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tsarisfanfiction · 2 years ago

Text

A Single Drachma

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians Rated: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Friendship Characters: Michael, Clarisse, Chris Alone. Injured. Hunted. Michael doesn't know where he is, but he knows he's running out of time, and he's only got one shot at calling for help. He's got to make it count. I'm a bit late posting it here because rl, but this was a fic written for @pod-together and my podficcer partner for the event was once again the amazing @stereden, who I also worked with for this event last year and once again had an absolute blast with! I pushed the boat out rather further this year in terms of length (there is actually a lot more to this story planned, but it became unrealistic to podfic... that being said I am still hoping to finish writing it at some point, for all that this does currently work as a stand-alone). We both had a lot more free time this year, and we definitely made sure we used it! I've lost count of how many times I've listened to Stereden's various takes on the podfic but it's been so much fun to work with her on this again this year! I was in a massive Michael&Clarisse mood when the event first started, and Stereden is a fantastic enabler who was more than willing to let them be the focus of the plot for our project, so here we are, and I hope you all enjoyed reading and listening to this as much as I did creating it! You can find the podfic to listen to here (go, listen to it! It’s amazing!)

After so long in darkness, the light of the sun was blinding. Michael’s tolerance for bright lights had always been higher than most, just like his siblings, but as he staggered out onto the street, limping heavily and doing his utmost to ignore the various signals of this fucking hurts different parts of his body were sending to his brain in discordant harmony, his eyes narrowed into a blurry squint. He stumbled, biting back a curse as his leg protested loudly at the bulk of his weight being forced onto it, and raised a dirty, shaking hand to shade his watering eyes from the worst of the glare.

Where was he?

With a wince he couldn’t hold back, he limped a few steps forwards, impatiently waiting for his eyes to adjust to the brightness, until he almost collided with a wall. Knocking his shoulder - the less-bad one, the one that was only bruised and not taunting him with fears of dislocation - against it, he awkwardly shuffled until he was leaning heavily against the painted brickwork, shifting his weight until it was off of his right leg.

It still had the audacity to fucking hurt, and Michael could feel his left leg trembling from the strain, less injured but no less exhausted than the rest of his body, but there was nothing he could do about it except lean harder on his shoulder, shoving as much of his weight as possible onto the building.

He needed to keep moving; he knew that. His arm stung, his newest injury still bleeding sluggishly. Michael could hear the slow yet steady drip, drip, drip of the liquid onto the ground. He’d run out of useable fabric to tear into makeshift bandages a while back - his clothes were in tatters, and stained with so many things he didn’t want to think about that using them to wrap an open wound was probably begging for a dose of tetanus, as though he needed any more problems on top of everything he had already.

Leaning against the building was the most relief he’d had in days, though, and Michael was at loathe to give it up. He glanced towards the sun again, still blindingly bright and near-impossible to look at. Hi, Dad, he thought, his mental tone somewhere between bitterness and despair. Apollo hadn’t contacted him for a long time, not since the night before they left for Manhattan, and Michael missed his father’s dream visits. He didn’t understand why they’d stopped - he’d feared, for a while, that Apollo had fallen to Typhon , that despite the lack of Kronos stomping around suggesting that they’d won the war his father had been lost for good.

Deep down, he still feared that - despite the freak saying things to the contrary - because if it wasn’t true, if Apollo hadn’t been destroyed, then that meant his father had been ignoring all of his pleas for help.

Apollo had been answering him reliably since he was a small kid, before he’d even realised the guy he dreamed about frequently was real and his father. There was no good reason for him to have stopped.

And yet he had.

Where the fuck are you, Dad? he thought at the sun. And where the fuck am I?

He lowered his hand, squinting against the bright light of the sun as it inflicted a fresh assault on his eyeballs, and took stock of his surroundings.

It was some sort of side street. Not enclosed enough to be an alley but no major thoroughfare - Michael could see a busier street, if he squinted against the shadows and too-bright sun hard enough, running perpendicular to the end of the street he was in. People passed through with purpose, none of them batting an eyelid at a messy, injured demigod leaning against the painted bricks and no doubt leaving some crimson stains behind. Was that the Mist at work, or was he somewhere where no-one even noticed bleeding teens?

Michael didn’t really care. Both options were far better than where he’d been, where he was running from.

He needed to keep moving, no matter how much his body protested, but first he needed a plan. Running blindly wouldn’t help; he hadn’t shaken his pursuers despite his best efforts so far, and he wasn’t naive enough to hope he’d shaken them now, either. But now that he was out, he had a chance.

His hand tightened its grip around his precious prize, the one small shard of hope that had crossed his path amongst the pain and fear. Firm edges pressed into his palm in a way that would be almost painful, if his body’s resting pain threshold wasn’t currently up around ten out of ten, a reassurance that he hadn’t lost it, hadn’t dropped it as he ran.

Michael had no weapons. He had no way to fight off his pursuers, no way to make them stop following him for good. Hand-to-hand had been out of the question even before the injuries started stacking up; he’d never done well enough in that during training to treat it as anything other than a last, desperate, resort. Here, where defeat meant getting dragged back to the freak, it was even lower on his list of non-existent options than normal.

But what he did have was one, single golden drachma. A stroke of luck amongst everything else, because drachma meant communication, and communication meant help. He could call Chiron, ask the old centaur to send someone his way, and warn him about the freak while he was at it.

Once he knew where he was.

He only had one drachma, one chance to make a call. He had to make it count.

It didn’t take Michael long to come up with a plan, if it could even be called that. Step one, find out where he was. Step two, find a rainbow and make the call.

Don’t get caught in the process.

He’d lingered too long. He knew he had. With a groan he forced his body upright again, biting back a scream as his right leg buckled and almost collapsed, and shoved himself away from the wall. The movement pushed him into a run, one leg in front of the other with no pause to think, for all that they both threatened to crumple beneath him as he staggered forwards, each step sending a bolt of pain up his right leg.

Michael stumbled his way towards the busier street. He didn’t know if it was a major enough street to have helpful signs like “welcome to”, but it was the best shot he had at finding where he was.

Several times, he almost fell, barely catching himself on the building walls, but he made it to the larger street without picking up any more injuries.

It didn’t have a “welcome to” sign, or any other defining characteristics that might have at least given Michael a clue. Cars drove past him without a second look, not that Michael intended on getting in one, anyway. It would be infinitely easier than walking, but the freak had a lot of influence. Michael couldn’t trust anyone not to be part of his many, many circles. Until he made contact with Chiron, he couldn’t risk talking to anyone.

The street ran east and west, as straight as an arrow, and Michael barely even had to think before he was turning east, glancing up at the sun as he did so and sending yet another silent and rushed prayer his father’s way.

Apollo had guided him to safety before. Why couldn’t he do it again?

Passing mortals paid him no more attention on the major street than they had on the side street. Michael still didn't know if that was due to the Mist concealing the various injuries and blood dripping from hastily wrapped (and in some cases unwrapped) wounds, or if they really just didn't care in this place. Not that the why actually mattered; at least no-one was stopping him.

It was only going to be a matter of time before they found him again, and Michael needed to have figured out where he was and called Chiron by then. If they caught up to him here, he didn’t stand a chance.

The thought spurred his protesting body on, legs screaming and lungs hauling in as much air as they could stand. There had to be some sign, somewhere, to tell him where he was. A café name, roadsigns, billboards. Something.

He reached an intersection just as the lights turned green for the cars. A glance behind him didn’t show any obvious pursuit but Michael couldn’t risk it. He dashed forwards, dodging honking vehicles, and felt his leg buckle halfway across, but he snarled and pushed on, refusing to let it surrender to the break just yet.

Not until he was safe.

It was probably more luck than skill that got him across without being knocked down by a irate driver, but Michael didn't pause when his feet met the sidewalk once more, leaving the cacophony of chaos behind him as he kept running. His lungs were starting to burn; no demigod endurance could keep going forever, and Michael had been fleeing for days, weeks, he didn’t even know. He’d long since lost track of time.

There were more than a few near-misses with crashing into mortals on the street, his legs not quite up for intense manoeuvrability and reliant mostly on other people getting out of his way, and more side streets crossed - more than one involving a game of chicken with cars and the accompanying soundtrack of blaring horns and swearing drivers - but Michael didn’t let himself stop. Couldn’t stop.

Where was he?

His eyes scanned the streets as he ran, desperately searching for any sign, a familiar name to latch onto, but his dyslexia kept jumbling anything that might be helpful and he didn’t dare stop long enough to decipher it. He couldn’t hear any pursuit yet, but he knew with a certainty deep inside his bones that they’d come. If he hadn’t lost them in there, he wouldn’t lose them here.

Another intersection - complete with more cars and horns, and Michael almost collapsing in the middle of the asphalt as his leg buckled alarmingly - and the buildings sharply receded on the other side of the street, leaving a large lawned area with a broad paved path leading directly up to an impressive building. People milled about, sitting on the edge of the cacti-infested planter that ran up the middle of the path, signifying it as a public place, and Michael made a snap decision.

It was the first thing he’d seen that seemed like it could tell him where he was, and further down the street he could see a fountain.

He clutched the drachma tighter, certain it had to be leaving jagged red marks in his skin, and ploughed across the street, his run disintegrating into more of a rapid limp as he dragged himself towards the building. There were words emblazoned above what was clearly the entrance, and flapping banners covering the outside of the second floor windows, more images than words.

When he drew to a stop outside, chest tight with pain and almost all his weight on his left leg, which trembled frantically as it desperately tried to bear it, he blinked at the large words, willing them to arrange themselves in a way that made sense.

AZRINOA STATE MEUSUM

No, that wasn’t right.

Arizona State Museum.

Arizona.

Michael had never been to Arizona before in his life, but the state name triggered an immediate memory of crackling spears and loud, abrasive words.

Clarisse.

He’d had a lot of time to think, while the freak had him. Time to get angry at the daughter of Ares, time to shout and curse her existence, to blame her for the battle going wrong, for the hellhounds tearing Nathan apart, for the shockwave that had sent half his siblings cascading off the shaking bridge-

But then time to go hollow, time to remember that the Ares cabin was never going to be stationed with the Apollo cabin, that the deaths wouldn’t have been prevented.

Time to realise that it wasn’t Clarisse’s fault. That in the grand scheme of things, their argument had been petty and inconsequential.

Gods, but the Fates had a sense of humour, dropping him in Arizona, of all places.

Michael didn’t know which city held the state museum, if it was Phoenix or Tucson or somewhere else entirely, but… Clarisse would know.

Clarisse, for all that they’d never got on, had always been a strong leader. She might hate him, might have told him she hoped he died (and he almost had and that still stung, a little), but she was prepared for trouble and Michael had never seen her without at least two visible weapons on her.

Hades, he’d been on the receiving end of them a few times, when their arguments got too heated. Lee, and Emily before him, had always told him off whenever he landed in the infirmary again after a fight with her.

The drachma felt heavy in his hand.

Michael turned away from the museum and pushed his body to start moving again, a walk that turned into a jog until he dragged it into a full run again, leg screaming in agony but something almost like hope starting to bloom in his chest.

He just had to reach the fountain. The Arizonian sun blazed down above him; there had to be a rainbow shimmering in the droplets somewhere, and then he could call for help.

The back of his neck prickled as his staggered run took him out of the museum grounds and back onto the street, and the blooming hope stuttered before it had much of a chance to grow. He threw a glance down the street, back the way he’d come, even as he pressed forwards towards the fountain, glistening in the sunlight. No sign of pursuit, but that didn’t mean anything. Michael hadn’t survived this long by not listening to his instincts, and the sudden tenseness at the top of his spine told him he had to run.

So he ran.

Jagged agony shot up his broken leg as he pushed it further, stumbling but refusing to fall even when tears of pain started leaking from the corners of his eyes and his breathing took on a whine of desperation that rang in his ears.

He almost crashed into the edge of the fountain, hands reaching forwards to brace himself against it and absorbing the impact. The drachma in his hand dug in deeply enough Michael wouldn’t have been surprised if it had drawn blood, but he’d take that a thousand times over dropping it now, so close to being able to use it.

Exposed and with no cover, if he lost it and the cry for help it afforded him now, it would be over for him.

Dashing away the tears of pain with the back of his hand, and wincing as the salt stung open scratches, he glared at the fountain, desperately searching for the glimmer of colour that had to be there, somewhere. The sun and the falling droplets of water were present, he just had to find -

There.

It was halfway around the fountain from where he’d stopped, and he clawed his way around the edge, leaning heavily on the white stone rim and letting his right leg abandon his weight. His left leg, and the arm he was bracing himself with, both trembled angrily, but Michael wouldn’t fall here. Not now.

The rainbow shimmered in front of him and he forced his fingers to unfurl from their death grip around the drachma, streaked red with angry lines where the coin had imprinted almost every detail onto his palm.

“Oh, Goddess, accept my offering,” he mumbled. His voice rasped in his ears after however many days it had been since he’d last had a reason to talk out loud, hoarse in his throat - maybe he should’ve taken a drink from the fountain first, but there wasn’t time for that - but hopefully the words came out clearly enough for Iris to understand. He tossed the drachma into the rainbow with a shaking hand.

“Clarisse La Rue.”

Fuck.

He hadn’t planned on calling Clarisse.

Even if he was in her home state, Chiron would know where things like the state museum was, and crucially, the centaur had never told him to die .

But the drachma was gone, the only one he had, and he’d said the name now. He dashed more tears - pain, frustration - away and stared at the rainbow, waiting for the call to go through and knowing he wasn’t at all prepared to talk to Clarisse, but that he had to.

Nothing happened.

The rainbow shimmered, glistening in a way that didn’t quite seem natural, and Michael stared at it in horror.

“C’mon,” he muttered, glancing back the way he’d come. Still no signs of pursuit, but his instincts were screaming at him. “C’mon, connect, why aren’t you fucking connecting?”

The rainbow pulsed lightly, as though it was still waiting for something, and realisation crashed over Michael.

“Fuck.” He hadn’t said where Clarisse was - where was Clarisse? He didn’t know, didn’t know if she was even still alive, let alone if she was at camp or if she’d left camp now, or... “Fuck. I don’t- Where the fuck is Clarisse? Iris- fuck- Lady Iris, please.” His hand clenched into a fist as he leaned forwards and rested almost the entirety of his weight on the rim of the fountain. Breathing was supposed to be easier than that but the air kept getting caught in his throat and distantly he realised he was panicking, sensing his hope slipping away from one slip of the tongue. “Clarisse La Rue at… fuck, I don’t know. Camp Half-Blood?”

His right leg buckled and he clamped his mouth shut against the cry of pain as broken bone fragments slipped against each other. More tears welled in the corners of his eyes and he turned his head, wiping them away frantically in the dirty remains of the fabric on his shoulder.

When he looked back up, Clarisse La Rue was staring at him out of the centre of the rainbow, eyes wide in shock.

She looked older than when he’d last seen her, hair semi-neatly chopped around her cheeks and small scars he didn’t remember peppering across her face. She was bigger, too, always broad-shouldered but now easily twice his width, and Michael was pretty sure she was even taller.

“Clarisse,” he rasped, too relieved to even care how frantic he sounded. “Help. ”

“Michael?” she asked. “You’re dead.”

The bark of laughter that erupted from his mouth wasn’t humorous in the slightest. Fuck, camp thought him dead? It made sense, explained why no-one had ever come looking, but-

Fuck.

“Not fucking quite,” he replied hoarsely. The back of his neck tingled again and he glanced back the way he’d come. Still no sign, but that didn’t make him feel any safer. “Not yet.”

Her brown eyes sharpened, narrowing from wide-eyed shock to the assessing daughter of Ares Michael had seen so many times before. “What happened to you?” she demanded. “And why are you calling me?”

“Fuck if I know.” He looked around again, and caught sight of movement in the distance. Movement that didn’t seem natural for mortals going about their day. “Fuck. I’m in Arizona, don’t know where the fuck except the state museum’s just down this road and if I don’t find somewhere safe to hide - or at least some fucking weapons to fight back with - now I’m fucking dead for real.”

“I know where you are,” Clarisse said. Michael saw her glance away from the IM for a moment, then nod firmly, a familiar stubbornness settling into her expression. “There’s a big building behind the fountain.” He looked up and nodded. “That’s the state university. Get around the back of it then follow the boulevard east through the campus. Once you’re out of the campus, keep following the street east for six blocks, then go left, then get to the park on the right. There’s an unused building in the far corner; mortals think it’s locked but it’s not. It’s one of my safehouses. You’ll find weapons there.”

Through the college campus and then another six blocks. Michael’s leg throbbed in protest but he set his jaw and nodded. He could do that.

He had to do that.

“Thanks,” he rasped, glancing back again. The shapes were clearer, bulky individuals that clearly hadn’t figured out exactly where he was yet but were searching. “Fuck. Gotta go.”

He slashed an arm through the rainbow, cutting off Clarisse’s “Mi-”, and pushed himself away from the fountain.

Time to run.

Michael knew that his leg shouldn’t be able to keep moving, let alone running. A mortal could never have managed it, and he was pretty certain most demigods couldn’t, either. Being the son of Apollo had its perks, but that didn’t stop it sending vicious stabs of pain up through his body with every step, reminding him loudly and furiously that son of Apollo or not, he wasn’t doing it any favours and sooner or later it was going to run out of endurance.

Oblivious college students didn’t even seem to blink as he ran past them, adrenaline flooding his body and pushing him further, further, faster. Fear of being caught and the hope of safety ahead of him worked in tandem to urge him on, slamming away the pain with extreme prejudice and forcing his legs, both the broken one and the merely exhausted one, to keep going, one foot in front of the other and jarring with every step. The campus stretched out before him, seeming impossibly long, and in the back of his mind a small voice despaired that he’d never make it.

He told the voice to shut the fuck up and kept going.

The sun beat down as he ran, sweat joining with blood to leave a trail behind that he was painfully aware of but could do nothing about. All he could do was hope that he had enough of a headstart to outrun them to Clarisse’s safehouse. And that Clarisse would think to tell Chiron, because fuck, he’d forgotten to tell her to.

The first sounds of active pursuit reached his ears as he passed a set of tennis courts near the end of the campus, lungs burning, chest heaving, legs screaming, and he glanced over his shoulder to see students being pushed out of the way by larger, armed and dangerous, figures.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His body had nothing left to give but Michael wasn’t going to let it surrender. Not now, not when he finally had a chance to get away. He ignored the voice in his head that said that a safehouse wasn’t much good if they saw him go into it, and that he didn’t stand a chance in combat even if he did get his hands on weapons, because it didn’t matter how true it was, it was still all he had.

He accelerated again, finding speed he didn’t know he was capable of even with two intact legs and not on the cusp of exhaustion, and bolted across the last few yards of the campus, hurtling across the street without stopping and forcing cars to swerve to avoid hitting him, and kept going.

One block.

Behind him, more car horns sounded and drivers started shouting. Something sounded like it hit something hard.

Two blocks.

Something went crunch and the shouting abruptly stopped.

Three blocks.

Michael’s lungs were on fire. He couldn’t even feel his legs any more, which definitely wasn’t a good thing.

Four blocks.

Fresh shouting started up, low and guttural and undoubtedly aimed at him.

Five blocks.

His lungs transitioned from on fire to non-operational, each breath a constricting choke as he ploughed on.

Six blocks.

Michael skidded around the corner, crossing the intersection to more irate cars and almost toppled over at the change of direction. He caught himself on a wall and all but bounced off of it, lurching down the sidewalk and knowing it was too much to ask that his pursuers hadn’t seen him make the turn but part of him begging whichever gods might be listening that they’d missed it anyway.

The park on the right, Clarisse had said, and Michael almost stumbled over his own feet as he caught sight of greenery after a moment of desperate running.

A javelin sailed past him, missing only because his leg buckled and listed him to one side for a heartbeat, and Michael’s stomach leapt up into his throat. Not now, not now he was so close.

He threw himself into the greenery the moment it opened up, using the shrubbery for what little cover it could give him, but it was barely moments before he heard the leaves get brushed aside behind him. Guttural cursing in a language Michael didn’t know but had got used to hearing was far too close as he frantically scanned the far side of the park for the building Clarisse had mentioned.

Where was it where was it where was it where the fuck was it-

There!

On the far side of the park, sheltered by trees on multiple sides, was a building that looked old and rundown. Chains and padlocks wrapped around the door, but as Michael focused on it, they shimmered and fell away.

He hadn’t known Clarisse could manipulate the Mist that well, but he wasn’t going to complain.

He didn’t have time to complain.

There was still half the park to cross and he wasn’t going to make it unless he found another burst of speed from Hades-knew-where. He choked on more air, willing his legs to go faster, but he still couldn’t feel them, not even the pain from the break, and he definitely wasn’t speeding up.

If anything, he was slowing down.

Fuck no. He wasn’t going to get caught, not here. Not now . He leaned forwards, desperate for just a little more speed, and felt something snag his feet.

He landed on his front hard enough to see stars, every part of his body compressing in a way that made him feel sick, or perhaps that was the knowledge that he’d never get up and away in time. It didn’t stop him trying, pushing himself upright on arms that were shaking almost too much to bear his weight, one shoulder screaming as it reminded him it probably wasn’t in its fucking socket, determined to fucking crawl if he had to.

Electricity crackled.

“Back off!” a female voice roared , footsteps running towards him from where he’d been trying to get to. Michael’s first thought was that he must have hit his head when he fell, because that was Clarisse’s voice.

He dragged his head up just in time to see a figure jump over him, barely an instant before there was the clash of weapons behind him.

Rolling over was marginally easier than trying to stand up. It brought with it a reprise of pain from his broken leg that jolted back into awareness so quickly he barely choked down a cry, but more importantly gave him a front row seat to Clarisse La Rue in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt wielding a familiar electric spear with a vengeance against the freak’s employees as they found themselves on the back foot, clearly not expecting to face anything more than a desperate, injured demigod they’d already run into the ground.

A skilled daughter of Ares with a weapon gifted to her by the god of war himself was not a desperate, injured and run into the ground demigod.

Michael had seen the Germani fight before, when the freak wanted entertainment. They were skilled and powerful, far more so than most demigods - but Clarisse was not most demigods, and had surprise on her side.

He pulled himself backwards with trembling hands, away from the fight, until his back hit something solid. A panicked glance upwards revealed that it was the trunk of a tree - not a rogue Germani trying to get around Clarisse - and Michael reached up with his less-bad arm for a low-hanging branch to haul himself to his feet with, much to the protest of his entire body.

If one of the Germani did get around Clarisse, he refused to be vulnerable on the ground. He could still run to the safehouse if he had to, leg be damned .

For the moment, he let the trunk of the tree take most of his weight, keeping his right leg off the ground and gripping the trunk with white knuckles to stay upright while he watched Clarisse fight.

She’d always been an impressive fighter, but the demigod in front of him here was a whole different class to the one he remembered from before Manhattan. The IM hadn’t deceived him - she was slightly taller and muscular since he’d last seen her - but there was a confidence to her that felt different, almost more natural.

Or maybe he was just so relieved to be saved that his mind had entered delirium. That was certainly possible.

Whatever it was, Clarisse clearly needed no help in finishing up the fight, her spear whirling around and dispatching the startled Germani in a typically child-of-Ares display of aggression, until the last one disintegrated into dust.

Michael was not ready for Clarisse to turn and face him, towering over him the way she always had done and racking him over with narrowed brown eyes. There were some bleeding scratches on her front, and a rather more considerably bleeding gash on one arm, but she didn’t seem to notice them as she stepped towards him. Instinctively, Michael straightened, his weight automatically transferring back to both his legs, and provoking another blinding protest from the right one.

“Clarisse,” he croaked.

“What happened to you?” she demanded, voice sharp and unyielding. “You died in Manhattan.”

“The fuck I did,” he protested. “Some fucking emperor-god-wannabe fished me out the river and dragged me off.” At least, that was what he’d gathered after the fact. He didn’t remember anything between the bridge collapsing and waking up in the freak’s floating villa, which had taken far too fucking long to escape from.

He didn’t expect Clarisse to believe him, though. It sounded fantastical, he knew it did, wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t lived it himself. But it was the truth.

To his surprise, Clarisse’s gaze sharpened. “Emperor-god?” she demanded, and there was something in her tone that made Michael’s default defensive snap back falter briefly, because it sounded like she did, somehow, believe him.

Still, “that’s what I fucking said,” he retorted after a few seconds, the familiarity of arguing an unlooked-for comfort washing over him even though he didn’t want to argue, still needed Clarisse’s help badly. “Freak said he was one of the Roman bastards despite the fact they’ve been dead for fucking millennia. Called himself Caligula.”

The soft shit that slipped out of Clarisse’s mouth seemed like a reflex, and Michael blinked as she set the butt of her spear on the ground. “Let’s move,” she said, glancing around. “We can talk once we’re somewhere more secure.”

That, Michael agreed with, and he took a step away from the trunk.

His body did not agree.

Enough, said his leg, at the same time adrenaline drained away, leaving his head lighter than air.

He crumpled.

“Shit!” Large, warm hands caught his shoulders in a grip of iron. “Michael!”

Michael snarled weakly and tried to get his leg under him again. “I’m fine,” he insisted, knowing it was a lie. He wasn’t fine, but he hadn’t hit his limit yet - he refused. He dragged his head up to meet Clarisse’s searching gaze.

She snorted. “Pull the other one, Yew.”

To his surprise, she sank down in front of him, and by the time his brain realised what was going on he was slumped over her shoulders, pinned in place by an arm around his leg and hand clamped around his wrist.

“The fuck, La Rue?” he yelped as she grabbed her spear with the hand not holding him in place and straightened up. “I can fucking walk!”

“This is faster,” she said. “Instead of slowing us down, keep an eye out for more of Caligula’s people.”

Michael tried to be offended, but as she broke into an even jog, he had to at least privately concede the point. The movement jostled his broken leg, thankfully not the one she was using to hold him in place, and he fought back whimpers, but after so long running under his own steam, it was a relief not to have to, anymore.

Even though it meant a fireman carry from Clarisse.

It was easier to let his head hang than try to hold it up, and his matted hair made a curtain that was difficult to see through, but Michael had no desire to be ambushed by more Germani - more of Caligula’s people, and he was starting to wonder how much Clarisse knew about the freak, how she knew anything about him in the first place. He squinted past his hair, watching the park behind them as Clarisse jogged forwards, and then the street as she passed the safehouse without pausing.

“Where’re we going?” he asked, watching the building get smaller for a moment before flicking his attention back to the street.

“My apartment,” Clarisse said shortly. “It’s more secure than that.”

Clarisse’s apartment? “Your mom’s place?”

She snorted. “No. My apartment. You just ran through my college campus.”

It hadn’t occurred to Michael that Clarisse would be in college, now. Fuck, they were the same age; if she was in college, then if it wasn’t for the freak, he probably would be, too - if he’d ever decided what the Hades he wanted to do.

“Huh,” was the only noise he could summon in response, followed by another muffled whine as his broken leg jarred again. Fuck, he missed the pain numbing properties of adrenaline. Clarisse’s grip on his wrist shifted, and he realised that she’d heard it. She didn’t mention it, though, just kept up with the jog as though he didn’t weigh a thing.

In his current state, he probably didn’t as far as she was concerned.

Wherever Clarisse lived, it felt a long way away. Maybe it was because she wasn’t running in a flat-out sprint, but the journey seemed to take forever. More than once, Michael found his eyes starting to slide shut, exhaustion fighting for dominance, and forced them open again, unwilling to risk missing a threat.

Nothing attacked them. Michael could feel the tension in Clarisse’s shoulders rising the longer they went without being attacked, but she drew to a halt outside an apartment building unchallenged.

“Still awake?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

“Good.” She turned around, looking back the way they’d come for herself and giving Michael a clearer view of the building, complete with the flight of stairs they were no doubt about to go up. Seemingly satisfied that he hadn’t missed anything, she then turned back and continued towards what was clearly her apartment door.

Michael’s leg did not approve of the stairs. Clarisse went slower than he expected, the rise and fall of her body minimal, but still his leg complained and more than one hiss forced its way past gritted teeth on the ascent. Her grip on his wrist tightened, but she still said nothing. Michael appreciated it.

Eventually, they came to a stop outside a plain door, indistinguishable from the rest of the apartment doors. Michael wasn’t sure how Clarisse was planning on opening it with her spear in one hand while the other kept hold of him, but he wasn’t expecting for her to call, “it’s him.”

The door was yanked open so fast, Michael half-expected it to fly off the hinges.

“Michael?”

He forced his head to raise, his hair falling mostly out of his face so that he could see over Clarisse’s shoulder.

“Chris,” he rasped, not liking the way the son of Hermes was looking at him in horror. “Take it you two are still together, then?”

“Yeah,” Clarisse confirmed as she walked past her boyfriend, who shut the door behind them. At the click of the catch falling into place, Michael let his head sag again. “Down you go.”

Michael didn’t manage to brace himself before spilling out of Clarisse’s grip, but he didn’t have to as he was gently laid on a throw-covered couch, his limbs limp and boneless as he sank into the fabric.

It felt heavenly.

“Gods,” Chris breathed, kneeling on the floor next to him, dark eyes surveying him from head to toe. Michael heard the quiet click of a catch opening and his eyes flitted to look at the floor, where Chris had a large plastic box cracked open on the rug. “Eat.” A small square of ambrosia was held up in front of him. Michael forced a shaking hand to take it from him and slipped it into his mouth, instantly feeling the relief that came from eating the godly food.

Hades, how long had it been since he’d last had ambrosia? The freak certainly hadn’t ever given him any.

He let his arm fall heavily back onto the couch as he savoured the taste.

“Let me treat your wounds,” Chris insisted. He was already pulling on gloves, and Michael eyed him in surprise. The son of Hermes huffed. “I know I’m not an Apollo kid, but my dad is still a patron of medicine, even if he’s not strictly a god of it. I might not be able to instantly heal you but I can make sure you don’t die of sepsis.”

It wasn’t like Michael could do much more for his own wounds than he had already; he healed fast but not instantly.

“Fine,” he agreed, and Chris broke into a relieved look. Clarisse shifted her weight.

“I’ll make sure the perimeter is secure,” she said, grabbing a small vial of nectar and taking a sip from it.

“Could you grab Michael something clean to wear before you go?” Chris asked her. Michael felt him gently take hold of one of his arms, then hissed as he gently dabbed at the exposed cut with antiseptic. “These clothes are filthy.”

“Fuck you,” Michael muttered, well aware that he was right. They weren’t clothes he was attached to - the freak had got rid of his clothes after Manhattan and replaced them with some sort of sailor’s outfit, which Michael had had no hesitation about tearing up for makeshift bandages.

He was still furious about the loss of his camp necklace, though.

Clarisse headed further into the apartment without another word as Chris wiped down the skin around the gash before peeling away one of Michael’s makeshift bandaging attempts and getting to work treating the wound underneath it.

“You know I’m right,” Chris replied. “Those rags need cutting off, anyway.”

Michael bristled. “I can-”

“I know a broken leg when I see one,” Chris overrode him. “I don’t even want to think about how much damage you’ve done to it running around - or how the Hades you managed to run around on that - but it won’t thank you for moving it again.”

Clarisse returned before Michael could come up with a retort, dropping a bundle of fabric over the back of the couch. “I’m securing the perimeter now,” she said.

“Be careful,” Chris replied, and Michael watched as she stalked out the front door, shutting it with a loud click behind her. “Okay, let’s get these rags out of the way.”

Chris’ hands were gentle as they tended to each cut, scrape, gash or worse. It wasn’t the same as one of his siblings, but it was enough to make Michael feel halfway human again, if completely helpless.

“I’d run you a bath now but I think you’d fall asleep in it,” the son of Hermes told him as he probed gently at the probably-dislocated shoulder. As much as Michael hated to admit it, the older demigod was once again right; he was well aware of the exhaustion doggedly gnawing away at him now that the adrenaline had faded away. “I’ll do that later.” He frowned at Michael’s shoulder. “This, on the other hand, I’ve got to deal with now.”

One good thing about the encroaching exhaustion was that Michael’s muscles couldn’t tense up too much, even if they wanted to. He grit his teeth as Chris carefully manipulated his arm into extending, before slowly starting to rotate it. The earlier ambrosia was not enough to completely muffle the sensation of the joint grinding back into its socket; some whimpers slipped out past his clenched jaw. Like Clarisse earlier, Chris had the tact to not mention it.

Even worse than the dislocated shoulder, predictably, was the broken leg. That was by far the worst part of the treatment as Chris gently poked and prodded at it before resetting the bone. The ambrosia was no more effective as a painkiller for his leg than it had been for his shoulder, and Michael couldn’t help a short, high-pitched shout as it shifted back into position - thankfully also passing unacknowledged by the son of Hermes.

“No walking on it,” Chris said firmly as he fitted a splint to keep it in place. Michael grumbled a string of curses under his breath as it was secured. “It - and the rest of you - needs rest.” It was obvious that he wanted to ask about what had happened to Michael, much in the same way Clarisse had, but to Michael’s relief, he wasn’t actually broaching the subject.

Then again, Chris knew a lot about traumatic experiences.

Once all his wounds were treated properly, Michael pulled on the spare clothes Clarisse had dug out for him, begrudgingly accepting Chris’ help. Unsurprisingly, they were all far too big for him - Clarisse was easily twice his size, now, and Chris might have been rather lither than his girlfriend, but he was far taller than Michael. The only advantage was that it meant they were easy to pull on over the various bandages and even leg splint, which didn’t negate Michael feeling like he was swimming in fabric.

“I’ll get you something that fits better soon,” Chris apologised as Michael flaked back down again, finding the couch far more comfortable than it had any right to be.

“Whatever,” he muttered.

The apartment door opened and Clarisse strode back in, bolting it behind her and propping her spear up beside it. “Secure,” she reported, heading for them. “Done with the first aid?”

“Done,” Chris confirmed. “He won’t be walking on that leg any time soon, but otherwise it’s mostly exhaustion.”

Clarisse sat down on the rug; with Michael laying down on the couch, their heads were at similar heights. “So what happened after Caligula grabbed you?” she demanded. Chris’ sharp intake of breath at the name told Michael that they definitely knew something about the freak. “That was nearly two years ago.”

Michael grimaced.

“Couldn’t get out,” he admitted, glossing over the gloating, the leering Germani and the self-important big-eared pandos, to say nothing of the fucking horse and the freak himself. They’d found his attempts amusing. The freak had even dared him to get out, promising him that he couldn’t.

The freak had said a lot of things, and Michael still couldn’t shake the shivers at the promise that he would be the new sun god. It was delusional - it had to be, Apollo was the sun god and wouldn’t be usurped by some fucking wannabe - but the freak had always sounded deadly serious when he’d said it, like he fully believed he would . He’d said Michael would help him, too.

Michael’s attempts to escape had always got more frantic whenever he heard that gloat.

He didn’t say any of that, didn’t think he could if he tried. Neither Clarisse or Chris pressed him for details.

“Had a fucking boat villa. Never let the thing near land.” He’d managed to get on one of the boarding boats, once. Mortal security guards had spotted him and dragged him back, citing some nonsense about the boss’ son not being allowed to leave. “Took for fucking ever to get off.”

Eventually, one day, the guards had been distracted by something. Michael still didn’t know what, but it had been enough for him to finally slip past them, onto land for the first time in eighteen fucking months, and run for it.

It almost hadn’t been enough, he’d almost been caught, but a door he’d run through had ended up in tunnels and more tunnels and more and more and more fucking tunnels with monsters with claws and teeth and other appendages they shouldn’t be allowed to fucking have that wanted a piece of demigod flesh and-

“Michael, breathe.”

A hand rested on the couch, not touching him but enough to catch his attention. His eyes snapped to it, then followed the arm up to a shoulder and up again until he was looking at Chris’ face. The older demigod’s brow was furrowed in concern, and Michael realised he was breathing too fast, air not actually reaching his lungs.

Fuck.

Michael closed his eyes, only to be assaulted by memories of being tracked, hunted, and snapped them open again, focusing instead on Chris’ face as he tried to wrench his breathing under control.

“Don’t push yourself,” Chris told him gently as air started to reach his lungs again. “It’s okay if you can’t talk about it.” Michael glanced at Clarisse, still sat on the rug behind her boyfriend but frowning, face all twisted up.

“No,” he said, hating how thin his voice sounded. “I- fuck.” If it was anyone else, he’d take the invitation to stop talking, because they wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t get it. But these two…

“Fucking Labyrinth.”

Chris’ face paled, and Clarisse moved, putting her hand on the son of Hermes’ shoulder. Her knuckles were white.

“It got me away,” Michael admitted, because it had; without its twists and turns and traps absolutely everywhere the freak’s men would have caught up to him within a day.

He didn’t know how many days he’d been running through the fucking thing before it finally spat him out in Arizona.

“But- fuck .” He’d never been in the fucking thing before, but he’d seen what it had done to Chris, how pale and shaken Annabeth had been when she re-emerged alone after her quest. Had seen the monsters spill out of it into camp, had seen Lee’s head smashed open-

The fucking thing was supposed to be destroyed. Why was it back?

He could’ve done without experiencing the inside of the fucking living nightmare for himself.

“You made it,” Chris told him, voice shaky but assuring. “You made it out, Michael.”

“You’re safe,” Clarisse added, tone firm and leaving no room for debate. Michael looked at her, remembering too many arguments and disagreements and threats from the daughter of Ares but seeing only pure sincerity and stubbornness there now. “Those shitheads won’t get you, and you’re never going in there again.”

Michael swallowed around a lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he agreed, voice shaking just as much as Chris’. “Yeah.”

He was out. He was safe.

The knowledge settled over him, heavy and warm as it finally sank in, and with it came a looming darkness his battered, aching and exhausted body finally stopped fighting and instead welcomed with open arms.

potentially tbc...

#riordanverse #riordanverse fanfic #percy jackson and the olympians #percy jackson fanfiction #trials of apollo #trials of apollo fanfiction #michael yew #clarisse la rue #chris rodriguez #toa caligula #tsari writes fanfiction #stereden #podfic #podfic of my fic

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hazzabeeforlou · 1 year ago

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Im a trained singer that doesn’t practice anymore but most definitely knows what she’s talking about. Yet idk where you’re getting at with Louis being off key when I’ve seen him live and he didn’t have a single out of tune or noticeably pitchy moment ?? He’s no Michael Jackson, but his pitch control is exactly what I’d expect from a decently good singer. Very accurate to the studio recordings with some purposeful changes and my only negative note was that he ran out of breath during the one WAOYF line. Which sure I think it’s fair to criticize his smoking like it’s a horrid habit and keeps him from being great, but it’s just weird that u say all that but then say you never went to his concert like ok don’t go 😭. But at least don’t write like you have been it’s really disingenuous for like no reason.

If he was truly having pitch issues to the even near the scale that he did one direction every article review would write about it for sure. No one would makes excuses for lack of growth, especially not new fans or concert reviewers that have no loyalty to him.

Glad it wasn’t pitchy when you saw him! I tune 47 strings to A 442 almost every single day so maybe I’m just more sensitive :) Literally was just my own live performance critique, if it wasn’t true for you, amazing

#I’m not answering any more anons on this folks I had one burst of fandom energy yesterday and already it’s fading #I’m a professional musician either accept my critique for what it is (influenced by my experiences) or stick with your own #I don’t Care

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steeleumbra · 4 months ago

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From my substack: Music...

Originally uploaded to substack Nov 19, 2024

I’m sitting in my bedroom at my desktop, listening to my media player on shuffle. Michael Jackson’s ‘Bad’ just finished, and ‘Baby One More Time’ by Britney Spears just started.

I played with my cat earlier to the song ‘Shake Your Groove Thing’, by Peaches and Herb. He is now trying to sleep in the middle of my bed. And he can have it. It’s 10:57pm, and it already feels like it’s going to be another sleepless night for me.

I’m not sure if I’m just killing time pissing around on the computer, or actually trying to think of something to do. But I also guess it doesn’t ultimately matter. If I strapped wings to my arms, drew a smiley face on my bare ass, and jumped off the roof trying to catch a headwind to Alaska from Lewiston, Maine, I don’t think that would matter much either. Not anymore than my ass possibly seeing a pic of itself smiling on someone’s cctv feed on a future true hauntings special; or whatever my spirit is, still floating around in the earthly ether long enough to see images of the body of a moron, found two feet from the base of my building flashing on the 5 o’clock news with wings tied to his arms and lines on his ass that might be a face, or a recipe for shortbread he must have wrote after putting the wings on. It would only be a two story fall, but at that point one could hope for either result, I guess.

“Why do I write like I’m from somewhere in the UK,” he asks himself but also writes out, for some unknown cosmic reason. I’m an ex-central New Yorker living in Maine.

It’s those damned immigrant-British TV shows, I tell you! Someone should have taken the remote away from me when Keeping Up Appearances and Benny Hill came on. Most fucking definitely when Benny Hill came on. I was way too gods damned, fucking young to be watching that adult shite.

Did you ever notice that he was never undressed enough. Not for my little gay but straight-masking ass. No, he wasn’t that good looking. But I grew up watching the Skipper’s bulge on Gilligan’s Island. Bears have always been my thing, I guess.

Still—fucking late night cable television and lack of responsible adult supervision; regardless of the fact that my undiagnosed autistic and ADHD insomnia made me stay awake later than any adult I knew.

Anyway….

‘Make My Heart Go’, Gloria Estefan. Playing now. It played ‘Wepo’ by her about an hour ago. That’s a fun song to ugly dance to. Most of these songs are fun to ugly dance to. And most of my dances are ugly. That’s why I called the playlist Dance Mix. It isn’t, technically, dance music. I think only three or four of the songs, out of the dozens I’ve added, would actually be played in a club somewhere. But they give my legs and 49 and a half year old hips something to move to while my hands do dishes. I don’t want my limbs to be jealous of each other. Especially my legs. 3:37am, petty vengeance charlie horses are some of the worst I’ve ever had. Granted, I have no proof that revenge is the reason for the pain. But I have better sense than to tempt that kind of fate.

‘Poker Face’. Lady Gaga. This one was fucking huge when it hit the airwaves. It seems like such a long time ago, but it hasn’t even been a full decade yet. It’s not like ‘Joyride’ by Roxette, which came out in 1990, nor ‘Call Me’ by Blonde in 1980. Those I could argue should feel sort of old, now. And I didn’t get here until ‘75, myself, so I can’t actually claim to have been here for the original runs of anything from as far back as 1970. But I’ve heard a lot of music from then…and before. And I’ve pretty much liked it all.

Except that fucking ‘Mairzy Doats’ one. I can’t be arsed to look up who performed it, nor care, but it’s from the ‘40s. It’s slightly more absolutely annoying than ‘Baby Shark’ to me, so it wins my most hated song award—which I don’t have one of to give. Mostly because I’ll be fucked by a bullet train on cross country skis if I invest in an award for a song I hate but can’t get out of my head.

I would invest in an award—a good award—for ‘The Song That Doesn't End’, though, because I don’t mind making some deep valley head spaces for that. Sherry Lewis did it using her Lamb Chop voice for an album. Though, I didn’t hear it until it was on her PBS children’s show in the ‘90s. Yes, I was too old to be watching it. But I’m also autistic, which is both a reality and the excuse I will use anytime I’m questioned about my music and video tastes that seem too juvenile. It also doesn’t hurt that I like ventriloquists. For the most part. Some should drown trying to drink water and talk at the same time. But I’ll keep my lips sealed and my hand firmly out of a puppet’s ass about who, other than to say it isn’t Dunham—but don’t push it.

All this to say…not a hell of a lot. I didn’t really expect to write this much. But I just had some chocolate yogurt with generic Cinnamon Toast Crunch for—well, the fucking crunch, I guess—and some coffee since insomnia already sent a telegram letting me know it’s on that bullet train tonight headed for my ass, so the caffeine won’t make a difference. And it is now 11:28pm, and my cat is still driving my bed through patches of ethereal catnip and tuna trees. And I just wanted a place where I don’t have to strive to be relevant in a world where I never have been. Where I don’t have to bust my ass, sans smiley face, trying to think of something that makes me believe that I’m important enough for the world to give a shit about. I just want to be me, streams of consciousness or not, without the responsibility of having to mask just to make small talk, nor somehow build from scratch the motivation to be impressive in an old t-shirt from Walmart, a pair of boxer briefs that were, at some point in years past, probably also from Walmart, and using one of the coffee cups I bought from Dollar Tree because I’m really fucking poor, but that I wouldn’t trade for a hundred bucks each. Come back with two hundred each, and I’ll negotiate.

That’s a lie. I’m autistic. We don’t negotiate. We wait for you to imply something, take it literally, say something unknowingly inappropriate, and watch you walk away wondering why you don’t want to buy from us anymore.

C’est la vie.

*Image credit - Me. It’s my cat. Not taken at a time that reflects the content of the text, but I’m not taking a low light image at night with an Android. Besides, I like how this one turned out.

[Tumblr reposting note: Although the image isn't watermarked, it does have a hidden signature]

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iluffyouxo · 3 years ago

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𝟘𝟜:𝟘𝟜; starstarstar || michael jackson

Music — Michael Jackson x black, female oc

To me he is magnificent, nobody else compared. To me he is the embodiment of purity and the innocence adults tried desperately to hide—however tragic it may seem to others. In my eyes he can do little to no wrong; we all make mistakes, don’t we?

These thoughts that linger in my mind always become most prominent late at night while I’m trying to go to sleep or working on a project for him. And I always end up writing them in my journal, just as I am today, for safe keeping, for hiding my feelings amongst these blue lines of secrets. Where I can fully admit to myself that I am, indeed, in love with Michael.

But, I certainly am not the first to come to this realization…and I certainly won’t be the last. And that truth hurts most of all.

I close my notebook with a long sigh and rest my head on my arms. Reading over my words caused a rough pang in my chest and I immediately wanted to stop writing. “Isn’t this too much?”

These feelings were too bothersome.

—

“Axelle, I need your help, do you think you can come over today?” His voice was sweet and coated in calming raindrops, causing a shiver to run up my spine. “Yeah, what d’you need help with?”

“Choreography…and maybe a song or two,” he hummed thoughtfully. I nod to myself. “I can do that, I’ll see you in a bit.”

A wave of disappointment overtakes me as I hang up the phone. I don’t know what I expected, or why I keep getting my hopes up every time I answer his calls. He’s completely oblivious and I’m turning into a wreck over something I have yet to tell him—more less show him. I groan, “Erugh—he’s so annoying.”

Sitting up from my comfortable position on my reading chair, I stretch and get ready for the longest drive I’ve ever taken, the drive to Neverland.

—

“Let’s add a few more steps to the beginning and I think it’ll be finished, yeah?” I breathe out hunched over and looking at Michael through the mirror.

He gives a tight nod as he gasps out his own raspy breaths. His umber eyes meet mine in the mirror and he smiles slightly. “Do you wanna stay for dinner?” I grin. “In other words, you want me to cook, huh?”

“I like your fried chicken,” Michael laughs guiltily, “Sue me.”

I finally came to a stand with a half-hearted chuckle and shake of my head. “Fine, but I’m staying the night.”

“That’s fine by me,” he shrugs, “I wouldn’t let you drive this late anyways.”

My heart skips a beat at that. He meant nothing by it; we’re just close friends, Axelle, remember that.

“It’s dangerous out there for women.” He only cemented that fact.

—

I inhale a deep breath, stretching my arms behind my back, as I balance myself on a fallen tree and glance up at the sky.

Due to Neverland being hundreds of acres long the sky was breathtakingly beautiful. The night was starless but the moon seemed to shine brighter than the sun because of that. It was large and white and brought a soothing to me that I couldn’t quite comprehend. I smile.

I couldn’t help but to be reminded of Michael.

It was rather late, though, I hadn’t bothered to check the time before I had waltzed out of the house, it was definitely some time past midnight.

It had been hard to sleep—clad in one of his collared shirts—and I had decided to get up and go for a walk to clear my head.

My feelings were still quite foreign to me, and some times felt like somebody else’s unrequited love, but once my heart starts spiraling and my brain pounding with emotion, I’m reminded of the fact that this love is mine. And no one else’s. And, yet, I’m still not the only one to come to that conclusion.

A fierce gust of wind whips past as if to agree with my thoughts. I sigh, “How bothersome.”

“What’s bothersome?”

I quickly turn around with wide eyes to be met with Michael’s tired expression. “What’re you doing out here Axelle?” He mumbles wearily. I rub at my neck awkwardly, “I, uh, couldn’t sleep.” He raises a brow at me—emphasizing his disbelief—hopping onto the log and standing next to me. “Axelle…you walked an hour away from the house, I drove here on one of my go carts,” he deadpanned.

“Huh?” I blink stupidly. “An hour!” Michael nods slowly. “I guess I must’ve been too deep in thought to notice.”

We stood there for a moment after that, basking in each other’s presence. And, just then, a few stars casted their glow from behind darkened clouds and shadowed canopies. “So…what were you thinking about?” He asked the question as if he knew the answer, and that tone gave me all the more reason to respond vaguely. “Uh, y’know, life.”

He glances at me, a disheartened look etched on his tan features, “That’s it? Just life? Nothing else?” I stare at him. “What else did you want me to say?”

He shakes his head. “Never mind, forget I said anything; let’s head back before you catch a cold.”

Slightly hesitant to leave the beauty of night I follow after Michael who trudged towards the go cart a few feet away. What was that all about? I ponder as I sit down next to him in the passenger seat. “Ready?” I nod, “Yeah…”

—

The wind was quite playful later on that morning, dark clouds dotting the azure blue sky here and there. And the scent of sweet rain loitered in the air. “It’s going to storm soon,” I murmur to myself.

I exhale a heavy breath and close my eyes, enjoying the cool breeze and greying weather.

“You’re up early.”

I smile at the words that sounded behind me. “We got back at four last night…I never went back to sleep. It was truly bothersome.”

Michael hands me a large cup filled to the brim with iced coffee (a bottle of orange juice preoccupied his left hand). “I couldn’t sleep either.”

I grinned against the cup’s edge. “By the way, how’d you find me last night?”

“I was out there to enjoy the night myself when I saw you,” he runs a hand through his curls with a short giggle, “You scared me half to death, y’know.”

I chuckle. “Sorry…I’m sure it was funny, though.” I sip at my coffee, crush gnawing in my chest. I am completely hopeless, aren’t I?

—

Michael sat a little ways away from me, a distant and concentrated gleam in his eye as he scribbled down on the paper in front of him. There were loads of papers covered with lyrics or musical notes scattered about the table. He hummed a small tune quietly to himself.

I hum along with him as I write my own set of notes.

After a while he slouches back against his seat, satisfaction etched on his features. “That sounded nice.” I nod, glancing up at him, “I wrote some of it down.”

“You already know I can’t read that.”

I grin, “Then, aren’t you glad I’m here to help?”

His smile is wide as he replies, “Of course I am! I’m extremely grateful for you, Axelle.”

My heart skips a beat again. “And I’m grateful for you, Michael.”

More than you know. And more than I dare to tell you.

—

Some times I find myself caught in a situation like this. Where he catches me looking at him intently and we now found ourselves staring at each other for minutes—eons—on end. I was always the one to look away. But, this time, for the very first time, he blinks the trance away and turns back towards the food on his plate.

It was evening time once again. Heavy rain pattered on the roof and danced on the window pane.

The two of us had been eating in silence for the last ten minutes. I was beginning to become anxious. Did he have something to say? Did he want me to leave? With how hard it was storming I doubt that a possibility. Then, what could it be? How bothersome.

“Do you, uh—“ I look up at him as he stammers out a question, “—do you wanna watch a movie after dinner?”

I raise an eyebrow at that. “You don’t wanna keep working? The song’s almost done.” Michael shakes his head, “No, I just wanna spend some time with you��that’s not work related.”

“Aww,” I grin, “Well, how could I say no to my dear friend? What movie did you have in mind? Peter Pan?” He smiles back. “Yeah, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. Let’s have some ice cream, too.”

—

“I like you.”

The confession was abrupt and rushed and almost made me drop my ice cream.

I turn away from the children flying across London on the tv as a loud crash of thunder roared across the sky outside. My eyes are wide as I stare at his awkward expression. “You what?”

His teeth nip at his bottom lip, averting his nervous gaze to the movie, and I could see him shiver as my stare continued. “Ummm…I like you.”

I blink. “Huh—well, this is rather easy. I thought I would be the one to confess in a few years at your wedding to some random lady that I’d glare at every time I saw her.”

“What…?” Michael sends me a weird look. I shake my head with a light chuckle. “Never mind. That doesn’t matter because I like you, too.”

His smile is large and bright and beautiful. “I’ve been waiting a long time to hear you say that.”

“I thought I hid my feelings quite well,” I huff. He shrugs, “You did, I actually had no idea how you felt but, I wanted to take a chance.” I smile back and lean in close. “I’m glad you did. I can finally do this now.” Before he could question what I meant my lips brush against his for the briefest of moments. But, it was enough to determine that his lips were, indeed, the softest and he does, in fact, taste the sweetest.

“Mmmm…I think I might get addicted to kissing you Michael.” Michael’s laugh is loud as he throws his head back in amusement. “That’s fine by me.”

“Good ‘cause I’m about to do it again.”

To me he is perfect, nobody else will do. And as of today, my best friend is finally mine.

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monstax-info · 3 years ago

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211206 [MONSTAX_JH] Talk Tok Update

낙

안녕? 나 허니야 몬베베❤️새벽에 또 글을쓰게 되넹 짐싸느라.. 늦었어 ㅠ 일단 이번활동 다 최고였어! 늘 최고였지만 또 최고였어 아니 평생 최고일거야.내가 싸인회에서 얘기했던 말이 있는데 우리 몬베베의 사랑을 이제야 정말 뼛속으로 느낀다고. 데뷔때는 그리고 연습생일때는 음악만 잘하면 또 무대만 잘하면 된다고 생각했다? 근데 그것도 중요하고 기본중 그게 가장 기본이지만 난 가수이잖아 가수는 과연 어떠한 가수가 멋진가수일까 내 롤모델 마이클잭슨처럼 모든걸 다 잘하고 겸손한 아티스트도 좋지만 말야 진정 날 사랑해주는 우리팬들 몬베베를 위해서 성대나가도록 목이 안좋아도 찢어지게 소리를 내는것,춤이 격해 호흡이 가빠서 어지러워도 정신을 차리는것,허벅지가 부셔질거같지만 끝까지 서있는것. 그리고 내가 가진 모든 재능을 주는것. 마음을 함께하는것. 온힘을 다해 사랑하는것. 그게 진정한 가수가 아닐까 생각이 들어. 7년 연습하면서 진짜 포기하고싶었던 날.어머니에게 용돈이 받기싫고 혼자의 힘으로 일어서려고 이악물었던 날. 무시받았던 날. 그런 날들과 우리에게 참 되려고 하면 무너지고 되려고하면 무너지고 우린 안되나보다. 그랬던 날 그런 모든 날들이 견고하고 단단한 우리를 만들었고 날 만들었어.

2년 8개월 만에 1위를 하고 7년만에 타이틀곡을 만들고 난 이럴수록 더욱 마음이 낮아질수밖에 없어 더욱 고개를 높이기보다 최대한 낮추고 꿈은 높게 꿀거거든.

잠못자면서 그래도 해보겠다는 우리 멤버들의 강한 눈빛들이 얼마나 멋지던지. 그래 이거야 이게 팀이고 이게 지금의 몬스타엑스를 만든거야. 그 마음을 모두 만들어준건 단 세글자 몬.베.베 이들이 우릴 만들었고 날 만들었어. 그래서 행복해. 눈앞에서 공연은 아직 못하지만 그러한 나날들을 난 상상하면서 곡을 만들고 또 만들고 또 만들었어. 상을 손으로 꼭쥐었을때 우리 몬베베가 만져봤으면 얼마나 좋을까 생각이 들더라. 앞으로도 더욱 몬베베에게 나의 마음을 잘 전달하고 매번 좋을순 없겠지만 최선을 다할거야 곡을 만드는것도 모든것들 다 말이야. 항상 생각하고 항상 뱉었던 말이 있어 내 삶의 낙을 뭘까 왜 난 매번 바쁠까 왜 난 매번 어려울까 근데 이제 그 정답을 찾은듯해 몬베베가 나의 삶의 낙이야. 진심으로 사랑하고 애정하고 좋아해.

미국 잘 다녀올게. 사랑한다 몬베베❤️

joy

hello/how are you? it's Honey monbebes❤️ I'm writing late because I was packing.. it's lateㅠ firstly, these promotions were the best! it's always been the best, but this was the best again. no it was the bestest of my life. there's something I said at fansign, and that is I now really feel Monbebes' love in my bones. When I debuted and during trainees days, I thought, do I just need to do well in music and performance? But of course that's important as well, it's the most basic thing, but well I'm a singer. I wonder what makes a singer cool? Like, my role model is Michael Jackson. I think artists who can do everything and are humble are good but for our monbebes who truly loves me, I tear my vocal chords even if not in the best condition, I come to my sense and dance so intensively even if I have short breath and feel dizzy, I stand till the end even if my thighs are about to break down. And I give out all the talents I have. And we share our hearts. And I do my best to love you. I think this is what being a singer is about. The day I wanted to give up after 7 years of practice. The day I didn't want my mom to give me money anymore and I gathered all my strength and worked hard to stand up by myself. The day I was ignored. Those day plus the days we tried to be most sincere and collapsed, tried again and collapsed again we thought maybe we really couldn't do it. Those days, all of them, made me strong and solid.

After winning first place (on Music Bank) in 2 years and 8 months and making my first title track after 7 years, the more I do the more I can't help but feel like getting more and more humble ("heart getting lower") and rather than raising my head, I'll lower it too as much as possible and dream as high as I can.

How cool were the members' strong gaze who, even though they couldn't sleep, still wanted to try. Yes, that's it, this is the team and this is what made the Monsta X we are now. What made us feel this way, it's only three syllables: "mon.be.be." you made us, you made me. So, I'm happy. We can't perform in front of you yet but I keep imagining those days and made and made songs thinking about that moment to come. When I held tight those awards tightly in my hands, I thought "how nice it would be if monbebes could touch this too". In the future as well, I'll bring my heart to monbebes more and more and, even if I can't be good every time, I'll keep doing my best, making songs and in everything as well. There's always something I think about and said "what's my joy in life? why am I always busy? why is it always so hard for me?" but I think I found the right answer to those questions now, and that is "Monbebe is my joy in life". I sincerely love you, truly love you and like you.

I'll go and come back from the US safely. Love you monbebe

translation by monstax-info

#211206 #monsta x #jooheon #fancafe: jooheon #era: no limit

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juvinadelgreko · 2 years ago

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so much (for) stardust

thought vomit

Love From The Other Side

I loved this when it came out and I love it now.

lyrics: this city always hangs a little bit lonely on me, loose, like a kid playing pretend in his father's suit. I'll never go, I just want to be invited, oh. you feel like an impostor. You need to be here, but you don't want to be. You just need that invite.

you were the sunshine of my lifetime, what would you trade the pain for? I'm not sure. and every lover's got a little dagger in their hand. Love fucking hurts. and what would you train the pain for? nothing. because it's what comes with love. give up what you love, before it does you in. But you can't!

Heartbreak Feels So Good

Is there a word for bad miracles? You get what you want, sometimes, but at what cost?

It was an uphill battle, but they didn't know, but they didn't know, we were gonna use the roads as a ramp to take off. that's the classic Pete Wentz lyricism I live for!

We'll cry later or cry now...we can dance the tears away, emancipate ourselves! Look, everyone's gonna be sad at some point, you just have to decide how and when to feel it.

Hold Me Like A Grudge

the BASS GROOVE OK PETE I hear you. I didn't know we were getting a disco record but go off kings

also Patrick was totally channeling his inner Michael Jackson for that one I just know it

favorite lyrics: I'm just a cherub riding comets through the night sky, screaming at the stars like night lights, and I love my life, love my life. and Hold me, hold me like a grudge, this world is always spinning and I can't keep up. we are so much better at holding on to pain and anger than we are to joy. in a world that moves this fast, that hits. I guess somehow we made it back with a few dreams of ours still intact, I am a diamond on the inside, just add the pressure. Know it's inside me, but I got no map, to my own treasure. I feel personally attacked by this one. I figured by now, I would have got it together. no fuckin shit pete.

Fake Out

That feeling of "if I acknowledge, touch it, or speak it into existence, that will give it the ability to be broken. so I just won't."

Favorite lyrics: do you laugh about me whenever I leave? or do just need more therapy?

It's that feeling of knowing exactly what you want, and knowing how to get it, but being so terrified of having something to lose. I don't know how, but sometimes I feel like Pete knows my entire life story when he writes shit like this. I've never met this man, he has no idea I exist, and yet the stuff he writes is the best possible articulation of everything I've ever felt. It's magical.

PATRICK'S VOCALS. TOP FUCKING NOTCH.

Heaven, Iowa

"I can't let go of this thing, because I'll lose it, but if I don't let go, I'll choke it to death. So I'm just not gonna grab it in the first place, but wait, I did, and it's a shit show, but that's...ok?"

Lyrics: save your breath, half your life you've been hooked on death. Like, yes, I am crushed under the fear of dying without making an impact on the world. thank you for asking. I will never ask you for anything except to dream sweet of me. that's just beautiful.

So Good Right Now

"I love you, so fuck it"

Patrick has really reached his full form as a vocalist and it's fucking awesome. He has poppy fills, roaring choruses, the softer side...it's a treat for the ears. When he cries, In all of my wildest dreams they just end up with you and me! UGH PATRICK YES

It's giving Walking On Sunshine in the best way.

Favorite lyrics: I've got love in my heart, so let's sneak in from the cheap seats, honey!

The Pink Seashell

uh, ok, fuck. um. let's unpack this.

The shell's empty, there's no meaning to any of this...so I take pleasure in the details.

It's a reminder we all need right now and it made me cry.

KEY FUCKIN CHANGE

I Am My Own Muse

the POWER OF PATRICK holY VOICE

he's such an underrated singer ffs the RANGE

Lyrics: So let's twist the knife again like we did last summer...i'm just trying to keep it together but it gets a little harder when it never gets better.

Like, why would I bother continuing to work forward if it only causes me more pain than what I'm trying to escape? It's so easy to forget what you're working for when it inches further and further away. You just wanna throw it all away, like a bad luck charm, and start over.

Flu Game

This feels like a Disney villain's "I want" song and it fucks severely

Lyrics: I've got all this love i've got to keep to myself, all this effort to make it look effortless. Like, you can't ever be too emotional! You can't let anyone see! YOU HAVE TO MAKE IT! I carved out place in this world for two, but it's empty without you. Like you work so hard to make a life with the one you love that you lose them in the process and UGH HOW does PETE READ MY MIND. One day every candle's gotta run out of wax, one day no one will remember me when they look back. I can't stop, can't stop, till we catch all your ears though, somewhere between Mike Tyson and Van Gogh god that's such a clever way to phrase the crippling fear of being insignificant. "somewhere between Mike Tyson and Van Gogh" that's such a fucking Pete line good god

Baby Annihilation

THE RETURN OF PETE'S MONOLOGUING I AM LIVING

Time is luck and I wish ours overlapped more or for longer god that made me fucking sob. But you know what they say, if you want a job done right, you gotta do it yourself. You can't stay, BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO MAKE IT. but fuck that! nothing matters! be happy!

Like I said, this man reaches right into the most aching parts of me and gives them a voice and I don't know how he does it.

The Kintsugi Kid (Ten Years)

"where did the time go and when the fuck did everything get real?"

lyrics: I miss the way that I felt nothing, nothing, na-na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na or whatever the fuck

Those na-na-na's tickle my brain just right man holy shit

Suddenly I grew up and I don't know when but goddamit everything is real now and it hurts so i just wanna scream NA NA NA NA

What A Time To Be Alive

This is the one about how Constant Access to Everything has completely fucked our brains

everything is lit, except my serotonin. Because you get all this shit slung at you in the news and it winds you up emotionally in every way except the good one! So now you're cracking up!

lyrics: they say I should try meditation but I don't want to be alone with my own thoughts, it never felt that much like medication, I just want to be your cherry on top. the neurodivergent in me feels very seen by this lyric so thank you. like i just want to be good but I cannot!!!

When, when, when I said 'leave me alone' this isn't quite what I meant, I got the quarantine blues, bad news, what's left? so it seems the vulture's getting too full to fly. Like I just wanted a moment of peace not a full scale meltdown of society!

So Much (For) Stardust

I feel like something that's been stretched out over and over again, until I'm creased and I'm about to break down the middle, split me right down the middle, right, right, right, down the middle.

So much for stardust, we thought we had it all, thought we had it all. only to realize that none of it really matters. So we have to decide what does, and that's fucking hard.

Ache it till you make it...BUT WHEN DO YOU MAKE IT???

Like a sledgehammer to a disco ball...we were a hammer to the statue of David

Ok ok but the contrast there: when a disco ball shatters, it's pretty. When you shatter the statue of David, you're destroying something legendary, a standard of perfection. We only want to allow the forms of destruction that are harmless and beautiful. Not the ones we need.

Shit, man. Thought we had it all. But it turns out that we have to decide what it is. and that's fucking hard.

also, HORNS!

I've loved this band for going on a decade, and I don't know how they manage to keep writing albums that are perfectly in line with where I'm at in life when I need them most. It's incredible and I'll never get tired of it. god bless them.

#fall out boy #fob #so much (for) stardust #smfs

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sundaysundaes · 4 years ago

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My Words, Your Thoughts (Teaser)

Lee Donghyuck/Haechan X Reader | Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Smut | Soulmate AU, Friends-to-Lovers AU

Part of the beautiful ‘Aubade’ collaboration hosted by @hyucksie

Synopsis: As an introvert, you are familiar with the silence. Drowning yourself deep in your thoughts has been a habit you’ve become addicted to. Your life begins to change, however, ever since the day you turned twenty. Suddenly, there’s this song that’s stuck in your head, and no matter how much you yearn to hear your thoughts or be comforted by the silence, it keeps on playing. You only get to find the answer to your problem when a young, cute barista hands you a cup of coffee one day, with that song’s lyrics written on the side. And you realize that you’re not the only one who’s been hearing voices in your head.

Warnings: explicit sex, expletives, mentions of physical abuse and astraphobia (not for the main characters)

WC (Teaser): 4k

Release Date: June 27, 2021, 10 AM KST

It’s weird. It’s so weird.

It’s weird that you’ve been hearing this song replaying over and over again in your head when you’re sure you’ve never listened to it before. It’s also weird because sometimes the song sounds like the ones you often hear about on the radio—complete with instrumental accompaniment and everything—but most of the time, it just sounds like someone is humming to it. Sometimes quietly, but more often than not, vehemently like they’re having a concert in the shower, not caring if the neighbors might hear.

As someone who rarely listens to mainstream music, you don’t keep up with the trend these days but the tunes are catchy enough that you think, maybe, it’s one of those Justin Bieber’s songs people always talk about. You’re not fond of it, though, so even if you’ve heard it somewhere in a cafe or a mall, there’s very little chance you’ll be humming it in your head.

And yet, it keeps on playing.

It gets worse when it goes on for a whole day—a whole fucking day—that your brain feels like it’s seconds away from bursting into pieces. It doesn’t even sound like your voice. It seems like it belongs to a male, a bit light and a pitch higher than most. Though it sounds pleasant, the voice is unfamiliar to your ears and that’s what bothers you the most.

Trying your best to escape, you plug in your AirPods to your earholes, choosing one of the most beloved tracks from your playlist—today, it’s Bloom by The Paper Kites—to help you relax as you lie down on your bed. But no matter how many times you turn up the volume—it’s practically turning you deaf, ironically—you can still hear that one goddamn song playing.

“Oh my God,” you groan, projecting a murderous glare at the ceiling of your room before you shriek all of your heart’s content to your pillow. “Make it stop!”

This has been going on ever since your twentieth birthday and it’s been three months since then—three months of suffering, to be exact. Fortunately for you, you haven’t been listening to the same song for those amount of time—God, you would’ve killed yourself if that was the case. The song changes without warning. It can change ten times within a day, or stay the same for ten days. You have never heard of these songs except for the popular ones, and even then, you only ever listened to snippets as they don’t suit your taste.

So… It doesn’t make sense that you could recite the whole lyrics, does it?

And yet, you can.

Somehow, you already know every word, every tune, even every ad-lib in these songs and it both amazes and creeps you out. It’s as if somebody else is singing about it in their mind, and you, somehow, are mentally connected to them.

But that’s surely not the case, right?

With more days passing by, as your brain deteriorates little by little, you start to think that maybe that is the case.

Or maybe you’re just going crazy.

It’s nine in the morning and your eyes are bleary from how you involuntarily skipped sleep last night. With the loudest sigh and your half-charged MacBook sitting still in your backpack, you let your wobbly legs carry you to the nearest coffee shop. There’s a new Starbucks store opening just a couple of blocks away from your apartment and it’s perfect since you’re going to pass it every day on your way to college.

You’re not excited though, not when you have Michael Jackson’s Man in The Mirror playing in your head for the, approximately, thirty-fifth time that day. And it’s only nine in the fucking morning.

When you enter the coffee shop, greeted by a cute Christmas tree and festive decorations spreading all over the place even when it’s still three weeks away from the holiday, you almost weep in joy when the song stops playing in your head. It does happen from time-to-time, sometimes it stops for a few hours before it starts again with the same song or an entirely different one. But in most cases, it only pauses for a few minutes which just doubles the torture whenever you’re trying to concentrate on your paperwork.

“Hi.” You display a timid smile at a female barista, slightly wincing when the song in your head starts blaring again, as expected. It’s still the same song this time—so that thirty-sixth by now, Jesus Christ—but instead of someone humming it, it’s the original version that plays. You’re having trouble focusing on her greeting when the sound of a synthesizer echoes through your ear, stridently so. “I would like a tall skinny latte with a double shot, please.”

“Would you like anything else to accompany your drink?”

Perhaps a gun to blow my head off? “No, thanks. That’d be all for me.”

“Is that for here or to go?”

You take a quick scan of your surroundings. You still have an hour before your first class starts and since the place isn’t that crowded, you figure you might as well just spend some time here. “For here.”

You tell her your name and slide down your card to complete the payment. “All right. We will call your name once your order is ready.”

“Fantastic. Thanks.” As the female barista takes an order from another customer, you drag yourself to an empty seat in the corner of the room, next to the glassy window where you can glance at passersby. You lay your head down on the table, cheek pressed against the wooden surface, lower lip jutting out in weariness. You’re drowsy and you want to think about the snow that’s probably gonna fall sometimes near Christmas’ Day and maybe the sight of a warm fireplace where you can cozy up with your imaginary boyfriend (also known as Jung Jaehyun—that one perfect boy who lives just across of your hallway), but no, unfortunately for you, you no longer have any space left in your brain since Michael Jackson is performing a damn concert and it doesn’t seem like he’s gonna stop anytime soon.

“I’m starting with the man in the mirror…” Great, now you’re singing it. “I’m asking him to change his ways…”

The music in your head abruptly stops again but before you can close your eyes to finally enjoy your silence, a familiar voice chimes in.

“It’s a great song, isn’t it?”

Shocked, you quickly lift your head to identify a male barista placing down a cup of your ordered latte on your table. You swear you recognize his voice but his face doesn’t ring a bell.

“Hi,” he greets, smiling a bit sheepishly. “I don’t usually bring orders directly to the table but I think I misheard your name so I couldn’t call you out from there.”

“That’s, umm, that’s okay…” You hide the bottom half of your face behind your scarf as you’re not used to talking to a stranger, especially one that looks overwhelmingly pretty. “What did you think my name was?”

“Umm…” He rubs the back of his nape awkwardly. “I don’t think you want to know. It was a bit… inappropriate.”

“R-right…” You glance at the cup. “It says ‘Michael.’”

He chuckles but with only a slight hint of amusement in it. “Yeah, sorry about that. I had to come up with something and it was the first thing that came to mind.”

“And it has…” Your eyes widen when you notice the words he’s written on the side of your cup. It’s not a greeting, it’s not a motivational sentence, it’s the fucking lyrics to Michael Jackson’s Man in The Mirror.

“Yeah, okay, so—” Noticing the appalled look on your face, he hurriedly tries to reason out. “I’ve had this song stuck in my head all day long—I just listened to it a minute ago while making your order—and the lyrics are just so inspirational so I decided to write that down. I hope that’s not too weird.” Then he laughs a little, a tad more genuinely this time. “But I heard you singing that song just now. What are the chances, right?”

You swallow hard. He’s been thinking about that song too? Listened to it a minute ago? What are the chances of this is happening? Is he the one whose voices I’ve been hearing in my head—

The male barista abruptly takes a step back, his tray nearly slipping out of his hold. He has a hand pressed against his ear, eyes blinking several times in disbelief. “Holy shit.”

“Excuse me?”

“You—” He splutters, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I can’t believe it’s real.”

“What?” The way he seems like he’s looking at a ghost sends goosebumps all over your skin. “What is it?”

“Think about something.”

“Umm—” What is he talking about?

This time he gapes, his jaw dropping low. “Holy shit, I can really hear you. Think about something else—think about me.”

“Look, I don’t know you and you’re being weird.” The sudden change of conversation baffles you but when his words sink in, you can’t stop yourself from thinking about him as he orders. He’s cute, his entire features are cute—you’ve noticed that from the first second you laid your eyes on him, but what catches your eyes the most is his lips—the way they’re shaped so beautifully, like a cupid’s bow—

“You’re thinking about my lips? Seriously?” He asks, but might as well splash cold water to your face. “If you said something about my eyes, sure, I mean, they are attractive. One might even say that God Himself took the stars from the sky and put them in my eyes—but my lips? Huh, that’s new.”

You loudly gasp when you’re finally aware of the situation, hands flying to your face to cover your gaping mouth. “You can hear my thoughts!”

“And you can hear mine too!” He points out, and as startled as you are from the previous realization, you instantly frown upon his words.

“I don’t think so,” you reply. “I can only hear—”

“Donghyuck-ah!” Another barista comes to interrupt from the other side of the room. “We didn’t pay you to flirt, come back here!”

“I wasn’t flirting!” He shouts back, tips of his ears reddening. When he turns to you again, he has a prominent scowl on his face which makes you squirm on your feet. “We need to talk about this. My break is in an hour, do you think you can wait?”

It sounds more like an order than a request. “B-but I have a class in an hour.”

“Skip it.”

It takes all the strength in your body to be brave enough to retort back with, “Why don’t you skip your work?”

“I’m already half-done with my work, I can’t bail out now.” He rolls his eyes. Suddenly, his courteousness just vanishes without a trace. “Look, I’ve been hearing your thoughts for months now and I have a lot to complain to you about.”

You grimace. “It’s not like I can control my thoughts—”

“I know, I’m not blaming you.” He picks up the tray, his gaze softening but only slightly. “I just want to complain. You’ve been driving me crazy these past few months.”

You glance away, pouting. Wow, he surely knows how to befriend a stranger.

“I can hear you, you know.” He sighs as if talking to you is exhausting, when it should be the other way around. “Look, I’m sure you’ve been going through the same thing. Don’t you want this to stop?”

You’re not wasting any second. “Yes, please.”

“Then wait for me. We’ll talk this through.” He pivots on his heels, his tray glued to his side. When you can finally breathe properly, exhausted from the social interaction as you sink back to your seat, the barista—Donghyuck—adds, “Oh, as you wait. Can you please stop thinking about my lips? Or just how cute I am in general? It’s sweet but I gotta concentrate so I won’t write another Michael on my next order.”

You slam your forehead down the table, face aflame. “I-I’ll try.”

“Thanks.”

***

“You just can’t stop thinking about my lips, can you?” Is the first thing Donghyuck states out as soon as he’s approached your table. He runs a hand through his brown hair, which looks out-worldly fluffy that you begin to wonder what kind of hair product he’s been using. “Or my hair.”

Mortified, you mumble out, “I’m sorry,” with half of your face covered by your hands. The more I try not to think about his lips, the more I do—shit, is he hearing this too—

“Yes,” Donghyuck says, but this time with an amused smile. “Man, I didn’t know my lips were that appealing to ladies. You’re gonna make me blush.”

Well, he’s making you blush for sure. “Would it be too much to ask for you to stop listening to my thoughts?”

“Believe me, woman, I’ve tried.” He groans, taking his apron off before he sits in front of you. He loosens up his collar, unbuttoning two buttons of his white shirt—which is two more than necessary to your liking—and you have to gaze away before another thought forms inside your head about a certain part of his body.

“Sorry if I came on too strong before. I’m Lee Donghyuck,” he introduces formally, offering you his hand. You reply with your name but you’re reluctant to shake his hand since you’re sure you’re breaking into a cold sweat, and an overly sweaty palm doesn’t really scream attractive—

“It’s literally just a handshake,” he says, stifling down a laugh. “I’m not gonna start judging you about it. You’re cute, sweaty palms or not.”

You nearly choke. “If I can’t ask you to stop listening to my thoughts, can you please be quiet about them?”

“That’s also impossible since talking is an integral part of my charm.” He leans back to his chair. “I’m pretty good with my mouth.”

That was… a poor choice of words, you think, as you stare at his lips and can’t help but wonder what can that mouth do other than talking. You take a bite of the bagel you just ordered, desperately trying to avert your attention.

“It wasn’t a poor choice of words.” He winks. “I did mean that in every way possible.”

This time, you really are choking.

“Okay, so what’s happening to us?” Donghyuck questions, after you manage to shed a tear or two during your attempt in relieving your throat. “Why have I been hearing your thoughts? I don’t even know you.”

“Same here.” You’re still going through a hard time keeping eye contact with him, but with more seconds passing by—and him pronouncing every bit of your thoughts out in the open—the knots inside your chest begin to loosen. “Ever since I turned twenty, I’ve been hearing these songs playing in my head that I’d never even heard of.”

“Never heard of?” Donghyuck snorts. “What, you never listen to Billboard’s top forty?”

You weakly shrug. “I prefer indie music better. Or instrumentals.”

“I would say that you have a soul of an old lady but the way you’ve been thinking about my lips reminds me of my sister who’s going through puberty.”

“Okay, this isn’t fair.” You shake your head, ashamed and tired of being humiliated over something you can’t fix. “Why can you hear my thoughts but I can’t hear yours?”

“Believe me, you’re much better off this way.” His face contorts in pain which makes you feel somewhat sorry if he’s not constantly being an ass about it. Hearing your insult, he notes, “Also, I’d prefer to be called with terms of endearment in the future, if that’s okay with you. Something like Babe or Darling.” The way he raises his eyebrow is just strictly illegal. “And in return, I’ll call you Sweetheart.” But before you can say anything—or run toward a running bus to put an end to this endless humiliation—he questions, “Wait, when you hear the songs I’ve been thinking in my head, does it sound like the original version of the song, or like me singing it?”

Finally, a proper conversation. “If you’re listening to the actual music, I can hear the original song as if I’m hearing it through my headphones. But when you’re just thinking about it, well, I‘ve never heard you sing, but,” you decide to tease him back—which startles you from how blatant you’re being. “From how amateur and pitchy this voice sounded in my head, I think I’ve been hearing yours.”

“Cute.” He scrunches up his nose. “Okay, let’s try again. Can you hear what song running through my head now?”

You stiffen, sitting in silence. After a few seconds pass by with only you exchanging stern stares at each other, your eyes gleam with a spark of hope. “Wait, I can’t hear you. Does this mean it stops? Because we’ve met in person?”

“Sadly no, because I was just thinking about how silly you looked when you choked over your food earlier.” He chuckles to himself and sends you another wink when you degrade him in your head. “Okay, let’s try again.”

“For real this time?”

“For real this time, Sweetheart.” He closes his eyes, holding back a smile when he catches how you flinch a little at his pet name for you. This time, you really do hear him humming inside your mind. “Don’t tell me by words,” he immediately adds, “Just think about them.”

Heaving a sigh, you close your eyes too. I’ve heard this song somewhere.

“If you’ve never heard about this song, I will literally cry and apologize to the world on your behalf.”

Be quiet, please, I’m trying to concentrate.

“Worried that you’d be thinking about my lips again?”

You almost fall from your seat. Almost. Okay, you’re singing to… You knit your eyebrows together as you provide your best effort to remember the tunes. You’re singing to Super Mario Bros theme song?

“Correct.” He taps his fingers to the table, simpering. “This is actually pretty cool. We can be, like, partners in crime or something.”

You shudder. “Please don’t tell me you’re an actual criminal.”

“If looking this handsome is a crime then I am, yes. Guilty as charged.” He makes a kissy face when you think about throwing the rest of your bagel to his head. “You look like someone who writes fan-fiction about their idols having sappy first kisses in your spare time but you’re actually pretty wild in your head, aren’t you?” He loves seeing your reactions, you know that, so you give your all in trying to act nonchalant. “Now, let’s try again. Did you bring your headphones with you?”

You check your coat’s pocket. “I got my AirPods.”

“Perfect. Put them on and play something from your phone.” As someone who’s pretty carefree, he can get serious at times. “Play as loud as you can until you feel like you’re going deaf.”

“I’ve tried that many times.” You nearly wail at the memory. “But it’s hard to drown your voice since it comes from inside my head.”

“Yeah, I know that. I’ve been hearing your thoughts too, remember? Don’t you think I would at least try something like that?” You narrow your eyes menacingly at him but he simply waves you off. “Anyway, that’s not what I’m trying to do. Put them on and you’ll see.”

He’s ordering you around. He just met you and he’s ordering you around. Socializing with people in general already zaps your energy pretty quickly, so socializing with a brat—

“I’ll grow on you, don’t worry.” He smirks and you take a mental note to really learn how to control your thoughts this time.

You follow his lead, as requested, connecting your AirPods to your phone and play something relaxing—because God knows how desperately you need it—as loudly as you can bear. Okay, go try… whatever it is that you want to try.

He smiles and shifts slightly on his seat, facing the window. His eyes glimmer under the light when he parts his lips, mouthing some words—no, singing something that you can’t hear.

Wait. I can’t hear?

Donghyuck glances at you, a grin breaking further on his lips upon hearing your thought. He gestures to you to take your AirPods away and you nod. Vacation Manor’s You promptly fades as his voice enters, and it’s weird because you’ve heard him sing in your head so many times yet it doesn’t do justice to how beautiful he sounds in real life.

It’s almost angelic, the sound he makes, which is kind of ironic for a little devil that he is. His honeyed voice is soothing, almost like the patter of rain on your window at dawn, lulling you back to sleep. You’re no expert in music but to you, he sounds impeccable that you run out of words to describe how pleasant his voice is to your ears. It’s so distinct, soulful—

Donghyuck giggles. “Thanks.”

—and annoying. “Okay, so what happened?” You try to divert the topic. “I can’t hear you when you’re singing out loud, but I can hear it when you’re thinking about a song?”

“I guess so.” He furrows his eyebrows, deep within his thoughts. “I figured it out when I couldn’t hear your thoughts whenever you spoke out loud. I think we can work from this?”

“So instead of thinking about what I have to say, I should focus more on saying what I want to say?” You shake in horror. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“What, you don’t like talking?”

“I’m…” You swallow your breath. “I’m not really good at that.”

“You’re talking to me just fine now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, because you make it so easy.”

“Aaw,” he purrs, a lopsided smile painting his face. “Thanks, Sweetheart.”

“No.” You hold up a hand. “I mean, since you can hear my thoughts, I have no other choice but to speak. Also, you seem like you’re the type who just says whatever that comes to mind without worrying too much about my feelings—”

“Hey, now you’re just making me sound rude—”

“You are rude,” You emphasize. “But it works well with me because then I don’t have to hold myself back and pretend to be somebody else.”

“Why do you have to pretend?” He frowns. “Because you’re afraid people are gonna hate you? Judge you on your words?”

“It’s…” You look away, nibbling on your bottom lip. “I just… I’m trying to be a good person so people will like me—”

“I like you,” he says casually as if he was talking about having a cute Pomeranian as a pet, and there you are, almost fainting in your seat. “I mean, in the last forty minutes I’ve known you, I think you’re great the way you are. You don’t have to be good, you just have to be you.” He shifts closer, crossing his arms on the table, and lays his chin on them, gazing up at you with a soft smile that doesn’t match well with his previous attitude. “Don’t you think it’s great if people accept you the way you are?”

You hurriedly take a sip of your coffee, pretending to swallow even if it’s already empty. “You’re… not so bad yourself.”

“What was that?”

“Okay, well I think I should go.” There’s no way you’re gonna repeat that. Donghyuck titters, taking a hold of your wrist when you’re about to stand up from your seat.

“We still have loads to talk about.” You observe the way his fingers linger around your arm, his sun-kissed skin feels silky smooth against your own. “Why don’t we have lunch together? My treat?”

“D-don’t you have work to do?”

“I’ll make an excuse.”

A barista with the word Jeno written on his name tag walks by and slaps Donghyuck on the back of his head as if it’s something he’s done on a daily basis—probably is. “You’re not going anywhere, asswipe, get back to work.”

When the brunette boy turns to you, he winces. “Or maybe you can give me your number so we can meet up later?”

***

A/N: I’m both nervous and excited for this as this is my first collaboration. Thank you so much, Denise, for having me on this wonderful collab!

#haechan smut #haechan fluff #haechan angst #haechan x reader #haechan collab #haechan scenarios #haechan imagines #nct smut #nct fluff #nct imagines #nct scenarios #nct angst #nct 127 #nct dream #haechan drabbles

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piratewithvigor · 4 years ago

Text

My first thought in regard to every band that gets played on my radio station

ACDC: Every dad’s favourite band

Adams, Bryan: Every mom’s favourite singer until Michael Buble came along

Aerosmith: haha they thought Vince Neil was a lady

Alice Cooper: he’s a Game Of Thrones fanboy and I have proof

Alice In Chains: my sister doesn’t like them because she decided AC were Alice Cooper’s initials ONLY

Allman Brothers Band: good music for dropping acid to

Allman, Gregg: That’s too many Gs for one name

Animals: House Of The Rising Sun, or who even cares

Argent: Sometimes Hold Your Head Up is really catchy

Asia: Tuesdays

Autograph: one of the members went on to be a pharmacist

Bachman-Turner Overdrive: There are just so many pop culture jokes about Taking Care Of Business that whatever I say won’t be as funny

Bad Company: with their song; Bad Company, off their album; Bad Company

Benatar, Pat: Always getting her confused with Patti Smith

Black Crowes: I like them for Lickin, but it doesn’t seem to exist outside of one shoddy video on youtube and my old CD

Blackfoot: this band name feels kind of racy

Black Sabbath: Dio was not better or worse than Ozzy; just different

Blondie: I like Call Me, but Blondie confuses me stylistically

Blue Oyster Cult: MORE COWBELL

Bon Jovi: Hello, childhood trauma, I missed you

Boston: ONE GUY. ONE GUY DID IT ALL AND NO ONE KNOWS

Bowie, David: Don’t let your children watch The Man Who Fell To Earth, or David Bowie’s will end up being the third penis they see in life

Browne, Jackson: Another musician ruined by Supernatural

Buffalo Springfield: Jack Nicholson was at the riot they sing about

Burdon, Eric: no ideas, brain empty

Bush: ditto

Candlebox: ditto once more. Who are these people?

Cars: This band feels so gay and so straight at the same time, I can only assume they’re the poster children of bisexual panic

Cheap Trick: I played Dream Police on Guitar Hero so fucking much because it was the only song anyone who played with me could keep up with

Chicago: Chicago 30 exists, but they do not have 30 albums. Fucking riddle me that

Clapton, Eric: 6 discs in one Greatest Hits is too many. That’s called “re releasing your discography”

Cochrane, Tom: For some reason, everyone thinks Rascal Flats did it better

Cocker, Joe: Belushi did it right

Collective Soul: who?

Collins, Phil: If his biggest hits were done by MCR, they would be emo anthems, but because he’s 5′6″ and from the 80s, they’re not

Cream: *Vietnam flashbacks on the hippie side*

CCR: *Vietnam flashbacks on the war side*

CSNY: David Crosby; meh

Deep Purple: THEY’RE SO MUCH MORE THAN SMOKE ON THE WATER

Def Leppard: the only music for when you’re a heartbroken bitch but also a sexy one

Derek And The Dominos: Clapton and ‘Layla’ broke up

Derringer, Rick: Tom Petty if he was from the midwest

Dio: You thought it was an anime reference, but it was me, Dio

Dire Straits: You can tell how bigoted a radio station is based on how much of Money For Nothing they censor

Doobie Brothers: I have yet to smoke weed, but I listen to the Doobies, and I think that’s pretty close

Dylan, Bob: I take back everything I said about him in my youth

Eagles: Hotel California isn’t their best song, but the memes that come from it are second to none

Edgar Winter Group: @the--blackdahlia

Electric Light Orchestra: Actually an orchestra and sound a fuckton like George Harrison

ELO: I really hesitate to ask what happens with the 7 virgins and a mule

Essex, David: no prominent memories of him

Fabulous Thunderbirds: cannot spell

Faces: Who on earth thought that was a good album name?

Faith No More: I got nothing

Fixx: One Thing Leads To Another is a damn bop

Fleetwood Mac: I ain’t straight, but I’m simply not enough of a witch to enjoy them to full potential

Fogerty, John: He got sued cause he sounded like himself

Foghat: Slow Ride slowly becoming less coherent feels like a drug trip

Foo Fighters: He was just excited to buy a grill

Ford, Lita: deserved better

Foreigner: dramatically overplayed

Frampton, Peter: a masterful user of the talk box

Free: dramatically underplayed

Gabriel, Peter: leaving Genesis changed him a lot

Genesis: if someone likes Genesis, clarify the era, because yes, it does matter

Georgia Satellites: sing like you have a cactus in your ass

Golden Earring: Twilight Zone slaps, but it doesn’t slap as hard as this station thinks it does

Grand Funk Railroad: Funk

Grateful Dead: I like their aesthetic more than their music

Great White: there are so many fucking shark jokes

Greenbaum, Norman: makes me think of Subway for some reason

Green Day: the first of the emo revolution

Greg Kihn Band: RocKihnRoll is literally the most clever album name I’ve ever seen

Guns N Roses: They have more than three good songs, but radio stations never recognize that

Hagar, Sammy: I’m still trying to figure out where he lived to take 16 hours to get to LA driving 55 and how fucking fast was he driving beforehand?

Harrison, George: He went from religious to rock, and if he had continued rocking, he would have gotten too cool

Head East: I respect people who use breakfast foods as album names

Heart: Magic Man and Barracuda are played at least once every goddamn day. They’re not even the best songs!

Hendrix, Jimi: I have both a cousin and a sibling named after Hendrix references

Henley, Don: Dirty Laundry gives me too much inspiration

Hollies: Somehow sound like they’re both from the 60s and the 80s at the same time

Idol, Billy: he’s doing well for himself

INXS: Terminator vibes

Iris, Donnie: knockoff Roy Orbison

James Gang: too many funks

Jane’s Addiction: if TMNT had a grunge band representative

Jefferson Airplane: *assorted cheers*

Jefferson Starship: *assorted boos*

Jethro Tull: The only band to make you feel not cool enough to play the flute

Jett, Joan: icon

J. Geils Band: I requested them on the radio once and it got played

Joel, Billy: he really did just air everybody’s business like that

John Cafferty And The Beaver Brown Band: literally wtf is that name

John, Elton: yarn Elton sits in my basement, unstaring. Please someone take him from me

Joplin, Janis: Queen

Journey: Stop overplaying Don’t Stop Believing. It takes away from the rest of the repetoire

Judas Priest: literally started the gay leather aesthetic

Kansas: another fucking band Supernatural stole

Kenny Wayne Shepherd: the man confuses me to the point where he isn’t in the right place alphabetically

Kiss: Mick Mars and I will simply have to disagree on the subject

Kravitz, Lenny: runaway vibes

Led Zeppelin: Fucking fight me if you don’t think they’re the most talented band (maybe not the most talented individually, but collectively, no one comes close)

Lennon, John: My least favourite Beatle for reasons

Live: I got nothin

Living Colour: slap a decent amount

Loverboy: do you not get TURNT the fuck up to the big Loverboy hits? Who hurt you??

Lynyrd Skynyrd: Sweet Home Alabama is a Neil Young diss track

Marshall Tucker Band: no opinion

Manfred Mann’s Earth Band: VERY STRONG OPINIONS THAT THEY AREN’T GOOD

McCartney, Paul/Wings: Power couple

Meatloaf: I have nothing but respect for a man who willingly named himself Meatloaf

Mellencamp, John: voted cutest lesbian of 1987

Metallica: I liked their appearance on Jimmy Fallon

Midnight Oil: I get them confused for Talking Heads a lot

Modern English: who?

Molly Hatchet: Hollies vibes, but also Georgia Satellites vibes

Money, Eddie: DAN AVIDAN, IF YOU SEE THIS, COVER TAKE ME HOME TONIGHT

Motley Crue: Stan Mick Mars and John Corabi. They’re the only ones who deserve it

Mott The Hoople: no one loves them except for David Bowie

Mountain: props for naming an album ‘Climbing’

Nazareth: I want to make a John Mulaney joke here, but I can never come up with one

Nicks, Stevie: witch queen

Night Ranger: I get them confused with Urge Overkill

Nirvana: Kurt Cobain was the ally grunge needed

Nova, Aldo: he’s Canadian, at least

Nugent, Ted: *serves a ghost as jerky*

Offspring: nothing here

Osbourne, Ozzy: this bitch crazy

Outfield: Your Love is kind of a sketchy song, but it slaps hard

Palmer, Robert: low quality Eddie Money

Pearl Jam: *grunts in Eddie Vedder*

Petty, Tom: I have so many feelings about Tom Petty and they are all good

Pink Floyd: which one is Pink?

Plant, Robert: solo career is a crapshoot, but his voice is unparalleled

Poison: I want them to write a song called ‘Alice Cooper’

Pretenders: I want to say good things, but I have nothing to say

Queen: A doctor of astrophysics, a screaming girl, a disco queen and a diva walk into a bar. It’s Queen; they’re there to play a gig

Queensryche: neutral opinion

Quiet Riot: they got big because of a song they hated. I love that

Rafferty, Gerry: the second-sexiest sax opening in all of music

Rainbow: Ritchie Blackmore created something very magnificent

Ram Jam: one good song and they didn’t even write it

Ratt: I’m sure they have more than Round And Round, but I don’t know it

RHCP: funky, but if you have paid money to hear them, you’re going to The Bad Place (I don’t make the rules)

Red Rider: basically Golden Earring

Reed, Lou: Walk On The Wild Side would be such a cool song if it wasn’t so dull

REM: American Tragically Hip

REO Speedwagon: Props for having a dad joke as an album title

Rolling Stones: Never in my life could I imagine the drummer being named anything but Charlie

Rush: How to make being uncool the coolest fucking shit

Santana: The world needs more Santana

Scandal: There’s something really funny about The Warrior being my brother’s “song” with his girlfriend

Scorpions: Was Wind Of Change written by the CIA? Only the spotify podcast I got an ad for once could say

Seger, Bob: A different variety of Eric Clapton (frankly a better variety, but that’s just me)

Simple Minds: we ALL forgot about you

Skid Row: Sebastian Bach is prettier than all of us

Soundgarden: music that makes you feel like you dunked your head underwater

Springsteen, Bruce: my arch-nemesis. Maybe someday, he’ll find out about it

Squeeze: according to my friends, the stupidest band name ever, but they’re theatre kids, so you know

Squier, Billy: If he can make it through 1984 alive, you can make it through whatever bad day you’re having

Stealers Wheel: Yet another band who I always mistake for George Harrison

Steely Dan: my house’s nickname for the Robber in Settlers Of Catan

Steppenwolf: Either makes me think of Jay & Silent Bob, Jack Nicholson, or that time I had to cut 6lbs of onions

Steve Miller Band: when you’re in the right mood, they slap hard

Stewart, Rod: my soundtrack to summer 2015

Stills, Stephen: Love The One You’re With Is Catchy, but the lyrics are questionable

Stone Temple Pilots: the only band to write a song about goo you smear on yourself

Stray Cats: an obscene amount of merch is available for them

Styx: Supernatural would have ruined them for me too if I hadn’t been into them previously.

Supertramp: I hunted for Breakfast In America for two years and it was worth every hunt

Sweet: I will never understand my two-month obsession with Ballroom Blitz when I was 15, but it was legit all I listened to

Talking Heads: you may find yourself in a pizza hut. And you may find yourself in a taco bell. And you may find yourself at the combination pizza hut and taco bell. And you may ask yourself; ‘how did I get here?’

Temple Of The Dog: I keep confusing them for Nazareth

Ten Years After: somehow still relevant

Tesla: not the car or the dude

The Beatles: Evokes a lot of opinions from people. Mine is that I love them

The Clash: I showed my sister the ‘Lock The Taskbar’ vine ONCE and it still kills her

The Doors: evokes teenage terror from deep within my soul

The Guess Who: Canada’s answer to confusing question-themed band names

The Kinks: kinky

The Police: wrote the theme of 2020 and everyone somehow forgot it was about a teacher resisting becoming a pedophile

The Ramones: playing all of their songs in a row wouldn’t take more than 2 hours

The Romantics: you don’t think you know them, but if you’ve seen Shrek 2, you have

The Who: If someone can explain Tommy to me, I’d be glad to hear it

The Zombies: I think they happened because of the 60s

Thin Lizzy: Could the boys maybe leave town?

Thorogood, George: blues, but make it modern

Toto: the most memed song behind All Star

Townshend, Pete: just makes me think of the end of Mr. Deeds

T-Rex: Mark Bolan is an icon

Triumph: The no-name brand of Rush

Tubes: like the yogurt

Twisted Sister: they did a christmas album and my mom does NOT hate it

U2: U2 Movers; we move in mysterious ways

Van Halen: RIP Eddie

Van Morrison: honestly, who’s named Van?

Vaughn, Stevie Ray: Steamy Ray Vaughn

Walsh, Joe: The Smoker You Drink The Player You Get

War: Foghat, but even groovier

Whitesnake: the most successful band to be named after a penis

Wright, Gary: the 90s thanks him for writing the song every movie used for the “guy sees cute girl and it’s love at first sight” scene

Yes: To Be Continued

Young, Neil: The best part of CSNY

Zevon, Warren: the album cover of Excitable Boy makes me deeply uncomfortable for reasons I don’t understand

ZZ Top: has been the same three guys since 1969. Lineup unchanged.

3 Doors Down: They feel a little modern to be on a classic rock station, but whatever

38 Special: Why 38?

#I made this instead of doing homework #Classic Rock #Meme

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tsarisfanfiction · 1 year ago

Text

Braids: Chapter 2

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: Michael Yew, Apollo Cabin I know it's a fluff fic but we do have some grumpy Michael in this one, which brings in the Michael Yew Swears A Lot tag from AO3! I have a discord server for all my fics, including this one! If you wanna chat with me or with other readers about stuff I write (or just be social in general), hop on over and say hi! Character ages this chapter: Michael - 11 Laura - 17 <<Chapter 1

2) Laura

Michael was bored. Most of the cabin were in the woods for Capture the Flag, which was a game Michael was determined to take part in one day, but so far had been banned for being “too small”, which was bullshit, in his opinion. He could still fight!

Emily had been firm, though. “It’s for your own safety,” she’d told him. “I’m sure you’ll be able to join in next summer.”

She’d said the same fucking thing last year. If she said it again next year, Michael was going to shoot her. Sometimes Emily was fine, but then sometimes she could be a real bitch. He’d tried to sneak in anyway, but his bow had disappeared and Emily had caught him and directed him away.

Chiron had offered to let him watch with him, but if Michael couldn’t join then he wasn’t going to fucking watch everyone else having a good time without him, so he had stormed into the cabin to sulk.

Sulking didn’t stop boredom, though. Michael had clambered up to his bunk, because that was his space and no-one ever came up there, but there was nothing to do. His fingers itched to at least fletch an arrow if he couldn’t shoot, but that was yet another fucking thing he wasn’t allowed to do without godsdamned supervision.

They ended up in his hair instead, tugging it out of its ponytail. It was finally long enough to tie up without looking stupid and even when he was mad at his cabin mates, the feel of his hair on the back of his neck and brushing his shoulders made him relax, a little. This felt right.

He’d braided Ceri’s hair a few times, now, but they still looked awful and Michael didn’t like that. Ceri had made it very clear that she didn’t mind – she never took the braids out until bedtime, no matter how much it unravelled – but Michael did because braids weren’t supposed to be difficult but he hadn’t really got the hang of them yet.

His fingers ran through his hair again, and he realised that with everyone else not there, he could practice without anyone judging him.

He knew his attempts at Ceri’s hair were judged, even though no-one ever said anything bad about them.

Immediately, Michael realised one problem: braiding his own hair was completely different to braiding someone else’s. He had to hold his wrists in weird positions to reach the back of his head, and he couldn’t keep the three sections apart. Whichever strands he had hanging loose kept getting tangled up with other sections, and he’d start picking up the wrong hair and turning his hair into a total knot rather than a braid.

“Fucking piece of shit,” he snarled at it as his fingers got caught up and his first attempt to retrieve them ended with his fingers completely snarled up in hair. “Fuck.”

He was so busy swearing at the wannabe braid that he missed the cabin door opening.

“Michael? Are you in here?”

“Fuck off!” he retorted instantly, not even registering who it was. “Go play your stupid game.”

His half-sister – he wasn’t sure which one without looking, but it was one of the summer campers, because he knew the year-rounders’ voices immediately now – didn’t do as she was told. Without anyone else in the cabin, her footsteps were loud against the floor and Michael tensed as the sound came to a stop by his bunk.

“What if I’d rather keep you company?” she asked, and he reluctantly looked over the edge of his bunk to see who was bothering him. Dark brown hair and pointy cheek bones belonged to Laura, one of the older girls in the cabin.

“I don’t want company,” he snapped back, which was only a lie because he wanted to be with the rest of the cabin in the forest. He didn’t want a babysitter.

The top of her head ducked down, and Michael lost track of her. “Okay,” she said from below him – fuck, was she on the empty bunk underneath his? “I’ll be here if you change your mind.” There was the sound of a page turning and Michael realised she had picked up a book from who-fucking-know-where.

Whatever.

Michael tugged at his hands again, extracting his fingers from the snare he’d made of his own hair, and he swore again because now his hair was a fucking mess and his brush was on top of his dresser, which meant he had to leave his bunk to get at it.

Fucking damn it.

Grumpily, he threw himself down the ladder far enough to lean across to grab the brush, sticking the handle in his mouth as he clambered back up again.

“You might find it easier to do a smaller braid,” Laura said suddenly and he jumped, almost losing his grip on the latter. “Ceri has a lot of hair and it’s quite a handful, but you don’t have to do it all at once.”

Michael glared through the rungs of his ladder at where she was laying on the bottom bunk, not even looking away from her book.

“So fucking what?” he demanded, and then she moved, putting a bookmark between the pages and sitting up.

“Let me show you what I mean?” she asked, but her hand was headed for his hair and fuck no, Michael hadn’t let anyone touch his fucking hair in a year and that wasn’t changing now. He scurried out of reach.

“Fuck off.”

She backed off straight away, her hand changing target and going for her own hair instead. “Okay,” she said, “how about I show you using my hair?”

As she spoke, she took a small part of her hair near her face and started twisting it into a skinny braid. Michael couldn’t follow what her fingers were doing, or why they she wasn’t dropping one of the sections constantly. She finished the whole braid without saying anything else, and it was fucking neat.

“How the fuck did you do that?” he demanded. She patted the bunk next to her.

“I’ll show you,” she said. “We’ll use my hair, don’t worry.”

Wary, but curious, Michael slunk back down his ladder and swung himself onto the bunk. She unravelled the braid she’d just done, then held out the same section of hair to him. He took it silently.

“Split it into three, the same way you do with Ceri’s hair,” Laura told him. Michael did, finding how thin each section was weird. Laura’s hair was a lot sleeker than Ceri’s, too. He held them the same way, with one section in each hand and the middle one hanging loose.

He flinched when Laura’s hands came up and hovered near his, not quite touching but fucking close. “Let me show you how to hold it?” she asked. “You might struggle with how much hair Ceri has, but for braids like these, there’s a way to do it that means you don’t keep dropping any hair.”

Michael hesitated, but he wanted to know. “Fine,” he said shortly, and watched Laura’s hands closely as they came in contact with his. Gently, she shifted his fingers until one of the sections of hair was held between his pointer and middle finger, while another was held between his thumb and finger on the same hand.

It felt fucking weird.

She made his other hand also hold the third section between his fingers. “This way, you have your thumb and finger free to grab the hair,” she explained, placing her hands over his and demonstrating. He copied her, and found himself taking one of the strands from his other hand. “Now you can cross them over like this.”

It was an awkward twist, but Michael was stubborn and determined. Laura guided him into shifting his grip on the one section left in that hand, and then they did the same thing in the reverse.

Slowly, they made their way down the braid. It still didn’t look that neat, bulky and messy at the top where he’d started, but by the time they reached the end of her hair, it was starting to look a bit like an actual braid.

Laura let him look at it for a moment, before running her fingers through it and getting rid of it. Michael’s chest ached a little, but then he blinked when she handed the section back to him again.

“Practice makes perfect,” she told him. “Do you want me to guide you through this one again, or try by yourself?”

Michael split it back into sections and tried to remember how to hold them all at once. It took him a couple of attempts, but he managed to get them awkwardly positioned between his fingers again. He didn’t answer Laura, instead launching straight into his second attempt at the braid.

Within a couple of twists, it was a mass of knots. “Fuck.”

Laura swooped in and rescued her hair, undoing Michael’s awful braiding attempt. She gave it back to him again, though. “I’ll guide you again,” she suggested, and he grumbled but agreed.

She stopped guiding him halfway through their third attempt, and Michael focused hard on making sure he got it right.

It went a bit messier, but it was some of the best braiding he’d ever done.

Laura didn’t destroy that one. Instead, she grabbed another section of hair, a bit further back on her head, and offered that to him again. “Try this one by yourself,” she suggested.

Michael fumbled the first few twists, but found the rhythm after that. He was slow, but the braid was looking like an actual fucking braid, and he was proud of that.

By the time Capture the Flag was over and their siblings came back, Laura’s hair was full of small, occasionally wonky, braids, and Michael had almost forgotten that he was upset at being forced to sit the game out.

Chapter 3>

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