he whispers against your neck, laying wet kisses down to your collarbone. “God, yes, so good. Needed it so bad, Jake,” you mutter, already overwhelmed by the feeling of his lips and hands on you.

“God’s not here. There’s only me,” he says, increasing the speed of his fingers inside you, curling them upward to hit that special spot far back. You feel how close you are now, barely holding on. Your hand is gripping his shoulder hard, your nails digging into him through his shirt.

“That’s it, baby, come on. I know how bad you want it,” he says, kissing his way back up your neck to your chin. “Want you to come all over my fingers while my brother waits for you inside. Bet you look so gorgeous when you come. C���mon, make those pretty sounds for me, sunshine.” You whine, probably a bit louder than you should have, as his fingers finally coax your orgasm out of you. Jake’s lips find yours to muffle the sound of your cries as he works you through it, slipping his tongue into your mouth as you come down from the high.

He pulls away from you, keeping his eyes on you as he slowly removes his fingers from you and brings them up to his mouth, sucking your release off of them with a low groan. His left hand cups your cheek, pulling you closer to him, leaving only a few inches of room between you.

“So fucking perfect for me… Looks like my wings are melting, love. Too late to turn back now,” he says, his eyes glued to yours. “No regrets?”

“No regrets,” you answer, resting your forehead against his, taking a deep breath before pulling away and standing up, walking back toward the door. You turn around for a moment, meeting his gaze and looking at him softly, before heading back inside to find Josh.

You find Josh in the kitchen, standing at the island with Sam. “Hey, baby, I was wondering where you went,” he says, snaking his arm around you.

“Oh, yeah sorry. I just went out for a smoke and got distracted,” you answer with a soft smile.

“Are you tired? We can head out if you want, I’m sure Jake won’t mind,” he asks with a smile. You nod and turn to see Jake walk through the front door; you guess that he went around to the front of the house to not raise any suspicion. Smart.

You both say your goodbyes to everyone before walking to the foyer, leaving Jake for last. Josh hugs his brother and pats his shoulder, then grabs his keys and walks out the front door.

“Goodnight, Jake,” you whisper timidly, looking up at him.

“G’night, sunshine…” he says with a wink, stroking your cheek lightly as you smile at him, then back away and walk past him out the door. Your cheeks are flush as you walk out to Josh’s car, getting in and buckling your seatbelt before he drives off.

“Did you have a good time, sweetheart?” Josh asks, looking over at you for a moment as he drives.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” you answer, looking out the window.

You try to think over tonight’s events as you drive down the long and winding road toward your house. Never did you expect Jake to act that way toward you. You had been convinced that he hated you, but all this time he was just… afraid of his desire for you? It still didn’t make sense to you, but you’re fearful of the feelings that your encounter with Jake has brought to light.

He was so different from Josh, in every way. While Josh was sweet, Jake was assertive. While Josh was desirable, Jake was seductive. It was like he cast some sort of spell on you. Jake is the antithesis of Josh. And for some reason, that intrigues you. But now what? Now that you’ve entertained Jake, there’s no way that either of you will be able to resist the temptation of having each other again. God, what have you gotten yourself into?

✺⋅∘⋅•⋅∘⋅✧⋅∘⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅∘⋅✧⋅∘⋅∙⋅∘⋅✺

read part two here

Leave a reply or send me a message if you want to be added to the taglist! And as always, let me know what you think! I hope you all enjoyed this first chapter!

Our dear reader has a lot of decisions she has to make now, doesn't she? I guess we'll find out in the next chapter ;) see you then

Taglist:

@itsafullmoon @vanfleeter @klarxtr @itsdannysworld @lipstickitty @peaceloveunitygvf @wildmoonworld @ignite-my-fire

[sleepymccoy]

It's strange to me that we have Christmas songs but not Easter songs. So I've put together an Easter playlist for the season! Here is a link to it on Spotify

And here's my thinking for each song, I hope it makes you chuckle. it's only slightly sacreligious

Breadline by Warumpi Band and Wine, Beer, Whiskey by Little Big Town are The Last Supper, where Jesus has his buddies eat his flesh and blood in what must've been a super normal meal for everyone

Then there's a bit of betrayal! Judas by Lady Gaga and Money by Lime Cordial are Judas selling Jesus out. Then we have No No No by TheFatRat is the denied thrice thing that I don't really remember.

We've got Kiss by Prince followed by Red Right Hand by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, as Judas betrays Jesus with a kiss then feels guilty and kills himself

Now we move onto the Pilate and Herod stuff with Good Morning Judge by 10cc, followed by Whip It by DEVO (thinking about Jesus getting whipped to DEVO is the most sacrilegious this gets imo lol) and Won't Go Down Easy by JAXSON GAMBLE cos Jesus doesn't let up despite the thrashing

Then we've got Camel Walk by Southern Culture on the Skids, which is Jesus carrying the cross through town. You know, carry shit like he's a camel! Sure! Aaand Hammer and Nails by The Bones of J.R. Jones as he's strung up on the cross.

We move into more straightforward religious music with The Lord's Prayer by Sister Janet Mead, and a cover of Chop Suey by Robyn Adele Anderson which ends with Jesus yelling at his dad (God, not Joseph. I hope Joseph visited Jesus on the cross).

And then we have Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen as Jesus calls out to his mum for help, followed by Sign of the Judgement by Cassandra Wilson cos no one comes to help him, and he dies up there to Gallows Pole by Led Zeppelin

Hey St. Peter by Flash and the Pan is a nod to Jesus being dead but being turned away from heaven or whatever admin happened to bring him back. By Myself by FIDLAR is kinda how I reckon he'd've felt just hanging out in a cave being left alone by everyone. It's a mess for Jesus right now, rock bottom. Then This Year by The Mountain Goats cos it's actually a hilarious resurrection song

Jailbreak by AC/DC for when he gets out of the cave. Boys in Town by Divinyls cos our main boy is in town again, but he is absolutely on the way out. Spirit In The Sky by Norman Greenbaum as he returns to heaven and There's A Light by Shirley Ann Lee to remind us there's some real religion going on, and I assume that Jesus and God start getting along again eventually

And then wrapping it all up with Chocolate Jesus by Tom Waits, because chocolate really is what it's all about now

[jolalibrary]

spotify wrapped.

so i kinda made a few friends do a Spotify wrapped of THEIR fics as a way to celebrate themselves and what they've written/begin plotting this year. and i may have hidden for a while from doing it, but... here it is [yes, i made mine square for the aesthetic, sue me]

HERE IS MY FIC WRAPPED OF 2023

LATE NIGHT TEXTS

i think originally i had this as second, but the more i think on it, if it wasn't for this fic, i wouldn't have met so many of you. it wouldn't have gotten me through a tough depressive period and it wouldn't have healed the fear of writing romance. it is also the one fic i personally read to cheer me up, and coming up with new ideas for them is my FAVOURITE thing ever. i never expected a single soul to love them, but fuck, i'm so glad you all do.

I LIKE THE WAY YOU

i am a sucker for best friends to lovers, so naturally writing this has been a blast. it's special to me because my own husband was my best friend, and much of the themes are the same (minus the fwb part) and the best part of writing it, has been revisiting some of those feelings. i also really pushed myself with the spice. and that writing two people in love, who won't admit it, is actually so much harder than i thought.

BE GOOD, BE QUIET

a self-indulgent fic with joel miller? yes pls. no one will ever be able to understand how terrified i am writing JM. but this one flowed from me. everything from the storm to the way they look at one another made me grin. it was so much fun to write, and i'm so proud of myself for not letting fear stop me from writing it. also, this is hot as fuck - i cannot believe i wrote this.

AREPAS

this pair stole my heart when i first wrote them. they also gave me the confidence to birth late night texts. the softness in this, but also the cheek/wit, just had me grinning when i edited. I'll forever love this for what it did for me as a writer.

ANYTIME / COMING UNDER THE CHRISTMAS TREE

okay, okay. i cannot easily pick a fifth, so i chose two. but they're both so brilliant, and self-indulgent and born from this place of 'i want to write this, so fuck it' and yet, somehow, you all love it? and is that not a message for jo in 2024 to write more of the things she loves? also, cmon, one is pure fluff and one is pure spice ;).

[the specialist mention to nowhere to run. you were a beauty, you're brilliant and my brain created you with the hope of healing. and in some ways you did heal me, but you also made me sad, and anxious, but i'm glad you were written, and i do love you, even if i don't act like it]

tagging: if you see this, i IMPLORE you to celebrate yourself. here's a link to the canvas template to do it -> Canva Template Link

[acespaceacepilot]

i'd bleed for anything if it held me the right way 🩸🗡️💥 a wyll/astarion playlist on spotify

(song list + lyrics that made me chose them below the cut)

man or a monster (feat. zayde wølf) - sam tinnesz

it's so hard to tell which side you're on / one day is hell, the next day is the dawn / the lines are blurred, you keep rubbing your eyes / the tables turn, now it's time to survive

eat your young - hozier

i'm starving, darling / let me put my lips to something / let me wrap my teeth around the world / start carving, darling

until it doesn’t hurt - mother mother

i wanna fight, i wanna bite / i wanna swallow all the light / but i'ma stay right here / i'ma stay inside / i'ma just sit tight for another night / if i can't make it right / then i won't make it worse / i'ma just sit tight until it doesn't hurt

biting down - lorde

skip a hit, don't make a sound / (it feels better biting down) / breathed so deep i thought i'd drown / (it feels better biting down) / listen to the beats resound / (it feels better biting down)

furthest star - dirt poor robins

behold the day she found me here / so near the end of love's career / i feared every flower that appeared / had been uprooted by my peers / but then my autumn prayers were heard / just before the frost emerged / and i'll have my just deserts / when, once again, i'm next to her

flesh and bone - black math

break the truth inside of me / climbed down to hell on the devil's tree / i clutched a branch of soot and flame / the thought that rose, to scorch my feet

de selby (part 2) - hozier

what you're given, what you live in / darlin', it finds a way to live in you / and your heart, love, has such darkness / i feel it in the corners of the room

my body is a cage - arcade fire

my body is a cage / that keeps me from dancing with the one i love / but my mind holds the key / you're standing next to me / my mind holds the key / i'm living in an age / that calls darkness light / though my language is dead / still the shapes fill my head

gilded lily - slowed + reverb - cults

now it's been long enough to talk about it / i've started not to doubt it, just wrap my head around it / i remember when you told me it's an everyday decision / but with my double vision, how was i supposed to see the way? / haven't i given enough, given enough? (x4) / always the fool with the slowest heart

dispense with sentiment - we are scientists

i've been turning this over in my head / but i've been trying not to pick it apart / it's an overture to something, i guess / but i'll be goddamned if i can say to what / it's like i'm winding up to speak / for the first time in weeks / i'm trying to make sense / can we start again / and drop our defenses? / it might just be best / if we start dispensing with sentiment

graveyard whistling - nothing but thieves

all that afterlife / i don't hold with it / all your gods are false / just get used to it / let's go out tonight / kill some stubborn myths / set those ghosts alight, get into it. // ok, i admit / i'm not innocent / i did everything and i would again

crying wolf - julien baker

'cause i'm not crying wolf / i'm out here / looking for them / in the morning when i wake up / naked in their den / i'll swear off all the things i thought / that got me here / in the evening / i'll come back again

blood bank - bon iver

that secret that we know / that we don't know how to tell / i'm in love with your honor / i'm in love with your cheeks / what's that noise up the stairs babe? / is that christmas morning creaks?

bite the hand - boygenius

who do you think you are? / who do you think i am? / what do you wanna say? / what do you think will change? / maybe i'm afraid of you (x2) / i'll bite the hand that feeds me (x2) / bite the hand (x2) / bite the hand that needs me (x2)

metaphor - the crane wives

don't look too hard 'cause you won't like the scars he left in me / i've gotten good at making up metaphors / i've gotten good at stretching the truth out of shape / and all these words are sweet and meaningless / you can't trust a single thing i say

various storms & saints - florence + the machine

i'm in the throes of it / somewhere in the belly of the beast / but you took your toll on me / so i gave myself over willingly / oh, you got a hold on me / i don't know how i don't just stand outside and scream / i am teaching myself how to be free

savior complex - phoebe bridgers

baby, you're a vampire / you want blood and i promised / i'm a bad liar / with a savior complex / all the skeletons you hide / show me yours, and i'll show you mine

see the day - the altogether

the sleeping slip has begun to fray / i never thought i'd see the day / the pious hunter stops stalking prey / i never thought i'd see the day

myth - beach house

if you built yourself a myth / you'd know just what to give / what comes after this / momentary bliss? / the consequence / of what you do to me / help me to name it

posthumous forgiveness - tame impala

ever since i was a small boy / no one else compared to you, no way / i always thought heroes stayed close / whenever troubled times arose / i didn't know, ain't always how it goes / every single word you told me / i believed without a question, always / to save all of us / you told us both to trust / but now i know you only saved yourself

slowing down - the backseat lovers

whisper in my ear / that you need me / but if you saw it clearly / would you leave me? / i'm honest to you / but i'm lying to myself / and i don't wanna hear it / it has something to do / with the balance of my blood / and when i'll have to spill it

only - ry x

coming from the cold / buried under heat / lay you on the floor / i was only falling in love / cut me like a rose / turn me like a beast / hold you to the floor / i was only falling in love

daylight - david kushner

tellin' myself it's the last time / can you spare any mercy that you might find / if i'm down on my knees again? / deep down, way down, lord, i try / try to follow your light, but it's night time / please, don't leave me in the end

touch - sleeping at last

i know, i know the sirens sound / just before the walls come down / pain's a well-intentioned weatherman / predicting god as best he can / but god, i wanna feel again

will anybody ever love me? - sufjan stevens

will anybody ever love me? / for good reasons / without grievance, not for sport / will anybody ever love me? / in every season / pledge allegiance to my heart / pledge allegiance to my burning heart

holy lover - keaton henson

i think i love you / baby, please, don't be afraid of me / i think i love you / and oh, holy lover / i'll be the colors i can't see / and i will try harder / avail my father, live every need / and i've been so lonely / oh, please, just hold me so i can sleep

true love will find you in the end - someone, benjamin longman

but how can it recognize you / if you don't step out into the light, the light / don't be sad i know you will / don't give up until / true love will find you in the end

the moon doesn’t mind - lord huron

the sky doesn't care what my poor heart wants / and the desert can't hear my cries / the moon doesn't mind that i'm left all alone / and she's gone, gone

my love mine all mine - mitski

'cause my love is mine, all mine / i love, my, my, mine / nothing in the world belongs to me / but my love, mine, all mine

to build a home - the cinematic orchestra, patrick watson

this is a place where i don't feel alone / this is a place where i feel at home / 'cause, i built a home / for you / for me / until it disappeared / from me / from you

[hd-wireless]

📻🎶 H/D WIRELESS 2023 - WEEKLY WRAP-UP #3

The third week of posting has come to an end! Enjoy catching up with this week's selection of wonderful works. 

There's a work for everyone in this fest (and if you haven't found what you're looking for yet, we're far from done with posting).

As always you can listen to the prompted songs for the works we post on two playlists:  

Click here for Spotify (many thanks to @evaeleanor for helping us out there) ❤️

And here for the YouTube playlist.

Please enjoy this week’s entries below the cut:

🎶 H/D Wireless Art 🎶

📻 Your Heart's a Mess [G, Pencil & Copic markers]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Hearts A Mess' by 'Gotye' 🎵 Summary: Hogwarts eighth year. Malfoy, visibly scarred (from Sectumsempra? from the war? from his treatment by the Ministry?) and visibly heavy-hearted (from regret? from his father's imprisonment? from how the other students torment him?) has driven Harry to distraction. It's 6th year all over again: he was rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy. How he wishes the feeling was mutual.

🎶 H/D Wireless Fic and Art 🎶

📻 Waking Up Slow [E, 21,886, Digital Art]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'The Christmas Song' by 'The Raveonettes' 🎵 Summary: 'Twas the night before Christmas, although it’s July, Draco’s a shopkeeper, no-one knows why, There’s hiking and witch caves, freak snowfalls and more, Bad Christmas jumpers, nosy neighbours galore, Narcissa’s here too, but… something’s amiss, And what’s in those chocolates that’s making them kiss?

🎶 H/D Wireless Fic 🎶

📻 Burst of Love [E, 3,805]

🎵 Song Prompt: Jealous by Nick Jonas 🎵 Summary: The year after the War is both the worst and best one in Harry and Draco's lives. Draco somehow becomes one of the most requested influencer on Instagram, Harry is finally free and discovers he has quite...a passion inside himself. We all know how this is going to end.

📻 Rich Friend [E, 1,130]

🎵 Song Prompt: Rich Friends by Portugal. The Man 🎵 Summary: As far as Harry can tell, Draco Malfoy is still rich as hell. He’s just not a wizard anymore. Featuring: Draco Malfoy trying to make it as a Muggle pop star, Harry Potter as our confused and horny hero, bad driving, good music, and the mysterious magic of falling for someone.

📻 Seven Days, Seven Memories [E, 25,668]

🎵 Song Prompt: Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want by The Smiths 🎵 Summary: In a universe somewhere, deep down in the Department of Mysteries, behind Door 13, Unspeakable Draco Malfoy, can be usually found. Except Malfoy is nowhere to be found when Harry goes looking for him. What he finds instead is a Pensieve and a box full of memories

📻 so scarlet it was [E, 19,932]

🎵 Song Prompt: Maroon - Taylor Swift 🎵 Summary: Draco’s back for his Eighth Year as part of his parole. He’s doing his best not to annoy any war heroes and avoid Harry Potter as if his life depends on it. Too bad Harry has other ideas. 

📻 A Pureblood's Guide to Driving and Apostasy [E, 9,218]

🎵 Song Prompt: I'm On Fire by Bruce Springsteen 🎵 Summary: Draco Malfoy should be happy - he's engaged to a suitable young lady, chosen by his father, and on the way to restoring the family name. Except he isn't happy at all. That is, until Pansy (or is it fate?) brings him to a magical garage where his whole worldview is set on fire.

📻 Snitches & Sitches [T, 4,565]

🎵 Song Prompt: 'Once Upon a December' by 'Liz Callaway' 🎵 Summary: After a Quidditch accident, Harry's life turns upside down when he suffers a case of retrograde amnesia. Surrounded by people and places he should remember, Harry must cope with his slow recovery, all the while feeling like there's something very familiar about the blond with gray eyes who keeps wistfully staring at him.

📻 Can't Get You Out of My Head [E, 26,343]

🎵 Song Prompt: Can't Get You Out of My Head by Kylie Minogue 🎵 Summary: Draco was quite fine with his own company, thank you very much. So, when a potions’ accident left him unable to rid his head of Harry Potter’s infernal internal monologue, Draco was less than thrilled. He was, however, an internationally educated Potioneer; he could find an antidote without having to admit to Potter the access he’d had to his thoughts…actions…personal life…personal time…right?

📻 Sod Off Potter [T, 1,787]

🎵 Song Prompt: Sod Off Potter by Rattlebones 🎵 Summary: So sod off Potter Will you say what you want? Sod off Potter Will you say what you want is me? Potter please ↳ Sod Off Potter - Rattlebones Draco regretted the decision to return to Hogwarts after the war. Why couldn't bloody Potter just leave him alone? It wouldn't be so bad if Draco hadn't been harboring a secret crush on Harry for years.

🎶 H/D Wireless Podfic 🎶

📻 [Podfic] You Are Not Alone [, 1:49:56]

🖋️ Original author: Juh_Nunes 🎵 Song Prompt: Sorry - Halsey 🎵 Summary: Orginal Summary: Draco dreaded going back to Hogwarts after the war. He was sure this would be his worst year yet: the school hated him, the Slytherins have abandoned him, and his dorm was overrun with Gyffindors. There was no way anything good could come out of this mess, right?

[guineverist]

hello i am back at it with my fic inspired by is it over now? i've now cursed my spotify wrapped with 144 more listens and have realized that getting this done by christmas was insanity and new years might be a pipe dream

first, i'd like to sincerely apologize to everyone who thought tyler was on a crime spree. but! while he is not homiciding people he is also not in the narrative besides like 3 mentions including the one here, which might help?

second, i couldn't decide for a hot sec what snippet to post but ended up on this one. unlike the last part i posted this is a place where we are is it over now?-ing instead of friendship/barolena-ing

.

He enjoyed this side of her. It wasn't something he ever expected to see, not when it came to him.

Rebekah used to rant to him with grudging respect about the particular brand of petty ruthlessness Caroline used in high school politics. She quickly stopped when she realized exactly why he was actually listening, of course, but that was still another snapshot he never imagined he'd be able to witness for himself.

He was experienced with her insults and her very thin mask of neutrality, but not this. He couldn't even be sure which of his crimes she was extracting such vengeance for, but there was no doubt it was about him.

(In his more pessimistic moments, he convinced himself it was his crimes against Tyler. Revenge for driving him off, using him against her, whatever she had on her mind at the time. But other times he was sure that she was angry at herself, for the things she didn't allow herself to feel but couldn't stop anyway. And wasn't that a curious thing?)

Sleeping around? Preying on jealousy? It was so human, exactly the type of pettiness one would expect from the average American high school student. But Caroline had never been average, had she?

It was the threat, he eventually decided, that made it so intriguing. The fact that she knew who he was and decided to prey on jealousy of all things. She had to have done the calculations and chosen this course of action anyway, knowing that she was likely signing the death warrant of whoever she spent the night with.

He would likely never tell her truth on that matter. It would give her the wrong ideas about redemption when he much preferred her anger; but he owed them, in a way, for the window into her soul that they unknowingly opened. These traits of hers, divorced from the places where they would be “acceptably” used, showed who she could be, given enough time.

[cescalr]

stalia, 17

... I knew this was a big risk, given my taste in music. So.

Stalia + Yeah Yeah Yeah (V2) by Jack Conte, for the spotify wrapped ask game. I really don't know how to write this as actually stalia, since the whole song is about a failed relationship. Whilst this is accurate to canon, alas, it also breaks my weak little heart :(. So, fair warning. Angst ahead! Feel free to repeat request, if you weren't looking for heartbreak at half nine in the goddamn morning.

As a... consolation prize? I guess - have a link; my stalia playlist.

And finally, of course; read this on Ao3 instead, if you like!

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I knew it all along I knew it from the very start And I felt it in my heart If there's even one to feel, oh-oh   I bought you a gift It's a picture frame for my face When you decide to place me in the past 'Cause nothing lasts Yeah nothing lasts No nothing lasts   You're taking off your clothes I hear echoes of her breathing But she is fading into the past At last At long last At long last   Yeah, yeah, yeah, I knew it all along I knew it from the very start And I felt it in my heart If there's even one to feel (To—! To—! To—!) Let me be! Let me alone! (Water me) (My memories are wilting)   Yeah, yeah, yeah, I knew it all along I knew it from the very start And I felt it in my heart If there's even one to feel.

- 'Yeah Yeah Yeah (V2)' by Jack Conte.

It's been fifteen years.

Malia can hardly believe that sometimes; that she's lived this long, that she's thirty-fucking-five years old. That missing nine years as a coyote is now only... well, it's no longer half her life. Malia did not ever get great at math, and as soon as school ended, saynoara equations! Point being she doesn't actually know the fraction or, percentage 9 out of 35 is, but it's not nearly as significant as 9 out of 18. Malia doesn't remember it, anymore. Doesn't have that same desperate longing she once did for the simplicity of life as a coyote. 

Malia has grown as a person, is the thing. But not straight upwards. Not in all the right ways. Not even in all the ways she'd be proud of, or happy with, which are different from the 'right' ones. 

Case in point; Jordan Parrish. 

He's a sweetheart, really, is the thing. The thing being that that's the problem. Scott was a sweetheart, too. Didn't change jack shit about how it ended. Didn't stop their train from wrecking. Once is whatever, twice is coincidence, three times is a pattern. Malia doesn't want to find out she's the common thread, here. Malia doesn't want to... 

She doesn't want it to happen again. 

Malia's not really an introspective person. But reality prompts rumination, as Scott might say, either quoting Deaton or expanding his vocabulary, and he's... right, begrudgingly. Christmas is coming up soon. 

Malia turns up the volume. The car's speakers blast Malia's music louder, but it doesn't drown out her thoughts. Fuck.

- I knew it from the very start, and I felt it in my heart, if there's even -

Malia turns down the volume. Fuck. She knew co-opting some of Stiles' taste in music was going to bite her in the ass one of these days. 

... More than most of what's her's being someone else's first already had, anyway. 

He's coming home. Not to play the pronoun game - Stiles is... returning, to Beacon Hills. For Christmas. They haven't warned him about Allison, because both her and Scott agreed not to, and Malia knows that asshole, and she knows he won't take the surprise well, but whatever. Nobody listened to her fifteen years ago because she kept her mouth fucking shut about her memories of Stiles, for Lydia's sake, and she's still reaping what she sowed on that one. And god, just maybe Peter was right; she should've been more selfish. But anything that makes her think along those lines only reminds her of what happened in Mexico, and Malia nips the thought in the bud real quick. 

Peter's never right about anything. He can't be. It wouldn't be good for Malia if he was. 

Malia shoves open the door, dropping out of her car onto the Sheriff's driveway. Noah will be that, she thinks, until he's physically forced into retirement. 

Malia volunteered to help move some stuff around to help accommodate their guests. Stiles, of course, is staying in his own room, which hasn't changed much since he last saw it, other than maybe gathering some dust on the shelves that needs wiping off since the last cleaning session the Sherrif reluctantly forced himself through (which, agreed. Malia hates cleaning. You wipe a shelf and then have to wipe it again, and again, and again, for the rest of forever) at some point last month. 

Their other guest is Theo. Malia does not envy the Sheriff having to suffer his presence. But he's been hanging around Virginia, apparently, for at least a decade. Malia didn't know this, and it rankles she wasn't told. But it makes sense. Stiles is her ex. They never had the chance to be friends. Malia couldn't...

She just couldn't. It hurt. 

It doesn't really hurt anymore. Scott's a fresher wound, one that feels more solid, more real. Malia - it's not just Malia. Everyone's memories of Stiles will forever be slightly warped, just on the edge of wrong. That happens when a person is snatched from reality, a whole fake history is written, and then he's summarily dropped right back on top of it like he never left. Sometimes, the incorrect memory assimilates, and you think something that happened didn't, and something that didn't did. 

Lydia remembered kissing Stiles in high school. She didn't remember the context. She'd thought they might have dated, briefly. Malia hadn't been sure, had her own conflicting account of events that she'd kept to herself, had her memories of dating Stiles in high school as opposition to Lydia's vague idea. Maybe things would've gone differently if she'd been upfront about it, but Malia... is blunt, yes - 

Not quite honest, though. Not quite honest. Malia's Peter's daughter and Stiles socialised her. This should've been an expected outcome. But people are still surprised when she lies... or simply omits the truth. 

But Lydia broke up with Stiles. Two weeks. They lasted two fucking weeks. Malia threw away her whole - just for a fucking fling. Lydia got scared he'd die and ran away, and Malia can completely sympathise with a fear of a car crash for obvious reasons, but the thing is that that wasn't the only solution, and people die. 

Malia hates it. She hates it so much, she wishes she could make a deal with some kind of deity and stop death in it's tracks, but she can't. Nobody can. You can't halt your life because you're afraid it will end. That's calling quits yourself before death even has the chance to come knocking. A kind of living suicide. 

If there's one thing Malia's never going to do, it's halt her life for the sake of someone else. Malia's sacrificed things that make her happy, yes. She's put her continued existence in danger to save another, yes. But if she wants something badly enough, Malia's not going to be scared off by anything. Not even fate itself. 

Malia enters the spare bedroom, or what will be the spare bedroom once she's moved the desk out of here. Sheriff's just going to have to do his paperwork at the station, which is fine - might even stop him from breaking the law and taking boxes of files home he shouldn't be. 

One table downstairs and a mattress on a bedframe later, Malia helps herself to a sandwich. It's just ham. Nothing special. After, she leaves. That's all Malia was needed for - really anyone could've done it, including the sheriff, Malia just wanted to help out. 

Beacon Hills is a strange sight, these days. Deader than ever before, even when all the worst stuff was going down. The town's dwindled in revenue, she thinks. Shops are boarded up. Potholes aren't filled in. Malia wonders why; what changed, exactly, to make Beacon Hills less desirable than when there was a murder happening every week. There's fewer people on Main Street as she parks in the lot that used to sit in front of a video rental store, but Blockbuster failed years ago and this little independent never stood a chance. In it's place sits a nice little café. Malia gets a doughnut, a coffee, and stares at the swirls her stirring stick makes as she waits. 

Jordan shows up, like he said he would. He looks nice - always does, but Malia means he looks Date Nice, which normally gives her fight-or-flight response a little shove, but Malia's resolved to give him a real chance. He's been so patient, understanding. Kind in a different way to Scott, and more honest than Stiles by a mile. He's just as blunt as she is. Malia likes that. 

Jordan sits down across from her. It's... sometimes strange to recognise this man is dead, and has been for years. He doesn't look much older than when she met him, over a decade ago. Jordan ages, but slowly, much like Malia herself. She likes that, too, that she doesn't have to worry about being outpaced. Stiles is human. He's thirty-four. He probably looks it, though she wouldn't know. Malia's avoided recent pictures of his face for about five years. He looked thirty when he hit thirty, and that had spooked her.

Stiles is going to die long before Malia will. That's a fact. It's unavoidable. Weres can live hundreds of years. Humans can barely manage eighty, if they're lucky. Jordan's not human anymore, and already dead besides; Malia doesn't have to worry about sickness, or cancer, or really anything at all taking him out before her. Maybe that's just as cowardly as Lydia leaving Stiles because of her vision just in the opposite direction, but Malia didn't claim a lack of hypocrisy. Malia's never claimed anything about that either way, which would be telling enough on it's own if you'd paid any attention.

Malia bets on people not paying enough attention. 

"How was work today?" Malia asks, feeling trite, but this is how people talk on dates if they're normal, and Malia wants a normal date. She's never had one of those. Even with Scott, it was - loaded. Besides, when she was dating those two, they were teenagers, either not even or just barely out of high school. Malia's never had an adult relationship, only flings with men she liked sex with that she'd ditch as quickly as she could, so this is... new. Novel.

Jordan smiles, pearly-whites on show, pleased she asked. Malia smiles back, tentatively, which just broadens his grin. 

"Great," He said. "Nothing interesting happened at all."

In his line of work, Malia supposed that would be a good day. 

"Great," Malia echoes, and doesn't know how to carry the conversation further. This happens when you learn how to talk to people while your dad's old roommate is trying to commit genocide on his dime. And then your dad proceeds to try and murder all your friends also, for vastly different, being extremely power-hungry, related reasons. 

"How are you feeling about..." Jordan trails off. "You know, Raeken coming back?"

"Weird. Unpleasant," Malia says. "But it's been fifteen years, and Scott's always preaching about the benefit of the doubt. If Stiles is vouching for him, I can't really say shit. Stiles hated him from day one, after all. Theo'd have to do something really drastic to get his vote of confidence."

"That's fair," Jordan says. "But he did shoot you in the gut and sell you out to your mother. You don't have to forgive that."

"I haven't," Malia says. "He should be in jail. That's how we deal with people who do those things, right? But he could break out pretty easily. Maybe it is better he's helping Stiles do... FBI stuff. I don't know."

"Reform," Jordan says. "There's a lot of people with a lot of different ideas of how the judicial system should work. A lot of people who specifically think prisons, as they are, suck ass. Prison labour equals slavery, that sort of thing."

"Oh," Malia says. "I mean, if you can't say no to doing a job, isn't that literally the definition?" 

Jordan shrugs. "I was a soldier," He says, "Not an ethics student. Maybe, maybe not. They call it repentance. Doing a service for society in exchange for not getting the death sentence for killing a whole family."

"Right," Malia says, brow furrowing, then shrugs herself. "Yeah, I... have no idea about any of that. Sheriff said anything about having to host Theo?"

"He's not happy about it," Jordan nods. "But he's going to go along with it, since Melissa absolutely refuses point-blank."

"Fair," Malia says, "Since he killed Scott."

"Is Peter sticking around?" Jordan asks, "For Christmas?"

"No idea," Malia says. "He really enjoys annoying Melissa and Chris though, so probably. Until he gets bored, at least." Malia makes a face. "Honestly, I think he's flirting, which is just disturbing enough as a thought to get stuck in my head. Share in my misery."

Jordan laughs at that, which was Malia's intention, so. Score. She laughs, too.

It's only a few days until Stiles arrives. He left his jeep with Mason years ago, and replaced it with something more practical - and functional. Malia's pretty sure this car isn't half broken, like the Jeep had been, though - Mason, for the record, has taken good care of it. Got the whole engine replaced, new wheels, e-t-c. (Malia's pretty sure that stands for some Latin or something, but she's not Lydia.) 

Stiles and Theo must've carpooled, because Theo drops out the passenger seat a few moments later. Cora, also, exits the back. It's good to see her cousin - Malia greets her first, with a smile and a quick hug. "How was your decade?" Cora asks. 

"Not bad," Malia says. It wasn't bad, after all. Very quiet. 

"Hm," Cora says. She's a pretty reserved person, so Malia doesn't expect any more than that. 

"Yeah," Malia says. "You going to see Eli?"

"If I must," Cora jokes. "See you."

And she's off. If Malia's bluntness is that of a sledgehammer, Cora is a whole battering ram. And given how Derek was over a decade ago, how he learnt not to be with Eli in the picture, it's probably a Hale trait. Much better a thing to inherit than whatever Peter's got going on, that's for sure, even if it's not always a good thing.

"Stiles," Malia greets, then begrudgingly, "Theo."

Theo smiles at her, charming as ever. Seems more genuine these days, though. The chemo signals from his scent are more... easily discernible. And the corners of his eyes crinkle - he's not just slightly squinting to fake it.

"Malia," Theo greets in turn. Stiles has his hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets, which saves her from having to offer a hug. 

"Hey," Stiles says, "Good to see you."

It is, is the thing. His hair's grown. 

"Yeah, well," Malia says, "it's been like fifteen years. Good to know you're still alive," and she means it. Stiles laughs, abrupty. "Yeah," he says, "You too, Mal."

Malia helps them unpack. Cora's staying with Eli, so her stuff remains in the boot. The rest, they split between the guest room and Stiles'. 

"Isn't this the sheriff's office?" Theo says.

"Surprised he was willing to give it up?" Malia asks. "For you, specifically?"

Stiles snorts. Theo rolls his eyes at him, then shrugs at Malia. "Yeah," He says. "Guess helping with the wild hunt taking his son just gave me more good will than I realised."

Malia doesn't know the Sheriff's reasoning any more than Theo does, unfortunately. Stiles probably just asked him, though, and the Sheriff tends to cave when Stiles is the one requesting something. It's the 'only family left alive' thing - gets you every time. Malia and her dad - not Peter - have a similar dynamic, though it's... more strained. He hasn't stopped apologising for Eichen House since he started, but that first apology came later than it should have.

"Maybe," Malia replies, a non-committal acknowledgement, and moves on from fitting the bedsheets to dragging in a set of draws taken out of the attic earlier, when Scott popped over with a grocery delivery. (Scott was specifically chosen because he knew at least vaguely the kinds of food Stiles would buy, when he lived here. Malia hadn't paid much attention to that, because what the Sheriff ate hadn't been her business - and she'd have been much more lenient on his diet than other people. Malia agrees about salads, by the way. People are omnivores, for god's sake. Put some chicken in there at least.) 

Malia moves to Stiles' room when they start unpacking. She checks the highest shelves for dust, and wipes them down. Stiles arrives not long thereafter, with his own suitcase full of clothes for the holiday and some other things besides. Malia helps him pack things away. An old plaid flannel she used to borrow, that one stripped hoodie he never wore with the red line but he still kept, for whatever reason. Half of these clothes might as well have been her own, at one point. A point she barely remembers correctly. 

"Why'd you never wear it?" Malia asks, abruptly. She waves the hoodie at stiles, with it's red line, and he grimaces. "The nogitsune liked it," He said, and shrugged. "I didn't... not wear it on purpose, I'd just... choose something else instead. You liked it - hell, I said you could keep it."

"You know why I didn't," Malia says. "Or, didn't intend to, anyway."

"Why you returned my stuff after the Anuk-Ite? Yeah." Stiles glances away. He finishes his underwear and sock drawer, then stands. "Thanks for the help."

"No problem," Malia says. "You do this sort of thing for friends."

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Yeah, you do."

Malia wonders if anyone's told him about the Nogitsune's return, about Harris, about everything. Maybe they're waiting, like idiots, to hit him with it all at once. 

Malia goes on one more coffee date with Jordan before Christmas. She buys a nice watch for her dad, to replace his broken one, and a shitty cheap plastic toy watch for Peter that costs her less than a dollar. Malia finds Cora a nice jacket, and debates over what would be appropriate for Eli. Theo is halfway down the aisle from her, headed to the cards section. Unfortunately, he stops to chat.

"Great minds think alike," He says, self-aggrandising. Malia presses her lips together, looks back at the stock.

"Not even a chuckle," Theo sighs. "I know there's nothing I can say to make up for what happened," Theo says, cutting to the chase. "you don't have to forgive or forget, that would be stupid. But we can be civil, right? For our friends' sakes, if nothing else?"

"If nothing else," Malia says, begrudgingly. "I'm not getting you a present."

"That's fine," Theo says. "I don't like getting presents for people just for the sake of it, anyway. They should mean something, you know? But people always need money. World we live in, and all. How much d'you want off me?"

"Gimme fifty." Malia says. "And I'll be civil."

"deal," Theo says, and with a vaguely amused quirk of the lips, he holds out his hand to shake. Malia indulges this. 

"Great," Theo says, sounding genuinely relieved. "It's been a long time since Stiles was home - it wouldn't be great if we were fighting the whole time, you know?"

"You say that as if it'd be two sided," Malia replies.

"I'm going to defend myself, you know," Theo says. "I've done a lot of bad in my life. Can't say otherwise. I've been doing as much good as I can since then, though. Can't say otherwise about that, either."

Malia supposes this is true enough, or Stiles would have kicked him to the curb years ago. 

"Yeah, whatever," Malia says. "Go buy your cards."

Theo nods. He goes and buys his cards. Malia returned to browsing, setting aside Eli's present for that moment. Eventually she'd pick it, along with all the rest - Scott, Lydia, Liam, etc - and Christmas arrives shortly thereafter. 

Malia places the star on the top of the tree. Liam claps and Mason cheers. Hikari is helping Melissa and Chris and Stiles in the kitchen. Theo is somewhere, and Lydia is avoiding Stiles in the living room. Jackson and Jordan are setting up the dvd player, as the Stilinskis'  was unexpectedly broken (they had to run out and quickly borrow the McCalls'). Malia has been systematically taking down every single sprig of faux-mistletoe she sees, as stealthily as she can. Extremely terrible idea, that one, even if Allison and Scott think it's cute and funny and festive. It is none of those things. Worst holiday tradition by a country mile. 

"Dinner's ready," Melissa announces, so everyone piles around the table. It's really not made for this many people - too crowded. Malia is stuck between Lydia, who is using her as a shield, and Theo, who has decided to be Stiles' Lydia shield, apparently (entirely, it seems, without Stiles' input). This leaves an extremely awkward seating situation. Malia makes desperate eye contact with Jordan, who grimaces in sympathy and hooks his angle around hers, silent support. 

At least she's not next to Scott and Allison, Malia supposes. Small mercies. 

Malia had not been here for the session of informing Stiles about everything that happened. Derek's funeral has been scheduled for during his stay here. This is not the most festive of Christmases, but they're... trying. Eli and Cora are sat next to each other, quietly talking. 

Malia... knew her cousins. She started knowing Cora better in the past fifteen years, but Derek was many years her senior. They weren't peers; it was difficult, in some ways, to understand each other. Meeting as they did was also Not Great for their future getting along potential. Derek left as soon as she started figuring him out, and stayed gone for a long time. Malia had known Braeden better than Derek, to the point Malia was the one person (other than Cora, who had witnessed the whole event) that heard about their breakup from her as well as him. She's in Europe somewhere, now.

Sometimes, Malia thinks, this feels like the worst timeline. Like the sci-fi stuff Stiles espouses the virtues of, the one Lydia liked - Babylon 5. Like this was all always going to happen, and never should have. 

Malia finishes her roast dinner. Has a slice of pie. The mood is half-light, half-heavy, a kind of desperate joviality over genuine sadness. Scott and Allison couldn't be happier together, except for the fact they absolutely could, and neither of them appreciate what this has cost. 

Stiles, also, is deeply moody right now - brooding. It's not nice to hear the nogitsune's back, for him, and doubly so Malia thinks that nobody warned him. Nobody called. Scott chose not to call. It's one thing to forget in the heat of a crisis, and another to make an active choice to exclude him from something that's extremely, personally relevant. Malia hadn't called, either. Nobody had, so he's a little mad at all of them. It's... fair. Even if their choice is understandable, given how much trauma surrounds the nogitsune for Stiles and for the rest of them, but... blindsiding Stiles with so much at once and the fact they did all of it without him is going to drive home the truth that one thing Stiles never wanted, back in senior year, ended up happening anyway. Not because they chose to leave. Because he did. Over and over again. 

Malia never called. Neither did Stiles. It takes two people to ruin a friendship, most of the time. 

Malia picks at a slice of cake. Jordan nudges her ankle. Tilts his head, raises a brow. Smells - concerned, questioning. Malia nods, shortly. After he finishes, Jordan stands, stretches. "I'm wiped," He announces. "Anyone need a ride home?"

"I walked here," Malia says, standing, ignoring Lydia's widening eyes as they dart over to Stiles. She's a grown woman. Malia's not covering for her this time. "I'll take you up on that offer."

They escape the reunion into the cool midwinter night. Malia takes a breath, icy sharpness a shock to her lungs after the stuffiness of an over-filled house. 

"You doing okay?" Jordan asks, able to speak freely as they drive away, the quietness of his question and the loudness of the engine hiding his voice from the weres inside. 

"That was awkward," Malia lets out. "Oh god."

They laugh, a little, not out of humour. He pulls up on the side of the road a moment, turns on the overhead light. "Do you wanna go home?" He asks her. Malia thinks of her room in her old house, in the middle of the woods, about being alone in the dark all over again, because of Scott, because of Stiles, because of everyone else, because of herself, and decides against it.

"Let's go to yours," Malia says, instead, and Jordan smiles in understanding. He switches off the light, and drives. 

Boxing day brings cleaning day. The funeral's in a week. 

Malia helps take down the tree. Scott and Stiles are doing the same. Allison is putting away the box of tinsel and decor in the attic. 

"Left-" Malia grunts, turning the tree left. They eventually manage to get it outside, into the garden. Malia leaves the two to the rest of it, and goes back inside. Gets a drink.

Allison is doing the same, it seems. She smiles a little awkwardly in greeting. "Hi," She says. "Done with the tree?" 

"Almost," Malia says. "They've got it now though. Needed a drink," Malia gestures with her soda. "Are all the boxes in the attic?"

"Almost," Allison echoes, "Just a couple more."

Malia helps her finish up. They gather in the living room. Stiles rocks on his heels slightly, hands shoved in pockets. Scott drinks in the sight of Allison like a man who's lived in an oasis-less desert his whole life just got dropped on a random Caribbean island. Allison slips under his arm, smiles sweetly, all dimples.  

"We're good then? All done?" Stiles asks. "Because that was easy."

"All good," Scott says, smiling. Stiles is his best friend - it's been entirely too long since they last saw each other, Malia thinks. Speaking on the phone occasionally is different from meeting up in person. 

"Great," Stiles says. "Well, thanks for the help."

"You're welcome," Allison says. Stiles keeps looking a little surprised every time she speaks. Allison also just looks different - death and a decade will do that to a person, Malia supposes, but there's a kind of uncanniness about it all, because they missed the versions of her that would have sat between 17 and 35. It's probably jarring - for her to sound the same, but to appear so different. Plus, Stiles' own last memories of Allison are warped; he remembers everything the nogitsune did, as if he did it himself. That's bound to give a guy a complex or three, and it definitely did, but on top of that it just... makes the timeline strange. Simultaneous events are hard to place, mentally. Malia would know; the wild hunt proved it. That kind of taught them all how hard it was to reconcile two different versions of events. 

Malia's just saying that - it makes sense. Every time Allison speaks, Stiles' chemo signals spike guilty. They shouldn't, as it wasn't his fault, but Malia knows Stiles. She understands why they do. 

Scott picks up on it, obviously. His expressions are always too easy to read, though; Stiles can see right through him. And he doesn't like it when they do that, use their senses 'against him' - or, rather, put him on an uneven playing field. They can read him... he can't read them. It rankled Stiles 15 years ago just as much as it does now. Malia would know, again. This time, the reason is that... it's - part of why they broke up. Amongst other things, like miscommunication. 

Malia watches the conversation unfold, silently, for a few sentences. 

"So when are you going back?" Scott asks, casually. Stiles raises a hand to do the uncertainty motion, a little horizontal wobble. "Eh," He says. "Was planning for the 10th, but... plans can change."

"They don't need to," Scott says, "You-"

"I appreciate your concern for my mental health, Scotty, I really do," Stiles says, dismissively, "but I should be involved in this. It's the nogitsune, Scott. If we can't have Kira here-"

"We can't," Scott says, grimacing, "Her stay with the skinwalkers could last - hundreds of years-"

"Exactly," Stiles says. "If we can't have kira, and since Derek is dead - Scott, I'm the only backup you've got."

These days, very true. Unfortunately. 

"What about Isaac?"

"He has actual self-preservation instincts, unlike the rest of us." Stiles sends an apologetic glance to Allison. "He'd say no. And probably move to another country, again, even further away than last time."

Allison's lips twist in displeasure. "So much has changed," She murmurs. Malia pats her shoulder sympathetically. Missing a decade sucks. For the third time; Malia would know. This one should not need explaining.

"Yeah," Stiles sighs, sounding exhausted. "Yeah, it has."

Malia sits on the back stairs. Stiles joins her for a smoke.

"I can heal this shit," Malia says. "What's your excuse?"

"I'm an FBI agent," He says. "Part of my cover on an assignment, once. Stuck around, after. Know a witch or two with decent medical skills - I'll be fine."

Malia nods. They watch little clouds form in the air, smoke swirling around in shapeless, meaningless patterns. 

"I'm sorry, you know," Stiles says. "For - fuck, everything. I never said that. Should've. Didn't. Too late now. But... still."

"Too late now," Malia echoes, and sighs. "For both of us. I'm sorry too. I should have said something. You were spiralling, I could tell, and I did jack shit about it."

"You weren't doing so hot yourself," Stiles says. "Neither of us was in a good place."

"We were in a very bad place," Malia says, dryly. "Called 'Beacon Hills'."

Stiles snorts. "Yeah," He says. "You should - you should visit, some time. Virginia is nice."

"I might," Malia says. "Might not. You should visit more often."

"I might," Stiles echoes wryly, "Might not."

Malia ashes her cigarette, crushes it underfoot into the neglected lawn. "For the record," Malia says, "I loved you for a very long time. I liked Scott, but never truly loved him, and it got... messy. I think he knew that. I didn't want to admit it." Malia looks up at the sky. "I'm seeing Jordan," She says. Stiles makes a noise of surprise. 

"Oh?" He tilts his head. "How's that going?"

"Okay," Malia says. "He's great. I struggle with intimacy. Thanks for that."

Stiles winces. Malia shakes her head. "It's not entirely your fault," Malia says. "I never told you much of anything."

"You told me a lot," Stiles rebuffs. "I lied to you all the time."

"Not about the nogitsune, you didn't," Malia says. Stiles frowns, a little confused. 

"You told me about the crash," He says, gently. "That was - really brave of you, you know. To be vulnerable like that. You're an honest person, Malia. Extenuating circumstances force people to do things they otherwise wouldn't."

"I know that," Malia says. "I just..."

Malia lights a second cigarette, watches the smoke curl in the air. 

"I just wanted to say it," Malia says, finally. "We never did. Explicitly, I mean. 'I loved you'. Present or past tense, we never said it, and that was fine, except it means we missed it. Late to the station, you know?"

"It's probably pretty callous to say this, but... you're better off, you know. We both are. We... get each other, sure. And you - you are beautiful, really. But -"

"Communication," Malia says, "Is something we both suck at."

"Yeah," Stiles says. "And you deserve - just, so much. More than I was willing to give, then. Which means I didn't deserve what you were willing to give me."

"It's not about deserve," Malia says. "It's about what you can make work. You choose to love someone, every day you love them. A relationship requires mutual effort."

"We differ there," Stiles says. "I never found love to be an active thing. It hung around when I didn't want it and it left when I really would have appreciated it staying." Stiles finishes his cigarette.

"Romantic compatibility," Stiles continues, "Is... complicated. Which is why Lyds and I lasted two whole weeks," Stiles says, wryly, "Before she dumped me and fled the state, and now won't look me in the eye over Christmas dinner."

Malia taps her lighter. "Why'd you break up?" Malia asks.

"Lydia didn't say?" Stiles replies with a question of his own. Classic.

"Of course she did, she's my best friend," Malia says, "Since Kira's otherwise occupied." Stiles snorts. "I want to hear your side."

"I don't know," Stiles says, truthfully. "We had a fight, she broke up with me and left. I never got a real explanation. It... kind of sucked, honestly."

"Yeah," Malia muttered. "No kidding."

Stiles grimaces. "Yeah," He says. "Taste of my own medicine, there."

"We didn't fight," Malia says. "We disagreed, fundamentally, about the ethics of killing someone in self-defence."

"We didn't, really," Stiles says. "I was just - caught up in my head about it. I guess we didn't fight," Stiles allows, "But I didn't explain jack shit with any real clarity, and I broke up with you by implication, which wasn't right."

"It wasn't," Malia agrees. "But you are right that we're... better off, now. Maybe-" Malia presses her lips together. "I wasn't really honest with anyone, during the wild hunt," She admits, finally, for the first time. "I lied. Directly. To everyone except Peter, who remembered everything anyway so I couldn't have lied to him."

Stiles' brow furrows. "What did you lie about?" He asks.

"You," Malia says. "Non-stop. Lydia remembered kissing you in high school and asked me about it. I said that was before I showed up, so she should ask Scott. She did. He confirmed it. For a bit she assumed you'd dated, back then. I knew you hadn't. I knew I was your first girlfriend. I knew that, factually. I didn't say anything. When Scott reassured Lydia that he'd known you and her were meant to be or whatever, I backed him up. I confirmed what he said. I said I saw it too, and I never once brought up that we dated. To anyone. Because I chose to put Lydia first, I chose to set aside our failed relationship, and I chose to support what it looked like everyone wanted, and it lasted two non-consecutive weeks."

Stiles winced. 

Malia sighed. "I loved you," Malia said. "Once, a long time ago, for longer than we were dating, for less time collectively than it felt like. You helped teach me how the world worked. I'll be grateful for that for the rest of my life. You're a good friend, Stiles. I don't think we were ever solely friends - without sex, without romance... and I'm ready to be, if you want to try."

"I'd like that," Stiles says. 

Malia smiles. 

The funeral.... happens. It's kind of a tear-filled blur, and Malia won't relive the pain by recounting it. 

When the 10th arrives, so does the day of Stiles (and Theo's) departure. Cora is sticking with Eli for a while. Malia's got a date with Jordan on Sunday. Watch a movie. Eat a pizza. Have sex. A normal evening, all told. 

Malia sees off Stiles (and Theo). She does so last, after everyone else, and once Theo's situated in the passenger seat. 

"Hey," Malia says, "... call, okay? Skype or soemthing."

Stiles smiles. He offers a tentative hug, which she takes. It's a little strange, to give him the same kind of hug she'd give Lydia or Liam, but it's... nice. Malia's getting used to a lot of different things lately. This one should be the easiest. 

"Obviously," Stiles says, "You too."

Communication, Malia reminds herself, got Scott and Stiles too, at one point. Friendship requires just as much effort as any other dynamic. 

"Duh," Malia says. "Hey," Malia says. "You be careful, alright?"

"I try," Stiles says. "You too."

He gets in his new car, which is coloured a deep navy. Some things change, but Stiles will always think blue's pretty. There's a kind of comfort in that, Malia thinks; red is unsolved, yellow is working on it, green is solved, and blue's always pretty. Simple, uncomplicated, fact. 

Malia watches them go, and feels differently about it than she would have a month ago. Metaphorically, her shoulders are straighter, her back less bowed - no weight pushing her down. They all have a lot of baggage, Malia no different... but this, her and Stiles and all they could have been, is one stone-filled sack she can put down. It's a good feeling. 

Malia calls Jordan. 

"Hey," He says, sounding surprised. Communication is a two way street, Malia repeats. A two-way street. 

"Do you wanna go for dinner tonight?" Malia says. "That shop on Main, the one on the corner that's been boarded up for like, two years, got bought recently. Watched them put up the sign, some kind of Italian deal."

"That sounds great," Jordan says, and he sounds genuinely happy. Malia does not feel guilty - that would be unhelpful. This is simply an opportunity to step forward, this time, instead of waiting for Jordan to meet her where she's stood. It's a development, it's growth, it's good. Malia likes Jordan.

Malia would like to see where this goes, if she'll finally let it start moving forward. 

[wolfiemcwolferson]

if ur still doing spotify wrapped fics, 5 pls!!

This is more Del Water Gap - Alone Together. You didn't pick a pairing, but this is screaming Maxiel at me. This is angsty and a little bittersweet. Previous F1 Journalist Daniel and Driver Max. (This got out of hand.)

Sometimes Daniel is in an airport and he catches a flash of a Grand Prix on a TV in a bar or he'll be out with some friends and he'll run into someone he knew from college and they'll ask hey, I thought you were doing that racing thing and Daniel will shake a little bit.

Sitting on a barstool in LA, waiting to meet-up with one of the kid's on the American USA team, he feels it now, the ache where F1 used to sit - the ache where Max used to sit.

But he gave it all up when Max gave him up and -

The kid shows, fresh-faced and eager and shakes Danny's hand. The article will be good, of course. Daniel charms and weasles and prods at all the right places and that's why he gets paid the money he does - in America, for sports he doesn't actually care about.

It makes him sound so dramatic, he circles back around to thinking of Max that night in his hotel - like he always fucking does when he's alone.

Max working up the courage to ask Daniel out to dinner throughout the entire season - Daniel accepting out of pity - Daniel falling hard and fast and furious and then basing his life around him - the man that was going to bring glory back to Red Bull.

It didn't matter how many times Daniel laughed it off and said don't die while Max was sneaking out of his hotel room and it didn't matter how many times Max and Daniel said it wouldn't happen -

Max went off and needed to play house with some nice girl and Daniel spent three GP's in a row hiding from him and he knew he had to go.

Because Max was the missing piece of him or whatever romantic bullshit he used to think about the two of them - the mirror of his soul, the person who saw the worst in him and loved him anyways.

Because it was the worst in the end. Daniel begging Max not to go and Max telling him he had to just for them to switch positions the next morning. Daniel shouting at him to just fucking go while Max cried on his chest and Max and Daniel shouting the awful bits of hateful shit at each other they had gathered up over a three year relationship -

Daniel puts on his running shoes and goes down to the gym so he can forget forget forget.

After LA, Daniel goes to New York before spending a week in Nashville and then he catches a game in Denver before flying home - to Australia.

Grace asks him four times if he's seeing anyone and then Michelle asks much softer if he's talked to anyone from the paddock lately.

Daniel books an earlier flight to his...well, he guesses it's his home.

There's a cabin in fucking Montana. Everyone had thought it was a joke until he did it - bought the damn thing.

Daniel has a joke about how he had traveled for years in flashy circles, but the truth is that he's an idiot pressing gauze to an oozing wound.

It had been a thing with Max. My contract will end when I'm only 28. I could...we could escape to America. Live in the middle of nowhere Montana, yes? All this money has to be good for something.

No one knows, of course. Someone would have intervened, probably. Scotty. Scotty would have intervened.

He's here until Christmas. Alone and working on the book he's supposed to be writing and - he's here until Christmas and then he'll fly to Hawaii and get ready to interview some flashy American Football College Kid.

He tortures himself and watches the last race of the season - wakes up at 6 AM to flip it on and text steady, ribbing commentary to Sam about his own commentary and Max wins, of course.

Daniel turns off the television before the podium.

He's in town buying a couple of propane tanks and more rock salt and some food. He does have to do that occasionally when Janet asks him you know who bought Gerald's old place? Daniel frowns and shakes his head. Thought it might be one of your fancy athletes. Moving in here because you can't keep your trap shut.

It's gentle, but only a half joke. It took Janet a full year before she would talk to him in more than one syllable answers.

He goes home - works on his book. Ignores the text Scotty sends asking Daniel to call.

Max Verstappen on standing in his driveway, hands shoved in the pockets of a puffy coat at 10:28 on a Thursday. Daniel knows the set of his shoulders and the slop of his face even this far away. No one else will ever look like him. No one else will ever have this kind of intrinsic draw on Daniel's entire being.

Daniel steps out on his front porch, wearing socks and a hoodie, absolutely freezing.

"What do you want, Max?" Daniel hears how exhausted his own voice sounds and he wonders if Max can hear it too.

Max is still walking towards him. "Scotty talks a lot when he's drunk."

Fuck. "Yeah, well. Everything he says is shit." Daniel says - finally talking because Max is at the bottom of the staircase, head tilted up to look at Daniel. "What are you doing here? Where's your car?"

Max shrugs, hands still in his pockets. Daniel hears his coat make that slick crinkle noise. "Don't like to drive."

The pieces fall into place for Daniel now. "Gerald's old place?"

"If you're talking about that luxury cabin down the road, yeah. It's mine." Max laughs at his own joke.

Fucking Scotty. Daniel's socks are wet. "You'd better come inside. You'll freeze to death and Christian will have my head."

Max is knocking his snow boots against the porch and he gives a little dry laugh. "What was it you always said? I was selling my 20's? Well, not anymore."

Daniel spins two steps past the doorframe where Max is. They're too close. Far too close. "What."

"There's never been anyone else, Danny." Max says in that voice. The one that preceeded something that would wreck him entirely. "I know you don't - but, maybe if you still -" He shrugs again.

Daniel sees it there. In his eyes. The love they had managed to carve out together back then - before when Daniel thought love could conquer all, when he wasn't so bruised by the hiding and the secrets and the way they had beaten each other against the rocks of F1.

Before they had become the water that broke on that rock.

"Danny," he says again, slipping a hand from his coat. "I retired last week."

Danny breaks this time, curling his head down into Max's chest and heaving a great big sob.

"I didn't have the courage then," Max whispers into his hair, hand on the back of his neck. "But I think I'd like to have the courage now."

"I'm not moving into that house, Max. It's half haunted." Daniel chokes out in between tears.

Max brings his other hand out of the jacket, wrapping it around Daniel, finally bringing their bodies together. "That is fine, Daniel. I already set up the New York Times subscription for this address anyway. I can do the crossword and you can cook me real bacon now since I am not in training."

Daniel laughs now because it all may change, but damnit if it all doesn't stay the same.

[a-moth-to-the-light]

Most-Listened of December 2023

(via stats.fm/spotistats)

This was finals month, and a particularly rough set of finals, too. But I always tend to enjoy music as a whole more in December, as everyone takes time to appreciate their favorite songs of the year! So, though there weren't a whole lot of new releases, this was a great listening month for me, hence all the five-star songs :)

[last month]

1. The Very First Night -- Taylor Swift

This is an exuberantly painful song--just how happy Taylor Swift sounds, as she dreams of the impossible, breaks my heart and then brings me back for yet another listen.

2. Elevarte Caer -- Xoel López, Repion

This song is so powerful, hit after hit after hit of melody. The headbanging goes WILD whenever this one comes on.

3. Pierre -- Ryn Weaver

Soundtrack to my (requisite) finals breakdown, and WOW is it catchy. The bittersweet feeling chokes me up every single listen!

4. Closer -- The Chainsmokers, Halsey

Of all the songs Todd in the Shadows has featured on his yearly best lists, I don't know why THIS is the one that has made my own monthly list twice. But here we are!

5. Like I Can -- Sam Smith

Sam Smith angst is something special. I still like "Stay With Me" more, but "Like I Can" has the bite I needed this month.

6. Lean On -- Bely Basarte

I got really sick around Christmas, and Bely Basarte's soft covers of songs from my childhood helped comfort me through it :)

7. Numb Little Bug -- Em Beihold

Thanks @embroselu for the rec! When the instrumental go CRASH I go SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE (the texture is fantastic we love it)

8. Blame Brett -- The Beaches

This one is so much fun!! It brings pop euphoria to rock music just as excellently as my favorite Yena tracks!

9. Favorite Crime -- Olivia Rodrigo

Yeah, none of the GUTS ballads have managed to match this one, or "1 step forward, 3 steps back", for me.

10. Temporary Fix -- Dirty Blond

This is exactly what winter gloom feels like.

11. Una Sonrisa -- Repion

I've taken this on as sort of personal theme song, I love it so much!! AL FINAL, TE CANTARÉ, PARA SI SENTIRME BIEN &lt;3 AL FINAL, TE CANTARÉ, PORQUE ME HACE BIEN A MIIIIIIIIIII PORQUE ME HACE BIEN A MIIIIIIIIIIIIIII <3

12. Royal -- IVE

This song is fine, I don't mind it! I left it on repeat while speedrunning a final essay, and apparently that was enough repeats to get it on this list--I don't think I've listened to it in any other context.

13. Heavy Lashes -- Ichiko Aoba

Accidentally clicked on this while looking for "Heavy" by Linkin Park & Kiiara--no regrets! It's mysterious but also tender, a ballad that's full of surprises. One listen, and I knew it was going to be on the five-star songs list.

14. Piklu's Vacation Dream -- Abeer Khandker

Every list needs a random meme song! Thanks to Pinely on YouTube for bringing this song into my world <3

15. All-American Bitch -- Olivia Rodrigo

Me when Olivia Rodrigo lyrics...

Five-Star Songs This Month:

BIBI Vengeance -- Bibi (i didn't realize how great this one is until it showed up on my spotify wrapped top 100 this year. bibi & the song work SO well together, it's captivating!! and there has to be something in that chorus, because its shock value still hasn't worn off)

Bruise -- Jo Yuri (this was overshadowed by the other songs on the album, but i fell hard for its delicate atmosphere this month. jo yuri's vocals on love all really are something else!!)

Call My Name -- Sunmi (yet another flawless sunmi bside. i really hope she releases another mini album--or an album, if we're lucky--soon!)

Elevarte Caer -- Xoel López, Repion

Heavy Lashes -- Ichiko Aoba

Peach Blossom -- Yuju, sokodomo (another song i underestimated earlier in the year. i'm so glad yuju's solo songs have been centering her vocals so heavily, moving away from gfriend's dramatic, showy instrumentals--she really can carry a song, and i'm so glad for the chance to appreciate her singing more!)

[sturionic]

Screw spotify wrapped, here's my musical retrospective for the year:

LISTENING

A lot of Jocelyn Morlock - because I miss her very much and her death was really hard, and also because everything she wrote demands repeated listening with the new perspectives each year brings.

Big in my Caroline Shaw era, also got really into some artists that had only been floating in my mental periphery before, like Unsuk Chin and Fazıl Say. Many longtime favourites in the rotation - Pärt, Saariaho, Xenakis, Borodin, Vivaldi, Lyapunov, etc. Bach (quelle surprise.) Gorillaz, Cosmo Sheldrake, The Oh Hellos, Yoko Kanno. I listened to Bone Alphabet about eight million times on repeat, idk man, my brain go BOOM BOOM RATTLE CLICK

As per usual, lots of folk music and bluegrass. Every year my tastes get a little crunchier skewing away from production value and note-perfect-ness. Except Béla Fleck, who can be as note-perfect as he likes without sacrificing an iota of crunch, bless him. SHOWS

Started off this year with HILARY HAHN in January!!! Friends surprised me with tickets ❤️ Held it together through the Sibelius and like IMMEDIATELY cried during the encore lol - she played the Bach E Major Partita, specifically the loure, which I think I've listened to probably at least once a week for the past decade. Honestly I think one of my top favourite concerts of all time.

Other highlights included Danish String Quartet in the spring (tickets were also a Christmas present from different friends, I am a very lucky person 🥺) and then Andrew Bird in the summer.

PLAYING

Took a huge step up for violin this year. My vibrato had seemingly hit a brick wall in terms of expressiveness, and violinist friends encouraged me to keep continually braining myself on that brick wall even if it didn't seem to be producing results, so I did. Then randomly over the summer it just got better!!! Literally felt like it happened overnight. It's not perfect but it feels so good to have vibrato be less of an anxiety/pain point that practice motivation is WAY up.

Ditto viola, although orchestra is out of session and I miss my section grandpas :( Alto clef is less scary than it was last year. Marginally.

Decided to take a break from Chopin this year for piano lol. This was a Bach year. Fugues just felt really good with where my brain was at (aka constant chaos that needed to be settled into some nice form of 3-voiced order.) Also got back in touch with some old friends, soundtracks and the like. My goal for 2024 is to DIG THE FUCK INTO some Lyapunov and finish the Zelda arrangements I'm working on.

Nothing really to say about guitar, alas. I got too lost in the violin sauce and I guess that was enough stringed instruments for my brain in 2023.

I bought a flute this year! Finally have the hang of embouchure - sort of - and now lung capacity will be 2024's challenge.

Probably my big playing goal for 2024 though is to get back into baroque chamber ensembles. IF YOU'RE LOOKING FOR SOMEONE WHO COULD PROBABLY REMEMBER HOW TO PLAY HARPSICHORD WITH JUST A BIT OF NOODLING, HIT ME UP.

[yes7erdays-archive]

❛⠀ ⠀you left me no choice but to stay here forever. ⠀ ❜ ⠀ it barely feels like they are in london. the view from the outside... well, there is no view. the windows are frosted over, blanketed by pure white snow. wrapped up in a cozy weather she nicked from balfour's couch, with a hot cuppa cradled in her hands, she stopped praying for the snow-storm to end, and started asking for it to continue, yearning to linger here, listening to christmas tunes and balfour's off-tune singing for as long as possible.

spotify wrapped meme   ⸻ @highaver ⸻ 14. right where you left me

[softguarnere]

A Christmas Inheritance

Shifty Powers x OFC

Chapter One: Homecoming

Summary: After time away in Philadelphia for college, Zenie returns to her hometown for Christmas to collect an unexpected inheritance. Her only goal? To settle her legal business and return to the city. But what happens when she meets a handsome mechanic who throws a wrench in her plans? (The obligatory modern Hallmark au)

A/N: *takes a drag from a fancy pipe like an old timey professor* Okay so here's the deal:

I did that Hallmark poster maker earlier this month and could not stop thinking about writing a Hallmark au. "I don't like the holidays" and "I survive on cheesy Christmas romcoms" are sentences that can and do coexist within the Dove. 🫶🏼

We're only a few chapters into Like A Girl (Like a Man), but the holidays are ✨hell✨ Writing this every now and then when I'm blocked on other writing projects has been fun and kinda therapeutic. Does any of this plot really make sense? No! But that's the magic of Hallmark movies baby - all that matters at the end of the day is that they end up happy! And based on everything I'm about to put Zenie through in LAGLAM, she can be happy this time. Let's let them have this, shall we? (And if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters, just let me know 🤗)

As usual, this is based on the fictional depictions from the show - no disrespect to the real life veterans! 💕🕊️

Warnings: mentions of death, discussions of grief

The weight of the world already feels like it’s crushing Zenie’s lungs before she even opens the car door. Michael Bublé’s voice greets her as she tosses her bag into the backseat, and Bill is scrolling through the Ultimate Christmas Playlist that he and Babe made so long ago that certain songs inevitably show up in their Spotify Wrappeds each year. When her friend starts to recite the scores from the Flyers game the night before, her grip on the steering wheel loosens ever so slightly. It’s almost easy to imagine that they’re just driving around killing time instead of heading into a situation that has the potential to end with an all out McGlamery family civil war.

 Still, if she has to be plunging headfirst into all of this, she’s glad Bill is by her side. There’s a reason his friends call him Wild Bill, and it’s not just because of his driving – although that’s more of a joke, because even with a prosthetic leg, he can still drive better than anyone in their friend group.

There’s also the fact that Bill nothing short of insisted that he accompany her on the trip back to North Carolina. On the one hand, ever since she helped him with a paper on the epidemic of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, he or any other member of their friend group always seems to be right by her side, wherever she goes. On the other hand, if any family drama is going to break out over issues regarding the Will, Wild Bill Guarnere is a total wildcard who will not be afraid to fight back, grab whatever the lawyer says now legally belongs to Zenie, and then drive them back home as fast as his 4Runner will go – which is exactly what he has been telling Zenie for almost two weeks now.

(He also admitted that he wants to get out of the city for a bit. He and Frannie have hit a bit of a rough patch, and he seemed to think an adventure and a change of scenery would clear his head. Who is Zenie to judge?)

“You think your ma will like me?”

The question drags her out of her head and back into the present. “Huh?”

“Nothin’.” Bill smiles. “Just wanted to make sure you were still with us.”

“Sorry, I just – “ She blows out a breath. “I haven’t been back to North Carolina since this time last year. And even then I didn’t go all the way home; I stopped in Cherokee for the funeral, and then headed back to Philly the second it was over.”

Something feels strange about referring to the town she grew up in as home. For a while now, home has been in Philadelphia, referring to the apartment she shares with Bill, Babe, and Fran, when she spends the night. I’m heading home; I’ll meet you at home; You need me to bring anything home? How easily the words slip from her lips, even if Philadelphia itself still feels a bit like a sweater that your aunt buys for you under the assumption that she knows what size you wear even though she hasn’t seen you since you were twelve - it takes some getting used to.

“Well, Zenie Beanie, don’t you worry, because you’re not going home-home. Just to your hometown, not your parents’ house.” Her parents’ house, with it’s walls that always felt too close and too much like a heavy blanket that was slowly suffocating her.

“Did you book a hotel?” She raises an eyebrow, flips her blinker on as she merges. “It might be the country, but this isn’t exactly the time of year to go roughing it.”

“We have a house.”

“So like an Airbnb?”

“No. You’ll see.”

Zenie is nothing if not the youngest sibling, and her friend knows her well enough to know that she hates – maybe even despises – surprises. Inflating her lungs with a deep breath, she prepares herself to make this a very annoying road trip. “Bi-ill.”

She accidentally cuts herself off with a laugh when she sees his face. He grew up with a brood of siblings. He knows what’s coming to him.

“Zeeee-na!” He crosses his arms. “Nope! You just have to wait and see the accommodations yourself. It’s the first of many Christmas surprises.”

Many? It catches her so off guard that she almost slams on the breaks.

“What are you talking about?”

To prove a point, Bill turns up the volume and practically shouts along to Merry Christmas, Kiss My Ass, refusing to elaborate further.

Sometimes Zenie really has to ask herself why she’s friends with Bill Guarnere.

She shouldn’t really be surprised when they pull up at her Granny’s old house. Not the one on the Boundary, but the one in Zenie’s nearby hometown, not too far down the gravel road from where her parents live. It had been where she had chosen to live after Zenie’s grandfather passed, when she packed up all her belongings and bought the house as soon as it hit the market, shrugging and saying that if she was moving to be closer to her only daughter and grandchildren, then she was going to be close.

Granny’s house was nothing special, Zenie has come to realize as time passes. Not in appearance, anyway. It’s quaint white paint, large windows, and sprawling front porch don’t give it much distinction between the other houses in the valley, but much like a good book or a person with a kind heart, it’s about what lies inside that counts.

Except part of what made the inside of the house so special was that her Granny was in it. With her warm smile, a welcoming hug, and a pot of fresh coffee always at the ready, everything about the days she spent in her Granny’s house as a girl felt like magic. Especially around Christmas, when the decorations and Christmas stories lit the house up with wonder. Granny would drag out her old record player, and Bing Crosby would keep them company while they baked cookies and put stamps on cards that needed to be sent out to what seemed like practically everyone that Granny had ever met.

Now she’s gone. That Christmas spirit went with her when she passed. Hell, everything magical and inviting left with her. And her house stands in the valley, empty of that warmth and looking utterly lonely, as a testament to that.

Neither of them moves when Bill parks the car. Zenie is staring at the house and Bill is staring at Zenie as she stares at the house. She told herself she would not cry on this trip, under any circumstance, but now her eyes sting and she wants to turn the car around, but she also wants to say something, and she’s not sure if she wants to hug her friend for comfort or slap him for thinking that this was the Christmas surprise that she needed.

“I’m sorry,” Bill finally says. He reaches across the console, hand open with his palm up. Without looking, Zenie takes it, interlocks their fingers, and squeezes like she’s holding a stress ball.

It takes her a few tries to speak without bursting into tears. “Why . . . here?”

From the corner of her eye, she sees Bill’s shocked face as he turns towards her. “They didn’t tell you?”

Her eyes are too watery for her to be snarky with him right now. Her expression is all the question that he needs.

“Zenie, your grandmother left the house to you.”

The house before them looms even larger. A year of her grandmother’s Will being dragged out, all for Zenie to drive all this way and then find out she inherited a house in a town she hates? What is she supposed to do – move back home and live in it?

“We don’t have to stay here,” Bill assures her, already gently taking his hand back so that he can crank the car. (That’s part of why she’s friends with Bill, she thinks, answering her own question from earlier. He does things instead of talking about doing things. Anyone else would say that they didn’t have to stay there while secretly implying that they had to, but Bill says they don’t have to, and he’s willing to drive away with no questions asked.) “We’ll go to a hotel.”

But just as he’s about to crank the car, movement from the front porch catches Zenie’s eye. She’s been so caught up in memories and emotions that she never bothered to notice that the lights of the house were on – because when was the house not lit up, both literally and metaphorically, when her Granny lived in it?

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The next thing that Zenie knows, two little palms are slapping on the door of the car, and suddenly she’s climbing out the door and being enveloped by her niece and nephew, who are hugging her so tightly and squealing with such excitement that her heart feels full to burst and any tears in her eyes are from the pure joy of experiencing such unbridled affection.

“You’re here, you’re really here!” Jasmine cries, hooking her arms around Zenie’s neck so that she’s forced to bring the six-year-old up with her when she stands.

Sticky hands tug at her jacket as Jack vies for her attention. “Aunt Zena, is it true that you’re really going to stay for Christmas?”

Looking into her little nephew’s brown eyes, Zenie hesitates. A moment ago she had been willing to turn away from this place without a second thought. But now, seeing her niece and nephew and their excitement at her arrival, coupled with Bill’s fond smile as he watches them . . . Maybe a few days wouldn’t hurt. After all, her college is on break and she has someone covering for her at work. It’s not like she and her friends had anything better to do with their time off except watch cheesy holiday movies and sample Luz’s mixed drinks.

“Yes,” she says, if not a little reluctantly. “I’m staying, but I don’t know for how long.”

“Yes!” Jasmine cheers, the sound vibrating in Zenie’s eardrums. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever!”

Verbally, Zenie agrees, even though she’s not without her doubts, based on how family gatherings have gone in the past. And when she looks up and sees her older sister standing in the doorway, an envelope in her hands, Zenie repeats the sentiment like it’s a lifeline.

“I don’t know for how long.”

[junebugjules]

22 december 2022

yesterday i worked on adding more to your shrine in the house, on a piece of green furniture with a lot of excess drawers. on the top, i placed your favorite panda Big Panda, kiki, and two other webkinz pandas. there’s a shinto memorial piece placed on the far left that i think you would have liked — luke bought it for you. a bit ago, i bought you a panda calendar and a demon slayer figurine for christmas, and i wrapped them up and placed them also on the shrine. i don’t know who’s going to unwrap them for you, but i hope you would’ve liked them. sometimes when i see dad turn or chew his food all i can see is your face. i find myself trying to look for you in so many people and places and things, and sometimes it works. sometimes i get disappointed and feel everything all over again. i haven’t been watching many movies, or listening to much music. i made you a playlist on spotify, and also looked at your spotify wrapped. i would’ve gotten you a mitski vinyl if you were still here, since you had so much in your rotation in your last few weeks. i miss you lots. luke’s birthday was yesterday and he was adamant in not having a cake or opening any gifts. i made him a cake anyways, and when i got really upset once he refused to accept it, he angrily said the entire house and his birthday itself were depressing and vacant. he didn’t specify but everyone knew he was talking about you not being there with us. i’m so sorry.