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thepermanentrainpress · 1 year

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UNDER THE RADAR: JANUARY 2023

Our inaugural Under the Radar of 2023! Don’t sleep on these releases from eachothersmothers, Sindy Hoxha, Fritz Hager, joss lockwood, Other People, and Ariana Fig.

1) eachothersmothers - “Dead Daddy Disco”

A lack of a chorus doesn’t hamper “Dead Daddy Disco,” instead offering a more free flowing dialogue. In your face and impulsive vocally, I love how abrasive yet groovy it sounds as whole. The lyrics take a darker tone and speak of finding companionship with others after trauma and tragedy; recovery and reprieve is a journey that can be shared, but is ultimately personal (“Distrust takes a toll on your soul / There’s some things you can’t control”).

The band was inspired by disco and “a slight country twang,” but you can still hear their always eclectic mishmash of punk, electronic and funk. Their raw energy is perfect for their informal talk of reaction, guilt, friction, and fate. While things aren’t always well and dandy – sometimes it can be easy to release some tension, relate to good music, and just dance.

Dead Daddy Disco by eachothersmothers

Written by: Chloe Hoy

2) Sindy Hoxha - “feeling blue”

The latest single from Albanian singer and songwriter Sindy Hoxha is an alluring, deeply emotional pop-ballad akin to early Adele and recent Billie Eilish. Now based in Brooklyn, New York, Hoxha creates music regularly, seeking to bring together her cultural background with “the sad pop genre.” I feel like these influences are definitely present in “feeling blue,” a refreshing take on the genre as it strips down the production to let Hoxha’s voice pull at your heart.

Hoxha’s vocals are the star of this track with her vibrato creating a rich rumble to each line she sings. If you’ve just experienced heartbreak or loss — especially if things ended bittersweet — this song is the perfect addition to your playlist. Passionate chords on the piano are the only thing that accompany Hoxha’s harrowing lyrics and raw vocals. The single does a sad pop song well, and sings about the encompassing feeling that is releasing the sadness in a way that’s familiar.

Written by: Alexa Tarrayo

3) Fritz Hager - “Caroline”

Fritz Hager is one of my favourite American Idol contestants in recent seasons, and he’s certainly coming into his own as an artist.

On "Caroline," the narrator sheepishly pieces together the events leading up to a one-night stand—the woman’s name, too. Hager's tone is soft yet has a lot of power behind it. The guitar riffs are fun and the backbeat sunny. Our protagonist does get his happy ending – albeit humorously with a little help from the local barista (Hager’s red and blue striped Idol sweater also makes a cameo in the video!). “Caroline” is catchy, crunching pop rock with butterfly feels.

youtube

Written by: Natalie Hoy

4) joss lockwood - “lucky”

British Columbia-based vocalist, joss lockwood, explores a foray into the R&B genre with her latest decadent single, “lucky.” The song adds some diversity to lockwood’s already impressive musical palette that features pop and hyperpop. It’s a sensual track drawing comparisons to the holy trifecta of mellow girl R&B: Summer Walker, H.E.R., and SZA.

The song kicks off with atmospheric synth notes and lockwood’s vocals crooning in just before the bass hits. The beat to the song is something you’ve probably heard before, but that does not take away from the integrity of the track itself. The synth, bass, and snare create a dark but playful soundscape that compliments lockwood’s sultry vocals, making this single one for late night playlists.

Written by: Alexa Tarrayo

5) Other People - “Burning”

Vancouver post-punk outfit Other People released their new single, “Burning,” in December. Its crux is one of human nature: learning, loving and loss, always in debt to each other (“If you leave it, it’ll curl up and die / Try to have it just to say goodbye”). Frontman Mark Crickmay’s vocals are decadently ominous, while new wave synthesizers and spry angular guitars forge a rather hopeful melody. The mix of traditional and alternative sounds is humbling; melancholy, yet clinging to daylight breaking through the overcast.

Burning by Other People

Written by: Natalie Hoy

6) Ariana Fig - “Punchline”

"I can play pretend / even though you never asked / Don’t have those type of friends / cause they never seem to last.”

Fig has a smoky, contemporary feel in “Punchline,” a song of self-sabotage and deep emotion. Its power is layered in desperation and longing. While it details not wanting to be the “brunt of someone’s joke,” the attention coveted is well-intended; I see it as a lack of a healthy relationship, with needs and attachment styles that don’t align at a given time.

Her voice is rich and compelling, a depth both remorseful and soured reaching for reality and true connection. The single is an aching alternative pop, pleas understood and of importance—increased by the harsh drum beats. I like the dramatic air that follows, one that is anxious and empathetic towards the main character. Maroon is out now.

Written by: Chloe Hoy

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fandomout · 3 years

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Heyyy hope you’re well, I loved you fic. Your so talented. I just wanted to ask if you would do a part 2 of lip x reader where he realises reader was always there for him and he ruined everything with her and tries to go back to her. It can end however 💕

Lip Gallagher X Reader-Imagine trying to convince Lip that Helene, his professor, isn't the best thing for him, but he can't see the truth

@bxnnywatts , @izraahh1 , and anon thanks for suggesting a part 2. I had a lot of fun writing this, and it inspired me with some great ideas!

Also, to the anon that wanted a Lip seeing reader 10 years later. I'm working on it 😊

Lip realizes his mistake

After you left Lip to fend for himself on the ground, he could only stay on the ground and reflect. He felt slightly numb as more of the alcohol from earlier kicked in. He was feeling terrible as it is, but after what happened between you two, his stomach panged. Although he was feeling pretty helpless, it was starting to get dark out, so he sat up and took out his phone. He attempted to call you, but you hung up quickly. He sighed and rose to his feet. He called and called as he made his way through the street not really searching for any particular place, but he let his feet carry him.

Lip found his way to Kev and V’s. Both of them give an alarmed look at Lip’s state. Lip lays money on the table and says, “Keep‘em coming.” V gives Kev a stern look and motion him over to Lip. Kev nods and walks over. He serves him a pint and asks, “Everything alright, bud?” Lip down ths pint in reply. “Alright then, but you seem like you started your party earlier today .“

"Well, the party’s not over, I guess.” He taps at his glass for another one, which Kev provides. V rolls her eyes at Kev and makes her way over.

“Is there something you want to talk about, Lip?”

“V, you don’t just ask a guy-”

“I am a terrible human being. I mean no wonder Helene doesn't want to be with me, but now...now, I’ve ruined it with them too…” He lays his head sideways on the bar with a frown and closed eyes. V looks over to Kev with satisfaction on her face while Kev waved her off. Lip grabs onto the pint and starts chugging it. V grabs onto him, stopping him at a little less than half and urges, “Okay. Okay! You’ve had enough.”

“Not fair. I’m not done.”

“This is all you're getting for a while.” Lip shrugs feeling the bizz hit him quickly as he was already tipsy from the drinks he’d had earlier that day.

“Why did I have to go and say that stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“Like like-I have to take a piss.”

“Huh?” He stands up and repeats, “I have to take a piss. You-" He points accusingly to his pint glass. V caught off guard by the action. Lip goes forward and stumbles before he points once more to his glass to say, "Stay." As Lip goes into the bathroom, V can only state, “I’m worried about that child.”

Lip is quick to do his business and is on his way out until he finds himself in the mirror. He had to agree that he didn’t look like himself. He ran his hand over his face before he washed his face in aggravation. He looks to himself, but all he can see is you yelling, “You’re the worst! You don’t deserve anyone, so you certainly don’t deserve me! I’ve been there for you always! Always! How could you throw me away like nothing?! I should’ve thrown you away a long time ago! You're projecting, you're pathetic!” He sucks in a breath and whispers, “You hate me…” He looks up in hopes to see you again; however, he is only met with his own reflection and wanting nothing more than to see you again. Reality setting in that he may get the reality of not seeing you in front of him again.

With that fear, he rushes forward out of the bathroom knocking into someone’s shoulder, which causes him to fall over head first onto the ground. Everyone becomes alarmed, but Kev and V rush over. Quietly, Lip says, “I hate me too."

"Wha?" Kev asks.

"They didn't say they hated me when we talked but they should have because I mean what kind of person let alone a best friend would-Can’t lose them. I have to go to the-” V interrupts him to ask, “Hun, are you okay?”

“I can’t let them go...especially not like this.” Lip tries to get up, but Kev restraints him with the soothing words of, “Yeah, yeah, you can do that later. Right now, you’re not going anywhere.”

“I have to-Y/N-” Lip can’t resist Kev's restraint anymore than he can act like nothing happened.

Kev and V walk into the Gallagher’s house much to Fiona’s discontent. As Kev leaves Lip to sleep it off, V fills in Fiona as best she can about what happened at the bar. Fiona thanked them before going to check on Lip. He didn’t seem like he’d wake up anytime soon. She grabbed his phone for some kind of clue and saw all of the calls he’d made to you. She narrowed her eyes to the cell in her hand unsure of what could happen between you two and wastes no time in dialing you on her cell. You didn’t dare to answer her and turned your phone off. Since you weren't on good terms with Lip, you couldn’t risk another Gallagher's persuasion, so you did your best to sleep that late night.

In the morning, Lip was woken up by Ian stomping into the shared room and dropping a huge box carelessly into his lap.

“Uhmm, ow!” Lip groaned.

“Yeah. Boo hoo you and your bo bo.” Lip starts looking into the box. At first, he was unsure of the items in front of him, but he made out movie tickets, restaurant receipts, a few notes. It wasn’t until he saw a few polaroid's and photo booth pictures of him and you that he understood what the box was.

“Wha-Where did you get all this?” Ian lays a hand on his hip in reply. Lip rolls his eyes at his brother and asks, “Are you trying to tell me you have an obsession with me and Y/N?” Ian grabs the pillow on the bed and slaps Lip with it. “Why are you hitting me so much today?”

“Lip, you are an idiot!”

“What for?!”

“Jesus, this box belongs to Y/N. They kept everything between you two, like ever.” Lip looks down and remembers the last words you two exchanged.

“You go around pining for me in hope someday you’ll be the one. You’re pathetic! You can’t be the one because Colleen was! She is! You’re single because no one wants you! You try to act so high and mighty! If you're so great and talented, leave! You’re useless around here! You fucking suffocating me with your supposed love and care! Thanks so much for it! You-”

”Stop!..I get it. You don’t want me around. Get some help from a sponsor and go to the AA meetings.” Tears began to pour, and you sniffled. “You wouldn’t want to lose and hurt someone you actually care about.”

He looks to Ian and asks, “Why do you have this?” Possible answers running through his head but none of them sounding like the truth to at least not truths he wants realized.

“I found it...in the alley.” Lip sighs deeply. His heart felt like it was being wringed out. In all the years you’ve known him you always had a certain gentle touch to him. Always trying to keep from adding to his sufferings. I was something special he found in you unlike everyone else he’s ever met.

He’s taken from his thoughts by Ian asking, “What even happened between you two? They wouldn't let me in their house much less tell me what happened. I got so desperate that I was gonna try the back door when I saw the box.. Fiona mentioned that something happened between you two bu-”

”Fiona? What does she know?”

“Lip, catch up, no one knows what went down. We’d all like to know though…”

“We-uh-” Lip wipes at his drippy eyes. “We had a dispute.” He said simply and rose to his feat trying to get changed for the day. He kept his back in Ian’s view as he tried to internalize and bottle up the peering emotions.

“I figured. Are you gonna tell me about what-” Lip turned around swiftly and roared, “No!” Ian got up close to Lip and hollered, “Don’t go yelling at me! Fix your shit between the two of you!...They are my best friend too, and I know they’re hurting right now…” Lip sofens and flumps onto the bed. He ran his hands through his hair and shook his head.

“Ian, I know I hurt them. I always seem to...When they are nothing but there for me, god I really messed up. I wish-”

“Yeah. Yeah. Good stuff.” Ian picks Lip up from the bed. “While it’s fresh, don’t tell me, tell them.” Lip nods vigorously. He hurriedly gets on his shoes and makes his way out the door with the box of mementos in hand.

You’d gotten up that morning feeling just all sorts of terrible. You’d hardly gotten any sleep. Your eyes are all puffy and slightly sore from rubbing at them. You hadn’t eaten in hours, maybe in a day by now. You were awakened by Ian at your door, but you shied him away quickly. Thinking you could move on with you day was too optimistic as you heard a gentle knock on your door followed by the words, “Delivery!” The words coming out abnormally squeaky, so you knew something was up. You look through the peephole cautiously and see Lip. You try to figure out if you should say anything: tell him to leave, tell him you need time, tell him he really hurt you, play along with his charade; however, you're not allowed a choice when your phone goes off, your hands flounder for it in order to get it off. The caller being none other than Lip. You curse under your breath. Lip’s voice calls out on the other side of the door. “I know your home. Please let me talk to you…” Your tears falling out all over again.

“I-” Your voice running dry. You clear your throat and strongly say, “Go the fuck away! I don’t need this right now!”

“But, Y/N-”

“No! Fucking go! You cared at all about me, you’ll leave me the fuck alone!” He stumbled back drunk in shock of the words. Lip wanted to bust down the door to just hug you, or go off and drink until he passed out again. He just wanted anything other than this reality.

“I do care! I’m sorry If I hadn’t made that known...I should’ve.

You ask, “Are you drunk again?!” He sighs thinking of all the times he’d had to ask others that question that impulsively he answered, “No!” He cursed himself for it and replied once more softer, “No, I’m not.”

“Lip, that’s great in all, but you need help.” Lip’s lip trembles. He attempts to halt the rumble with his teeth, which was futile. You could hear it in his voice for his next words, “I know...You made it very clear to me that I needed help when you disappeared...Yes, it was only for about a day, but I need you to understand something.”

“There’s nothing else to say. I understand.” Lip narrows his eyes and asks, “You do?” You nod although he can’t see you and explain, “We’ve been friends for a long...long time…” Lip smiles hopeful of the response to come; however, it is short lived as you follow up with, “and it’s time to branch out. I mean you have college, different needs, different friends, so...ummm...if you came out of guilt, I’ll just leave you with no-” You clench at your heart as it clenches. It physically was starting to hurt you, but you managed the last few words, “no hard feelings.” Lip pounded at the door once, which made you flinch back.

“No hard feelings? No, no, Y/N?...Y/N that’s not how I feel at all. What I said to you, it was wrong for one thing but also far from the truth. I told you some of the biggest lies when we spoke-Look, I’m horrible. I admit it, and I wouldn’t blame you if you thought so too. I just can’t have you thinking any of this is on you. I can’t have that no matter how this turns out between us...Making you feel like this isn't even my only crime against you-” You heard him shudder on the other end of the door. You walked forward gently but stopped short. You find yourself and open the door. Your face is only reading sullen. Lip’s about to move forward, but the pain he reads in you stops him. Tears pour from your eyes, and you continue to say, “What did you expect?! You choose some woman that’s hurt you so many times it seems over your supposed best friend! I have been there for you! I do not deserve this treatment! I deserve better! You don’t get that, and I don’t think you ever will…I could chalk it up to your drama and being too damaged, but honestly, Lip it's your own damn fault...Years together, and you can’t see what you have right in front of you. Goodbye. Hope things work out for you...” You see how he hangs his head low and begins to sob. You hadn't decided exactly what you’d do with Lip. Glassy oceans meet your gaze. He reaches out and pulls you into a hug that you're not prepared for. His body started to shake against you. He mutters, “I’m sorry for hurting you,” over and over, at least that's what it sounded like at points. When his voice wasn’t cracking, he sounded like wind was knocked out from crying so hard. You wanted to hold him too and feel comfort. History told you that making this too easy on him was what you got you here in the first place. Reluctantly, with effort, you remove yourself from him. The pain in his eyes glossed in at the action.

“Hate you?!” You scoff. “I don’t-”

"You don't understand..." You sob out because this was all just so hard on you, which in turn was making it hard on him. He moves slowly forward and cradles your head gently and ends up resting his thumb on your cheek to wipe tears away.

"I know I don't understand what you feel, but I know what I was doing wrong now. I know how I've been hurting you." He breathed out trying his best to calm himself down. He bites at his lip. “My biggest crimes-” He clears her throat. “Taking you for granted. You know, I don’t always thank you for the things you do, especially not lately. I-I haven’t been on your side even when you’ve always been on mine.” He smiles softly. “It’s something I should of really seen before, but like you said, I’m people stupid. I just really want you to know that your not only the best friend I could ask for but the best person...I want you to know that even if you hate me now-”

“No, please just say it. I don’t want you to hold back.”

“Lip, I have hated how you’ve been lately, but hating you, now that’s too easy, so I don’t...”

“Really?” He whimpered.

“Really. I mean I was just at threshold, but I can’t hate you...I did really hate what you said to be though...I mean years of friendship-”

“I-I know. I said it because I was hurting. That wasn’t right.”

“I know you hurt, but I’ve only ever wanted to hurt together rather than leave you alone. That being said, I’m not sure where I want us to go from here…”

“Whatever you wa-”

“I’d really like you to sell to me why we should still have any kind of relationship. There are a lot of things you did, and I feel you care just-”

“I wish is acknowledges some things you do that I notice that I don’t flat out say that mean so much: making sure I eat in the sneaky ways you do like boasting it's so good or making “extra”, making sure I’m not cold-just you know caring for me in little ways..,” Your heart quickened at his confession. You didn’t think he’d noticed or cared. “I didn’t value our relationship like I should have. I will if you let me. One of the biggest things is I should've let you know how much I-I should've let you know how much I...I love you.” You swallowed at the words. While you knew he did care, you knew love was touchy for him, and he’d never said it to you. “I love you, Y/N.” You hugged onto him uttering against his shoulder, “That’ll do it.” You both laughed out loud. Lip held you tightly like you’d slip away, and he let out groans of relief. “Are you okay now?”

“Yeah, so relieved.”

“Me too.” You both stare at each other with smiles on your faces. He wipes at the dried and wet tears and states, “I’m really sorry that I made you cry.”

“Let’s call it even.” You wipe his face with your sleeve with a smile.

“There’s a smile.”

“Well, you caused it, and uhhh...Look, all the self loathing, you gotta work on that...and the drinking I’ll be here to help with that too bec-'' He gave you an expression of doe eyes before he leaned forward meeting his lips to your in which you returned. “Is that part of showing me you care?”

“Yeah. Something like that, but it’s a gesture to show I do love you. I should’ve done this sooner.”

“What about your pro-”

“No one compares to you. I now see that. So, permission to kiss you again.”

“Maybe after some food. I’m starving.”

“Fair enough. Where do I put this box?”

“Where did you get that?”

“Ian.”

“Ian?”

“I can’t believe you kept all this. Also, I’m embarrassed I didn’t make one myself.”

“You don’t think it’s kiddish?”

“No. It’s sweet.” He kisses your forehead.

“Wow, you're really sweet too. People's skills are already better.”

“I don’t know if I’m really less people stupid, but I know I’m less clueless about you. I’d like to become a Y/N expert.”

Hope your day got better

@lipgallagherstan

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robinofgothamcity · 3 years

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♡ prompt: "Do you want me to hurt him?" / inspired by 'telephone' by lady gaga

♡ pairing: bart allen ( impulse ) x fem! reader

♡ note: not checked for grammar or spelling mistakes / my schedule is going to become more sporadic starting next week :/ i'm going to keep the warning up until next week.

"Bart, shut up," you said, jokingly pushing him. he laughed, handing you the ice cream, "what? I'm serious! I just think that mint chocolate is better. if you have just mint, it'll taste like toothpaste and if you have just chocolate, it's too sweet so mint chocolate is a good even ground," he explained.

you felt your phone vibrate as Jinny spoke up, talking about how Bart and Connor shared one brain cell outside of the field. looking down to see who was ringing you, you saw that it was your god forsaken boyfriend for the 100th time.

"oooo, who is that?" Bart asked, looking over to your phone. he read the wall of text you had received but you quickly shut your phone off, not bothering to read it, "you gonna answer that?" he asked, a small bit of jealousy bubbling up inside him.

"don't really feel like it," you quickly said, trying to remain off that topic. Bart, clearly annoyed, snatched your phone and put it in his pocket, "than let's forget about him, right?" he asked, putting on his annoyed fake smile.

Tim and Jinny saw the very irritated face Bart had and looked to each other as they shook their heads, "those two I swear," Jinny huffed out in annoyance. "more like ( your name )," he replied, "Bart could admit his feelings to her face and she still wouldn't do anything about that horrid boyfriend of hers."

the two of them stifled giggles from each other as they watched the two of you continue to flirt openly. it was no secret to anyone on the team. it was very clear to everyone on the YJ team, the Titans, even the JLA knew that the two of you liked each other....a lot but it was that stupid boyfriend of yours that got in the way of Bart ever truly expressing his feelings for you.

"what is everyone's plans after this?" you asked the team as they all murmured different answers, indicating that they were all busy. you sighed, trying not go straight up at the moment because you knew that you'd have to deal with your boyfriends calls when you got there, "I'll stay out with ya!" Bart replied as he saw the empty park bench.

you gave him a grin, "thanks Allen. you're a life saver," you exclaimed, waving everyone off goodbye. you walked to the bench, Bart following right behind you as Bart felt your phone ringing again.

there had been a scarce few times where you did call Bart with your boyfriend problems. it was usually late at night. probably inching near three in the morning when you called him sobbing, asking him if you deserved to go through the bullshit you were dealing with your boyfriend.

Bart always felt himself getting angry whenever he received those calls. you sounded so heartbroken, tired, and emotional. he was always there to help pick you back up but not even a few days later, you were back with him, telling Bart that your boyfriend needed you now more than ever.

"he's still angry that you're hanging out with me? do you want me to hurt him?" he asked, finally taking your phone out of your pocket. you nodded, rolling your eyes, "Bart no. he thinks that my 'job' is taking too much time away from him and I being together. I swear, it's like hearing a broken record. one minute, he's mad and wants to break up and the next second, he's at my door asking for forgiveness," you explained, frustrated.

Bart squeezed your hand, tapping his fingers on top yours, "you know what you need to do," he replied, giving you a serious look. you stared at him, biting your lip, "it's hard, Bart. he's going through a lot and I'll feel guilty if I just leave him," you whispered taking his hand and holding it.

"you literally fight villains for a living and you're scared of that? you know you deserve more," Bart said, "and I've seen the way you look at other girls who decide to flirt with me," he joked, trying to break the tension. "shut up, it's not even like that," you lied, making Bart even laugh more. "but seriously, you know it's not secret that I like you." you sighed, not knowing what to say as you put your head on his shoulder.

the silence wasn't exactly awkward but it wasn't comfortable either. there had been multiple times when Bart had told you his true feelings for you and every time he did, you responded with a hum or a 'okay Bart'.

it wasn't that you didn't accept his true feelings. it was far from that. you actually did like the speedster but you knew Bart could do a lot better. you knew Bart deserved someone who actually deserved him and that person wasn't you. you weren't as cute or funny as he was. he deserved someone like Cassie. smart, funny, and cute.

the YJ tower was completely empty aside from you and Bart. everyone was out doing their own thing. Tim and Connor were at their respective homes. Jinny and Amethyst were out doing god knows what meanwhile Keli and Cassie had gone to the movies to watch a film they both had been dying to see so that just left you and Bart in the lair to do as you pleased.

"Bart, hand me the remote," you said lazily. he handed it to you as you turned it off, getting up and stretching yourself out. Bart stared at you confused, "why'd you turn it off? I was watching that!" he exclaimed. you threw the remote across the couch and getting him up, "lets do something productive and make dinner or something," you replied enthusiastically.

Bart rolled his eyes but got up nonetheless. he followed you to the kitchen as you played music through the speakers that were built on the wall. "what're you making?" he asked, seeing you take out things that made no sense.

you looked over your options and realized you could make some kind of stew or a soup of some kind. "beef and gravy stew! we have enough things to make enough for the team and seconds for the both of us," you said, getting the things from the cupboards and having Bart start to chop every thing up.

you knew Bart was dumb but that didn't mean he wasn't a kick ass cook. there had been multiple times where he had made everyone dinner or dinner even for the two of you and it always turned out amazing. you dumped every thing that Bart had chopped up and proud it into the pot before grabbing a few things from the fridge and making the gravy that had to poured in. it didn't take long but the two of you had to wait until the pot boiled up in order for it to be ready.

the song 'telepatia' by Kali Uchis played over the speakers as you finally turned over to Bart and smiled, "we just need for it to boil and it'll be ready!" you exclaimed. he nodded as you started singing the song out loud. not particularly towards him but a warm feeling in his gut made him get butterflies as you continued.

"you know I'm just a flight away, if you want it, you can take a private plane."

you looked up to Bart, wanting to give him another smile but he quickly got rid of any questioning thoughts and went in for a kiss. you were taken back in surprise. this was the first time Bart had ever put his feelings forward and actually gave you a kiss.

his kisses were soft. they weren't rushed which was ironic considering all Bart was, was being fast and always on the move. you had placed your hands on his thighs as you made the kiss even deeper. it took you a few seconds to register what you were doing when alarms rang off in your head. you had a boyfriend and by continuing to kiss Bart, you were technically cheating on him.

"Bart no, I can't," you murmured, pushing yourself off of him. he gave you a defeated look, understanding where you coming from, "I'm sorry," you replied, going back to the food and trying to forget that you even made the move to reciprocate the kiss. in the back of your mind though, knew it that kiss meant that you had fell for Bart and hard.

"I have to head home, it's getting late and we patrol tomorrow night so I think it's best we head back," you whispered knowing you'd have to deal with your stingy boyfriend when you got home. Bart gave your hand one more squeeze before getting up, "see you later," Bart murmured, getting the inkling feeling that he'd probably receive a phone call tonight from you.

you nodded, making your way towards your apartment. you had a fuck ton of messages from your boyfriend and over ten missed calls by the time you sat comfortably in your couch. you finally dialed him back, instantly getting a bunch of curse words thrown at you for not picking up.

it felt like hours when the two of you finally stopped arguing with each other. it ended with you in tears and your voice hoarse as you had finally grown the nerve to break up with him. you knew for your mental health that it was time to do it and truthfully, your feelings for Bart were growing more and more every time you saw him. there was no point in continuing the relationship if you were no longer having feelings for him and although you felt guilty by doing it, you ripped it off like a band aid.

you grabbed your phone and clicked on Bart's number. Bart on the other hand shifted in his bed, seeing your contact light up his phone. he groggily picked it up, "hey," he said in that sleepy tone of his. you hiccuped, trying to control your tears, "can you come over?" you whispered, the crack of thunder scaring you shitless, "I really need someone right now."

Bart sighed, telling you to give him a minute before hanging up. Bart had no idea how many more of these late night sleepovers he had left in him. he sped over to your place, grabbing the secret key from the back of the broken piece of wood that was attached to your door frame. he opened it, seeing you sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in one hand and your hiccups still overcoming your body.

"what's wrong?" he asked. you stared at him, tears instantly rushing down your face, "I deserve to be happy right?" he nodded almost immediately, "than why do I feel so shitty because I broke up with him?" you asked.

Bart stared at you, not believing what he was hearing. you had finally broken up with that shitty boyfriend and he was the first person you contacted.

"because that's what manipulative people do ( your name )," he whispered, "they make you feel like shit for things that you didn't even do. you're perfect and he didn't deserve you or anyone like you. especially you though," he joked, bracing you even harder for a hug. he knew it would be wrong to try and make a move but gave you a kiss on the top of your head and whispered nothing but supportive things into your ear as you tried to calm yourself down.

the rain happening outside and Bart's words were lulling you to sleep as Bart hadn't even realized that you were passing out on his side. it wasn't until you hadn't moved that Bart realized you were not longer awake. he grabbed your body, lifting you up bridal style before making his way to your room.

he placed you down on your bed with every intention of just letting you sleep and him heading home but you grabbed onto his body, sleepily saying that he was going to stay here. you hadn't even said it as a question but more as a statement. he didn't argue with it; however, and he had thankfully came over in his pajamas as he scooted you over a bit and crawled in.

you smiled softly, hugging him instantly and passing out once again. Bart placed a small kiss on the top of your head before whispering into your ear, "you'll be mine one day, didn't I tell you that?" he murmured before trying to fall back asleep.

#dc comics #dc x reader #dc imagine #dc #bart allen x you #bart allen imagine #bart allen x reader #bart allen #impulse imagine #impulse x reader #impulse #comics #fics

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dourpeep · 3 years

Text

HA YOU THOUGHT THAT I WAS DONE AFTER THAT EARLY BDAY DRABBLE??? JOKES ON YOU

If you'd like, A Lovely Night kinda comes before this nodnod

The Heart Grows Fonder

Summary: Just another day, another letter, but instead of the usual quiet Albedo receives a pleasant surprise.

Contains: Albedo x gn!Reader, mutual pining, budding relationship, fluff, based on Albedo's birthday mail :DD and also my impulsive decision to do the ebg without knowing exactly what it was

In the cool halls of the Knight’s Headquarters, you hum. The floors glisten and the light sound of your footsteps bounce and echo through the empty halls. Even though the noise would normally ruin your surprise, you pay little mind knowing the Chief Alchemist.

Just a little further, a heavy wooden door sits ajar. A good sign. He must not be busy at the moment.

Pleased, you push it just a little more before peeking your head in.

The door of the workshop swings open silently, the gentle sound of a quill on paper stopping contemplatively before the scratching once again begins. It fills the air, steady and unsure, then is cut by a crystalline tap tap. Sure enough, the sight of the sun catching on braided blond locks comes into view.

Albedo, sitting half hunched over papers spread across the surface of his desk, seems to be busy jotting some notes down.

You nearly speak until a half-intelligible mumble reaches your ear.

“Hm…With you I can see why—“

He pauses, shaking his head and resting his cheek on his fist. Tapping the feather of the quill to his chin, a sigh flutters out. Though he faces away from you, you can already imagine the way his brow furrows and lip pushes out in a light pout.

The moment he’s once again hit with inspiration, the scratching continues accompanied by a low murmur of words.

“I can certainly see the reason why people value it.”

A letter…?

Speaking to an audience of none, he recites what he’s written, taking the time to ponder on each letter, each flourish of his hand. It’s simple and sweet—at least from what you can hear.

You squint in attempt to peer closer, but the parchment stays obscured from view. Though, with the way Albedo leans over it in concentration, it must be important. So you continue watching from the doorway through the sliver you’ve created, not wanting to interrupt.

It takes longer than anticipated for him to be finished with his writing. When he sets down his quill and stretches with a satisfied sigh, you can’t help but smile at the boneless way he slouches back.

“Not celebrating today?”

Immediately, he sits up and twists in his chair.

Brilliant green eyes settle on you.

It’s only been a few days and nothing more (and he knew, certainly, that you did not forget him), but no matter the reason he’s felt the difference left in your stead.

No one coming in to peek over his shoulder, questioning what he’s up to and sitting patient as he delves into the topic, nor tug on his coat sleeve when he’s missed lunch (again). Just in the past three days alone Albedo’s lunch ended up becoming his dinner (and dinner, a midnight snack).

And just as usual, he acquiesced, ignoring the lingering ache in his chest.

In the end, today was just another day (not to mention he had celebrated the occasion with everyone else the week before).

Or, at least that’s what he has always believed.

When the sight of you in the doorway, tangible as the chair he sits on—as the drafted letter on his desk—finally registers, a wave of relief washes over him.

After all, the news of your sudden trip hardly had the time to sink in before you were already packed up and leaving, voice echoing the date of your return as the 17th of the month.

But today wasn’t Friday.

“You’ve returned early.”

He had the date marked on the calendar hanging by the board.

Clear, circled in orange.

“Well…not quite.” You laugh and advert your eyes. “I might’ve made an excuse to come back for a few hours—they don’t know that I’m back in Mond.”

You make your way across the room, only stopping once you’re a foot away from where he sits. With every step, your heart pounds in your chest. Just the fact that you’ve come back to visit—him, specifically. The implication of the lengths you’ve gone despite knowing Albedo didn’t care much for birthdays…

Albedo stands, lips twitching up in a small, genuine smile.

The moment you wrap your arms around him, the letter is forgotten.

Instead, he squeezes you back, eyes closing to relish the moment fully, the kiss you press to his cheek warming his skin and spreading rouge over his features.

It’s warm. You are warm.

So, so warm, and brighter than the sunlight that now casts over you both through the tall windows.

A brief question of why crosses his mind.

But with the limited time you have until you need to return, he pushes that thought away for another time. Sorting out emotions can wait. What can’t wait are the sweets he purchased just the other day in anticipation of your return.

He tugs you out the door the second you lean out of the hug and your hands slide to rest on his shoulders, high on the feeling that you bring and the joy that rushes through his very being. Every step the two of you make echo through the still-empty halls. Your hand slips to rest against his, squeezing gently.

“What’s the hurry?”

You laugh, teasing him about his enthusiasm and he shrugs. What blooms when your fingers intertwine is reason enough.

By the time you’re sitting in the living area of his house, tea brewing and chests still heaving from (nearly) running through the city, it almost feels as if you never left. You beam at him, and the ache ebbs away.

“Happy birthday, Bedo.”

How silly of him, that he ever felt any other way than this.

Swiping the sugared strawberry from atop your slice of cake, he pops it into his mouth. The shock and betrayal that results makes him chuckle with his hand covering his mouth and the corners of his eyes crinkle. That is, until you pull the same stunt on him and swipe a fruit from his tart.

Even watching as you walk backwards, arm sweeping through the air in a wave as you leave, he can still taste the sweetness of the strawberry.

How silly of him, he thinks again, that he thought you would ever forget.

#albedo #albedo x reader #genshin impact albedo #genshin impact #genshin impact fics #genshin impact drabbles #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact fluff #genshin impact x reader

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bouncingkadachi · 3 years

Text

Blessed Rain

Summary: A Hunter’s weapon of choice says a lot about them. OR: Kyle upgrades his weaponry and gets caught red-handed in the act. Luckily (?) for him, only Tsukino seems to know exactly why he's having an emotional crisis over this.

Word count: 3,260

Note(s): set post-game

Also available on AO3!

Kyle’s had his new bow for a good couple of weeks before the feel of the limbs and the weight of the draw became comfortable enough for him to consider upgrading it. If he’s going to be injured, he reasons, he’d rather it be purely by way of monster and not because he pulls a muscle wrestling with a bow that hasn’t been properly broken in. His wallet despairs as he forks over the zenny, but this’ll hopefully let him take on some of the bigger hunts like the ones that Reverto goes on. It’ll all be worth the investment up front once he has his completely finished bow and restocked his coatings and finally drops the last of his coin on a couple new talismans.

He refuses to think about the implications of his reasoning with a literal coin, rolling it around and around his fingers as he pushes through the market throngs towards the smithy’s. Perhaps he ought to have a change of scenery—the fog-shrouded summits of Terga were said to be particularly beautiful at this time of year, and the heat in Lamure was becoming just shy of unbearable.

The final product that the blacksmith puts into his hands when he finally makes it to collect is nothing short of gorgeous. Blessed Rain is sleek where his old Rex bow was bulky, far lighter and certainly not as clunky. The upgrades on the riser gives the entire weapon a pleasant solidness in his hand, yet the delicately reinforced plating on the limbs doesn’t retract at all from its flexibility. The decorative grip protector gleams. Just looking at it makes Kyle excited to shoot.

“Bring her back if you’re finding that you need anything adjusted,” the smith tells him after Kyle’s diligently inspected every inch of the bow. “Kept the poundage the same for you, but added another inch to the draw length like you asked.”

“Thanks,” Kyle says. Eventually, he’d like to work up to the point where he can up the poundage again. Even just another five pounds would be good. He can do most of the hunts in his skill range alone now, but extra firepower would make him just that much more efficient, or that much of a better support for team hunts.

The smith laughs when Kyle sheepishly admits this. “Well, I always like to help a Hunter improve, and you know where to find me,” he says cheerily, clapping Kyle enthusiastically on the shoulder. “Come by again anytime if you need a tune up or want to test out something new.”

And with that, he waves Kyle away so that another Hunter can step up, holding a tired-looking sword and shield and looking equally exhausted. “Aye, rookie Hunter?” Kyle hears as he wanders off to find a more relaxed corner of the market in which to admire his new bow some more. “If you’ve got the materials I can repair and upgrade that for you.” The conversation peters out and melts into the general din of the marketplace as Kyle slips into the crowd, taking care to step out of the way of a Felyne carrying an absolutely massive basket groaning with produce. He watches the precarious load totter away, trying and failing to locate Tsukino in the brief respite the parted crowd affords him. They’d split earlier that morning and he hasn’t seen her since.

He still hasn’t managed to find even a whisker of Tsukino’s whereabouts by the time he settles into a decently quiet nook next to a stall selling all manner of spices. Pity, because the dappled light spilling through the colorful drapes of the marketplace catches so beautifully on the milky-white sheen of the bow, and he’d been looking forward to showing it to her. As a Hunter, Kyle will always care more about weapon practicality than aesthetics, but as a normal human being he certainly won’t turn down the opportunity to have both an aesthetically pleasing and perfectly functional weapon. He’s still grinning a little when he goes to strap the bow to his back, and it’s in the process of looking up that his gaze catches onto wide eyes staring plainly at him from across the street.

He freezes, arm suspended awkwardly halfway to sheathing. His beautiful bow glints damningly in the bright Lamure sunlight as his unexpected friend wades through the throngs of people towards him, gesturing for him to stay put with a wave of her hand that really can’t be mistaken for anything other than a greeting.

“Hey,” he says cautiously and lamely when she finally reaches him. Belatedly, he remembers to lower his arm. He is momentarily thankful that she doesn’t try to reach up for his face in the Mahanan greeting, although his goodwill evaporates when she leans in to inspect his bow, body thrumming with unexplainable anticipation.

“Oh, that’s pretty,” she says finally. Kyle can’t help himself from preening just a little, shifting his grip so that she can get a better look. After all, what was the point of spending all that money and materials if there was no one to excitedly show the end product off to? Besides, it’s been a while since they last saw each other. Last he heard, she had been traveling, keen to finally see the world on her own terms and at her own pace.

“It’s fresh off an upgrade,” he answers smugly. “Easier to handle than the Rex.”

“Slightly less intimidating though,” she chimes in, and Kyle bristles, not liking where this conversation is going. And true to form, she goes in for the kill: “Mizutsune? I recognize the plating.”

Kyle can feel the flush crawling up to his ears. Logically, he knows that there’s nothing for him to be embarrassed about. It’s a mark of good smithing that one can tell at a glance which monster a weapon was inspired by, and a Mizutsune was both powerful and extremely iconic. This bow in particular had good stats and the ability to fire rapidly, which admittedly took him some time to get used to after focusing mostly on piercing shots. The paralysis coating that works so well on this bow has also already saved his skin on more than one occasion. There is little more a career Hunter can ask for out of his weapon. It’s not like he’d been heading out to Pomore Garden at any given opportunity and holding onto an increasing multitude of Mizutsune materials just because he wanted some physical reminder of what was probably the most pivotal moment of his life, something that never failed to put a very complicated and jumbled mess of emotions deep within his chest whenever he thought back to it.

He’s starting to feel very, very hot under his collar. The sun is terrible. He resolves that his next big hunt really needs to be somewhere outside of Lamure.

His friend, however, just looks more and more baffled as he launches into an unprompted defense of his newest purchase. Every time she opens her mouth, Kyle talks a little faster. Eventually, she doesn’t even bother trying to interject, which is arguably worse, because instead she just looks progressively more and more thoughtful. Kyle wished desperately for Tsukino to peel away from whatever hidey hole she was tucked in. Then, his train of thought screeches into a rude and abrupt halt.

“What,” he croaks. “What are you doing.”

One of her brows quirks up. “I sure hope your eyes are still working because that’d be a detriment to your job,” she says plainly. “What does it look like I’m doing? I promise it’s not a trick question.”

What she’s doing is holding Kyle’s hand—the one not clutching his new bow—the one that had apparently been waving about with increasing agitation as he jabbered on and on. What Kyle doesn’t understand is why. It’s not like he just did some impressive shot to give them the edge in a battle or anything else that was cool and hand-holding worthy. He’d just been yammering about bow mechanics, and maybe embarrassingly dipping into his talisman hopes and dreams. He stares a little helplessly at his trapped hand. Her kinship stone winks up at him.

“Look,” she says patiently, when it becomes very clear that Kyle is going to need a moment before he can get his brain back online. “There’s nothing wrong with a bow made from Mizutsune parts and I am the last person who will ever turn down pretty things. What I was going to say was that this is an interesting departure from your whole—” She pauses, as though looking for a specific word. “Well, your whole image as a very grown-up and serious and intimidating Hunter or whatever it was you were trying to convey with that scowl you used to like so much. And you weren’t letting me get a single word in.”

“You’re getting plenty of words in now,” Kyle scowls, just to be contrary. “And I’ve grown since then.”

“Someone’s in a mood today.” She smiles, crinkle-eyed, up at him. Kyle very seriously debates wrenching his hand out of her hold like he did the last time this happened and then pointedly doesn’t act on the impulse.

“Why’re you in Lulucion?” he asks instead with a truly remarkable level of self-restraint. “Thought you’d never want to come back again after what happened.”

She shrugs, the greatsword on her back heaving with the movement. “Guess I’ve grown too,” she says loftily, though she sobers quickly. “I was actually visiting my grandfather. He used to go back to Mahana around this time of year… he can’t do it anymore of course but I’ve got Ratha now, so I figured I could do it instead. And then I figured I’d stop by Rutoh before going home, to see Ena and Alwin and wheedle a few more stories out of them.”

She lets go of Kyle’s hand. He tries not to miss it. “Even Ratha can’t make the trip in one go, and Lulucion was closest, so we’re stopping to rest. I dropped by the Scrivener’s Lodge earlier because I was hoping Reverto could give me a few weapon pointers as I’ve saved up just about enough for an upgrade, but they told me that he was out on an urgent mission and wouldn’t be back for a while.”

“Oh,” Kyle says, a little stung that she hadn’t come specifically to see him first, out of all the Hunters in the city. He’s slightly mollified when she grins at him, though.

“And then I met Tsukino by the cannons. She said I could find you here, so here I am.”

“I don’t know anything about greatswords,” Kyle blurts out, and immediately wants to kick himself. She blinks at him, and then bursts into laughter.

“I was just going to ask the smith,” she wheezes when she’s got herself somewhat back under control. “Can’t I see a friend just to say hi to him anymore?” Kyle stares very intently down at some of the finer detailing on his bow.

“Where is my Palico anyway?” he finally settles on, falling into a tried and true grumble. “I haven’t seen her all day.”

She waves her hand vaguely in the air. “Navirou said something about getting donuts. I wasn’t really listening.”

But there was a donut stand right here in the marketplace, Kyle wanted to cry out. He should have seen Tsukino by now if they’d really been going to buy snacks! And how was it possible that he had missed Navirou in his entirety, between the Felyne’s penchant for wearing ridiculous little outfits and his inability to shut up?

“Why? You have a hunt you need to run off to?”

“Yes,” Kyle says hotly. It’s a lie. He’d accepted a subquest that wouldn’t depart until later that evening for the sole purpose of testing out his new weapon in a relatively stress-free environment. Before that, he’d just planned on hitting up the shooting range in the training arena to break in the new string. His schedule was very, very free. Tsukino was perfectly aware of that.

His eyes widened. Tsukino had been with him on every excursion into the Gardens. She went where he did (usually), and it’s not like Kyle would ever begrudge her a visit home. But she’d been with him every step of every single Mizutsune job he’d ever taken—had watched him craft traps when he needed to capture and had kept watch for opportunists hoping to sneak up as he’d carved. She’d been the one who’d recommended the spinner for all the excess purplefur he was ending up with. At first, he’d simply thought that she’d wanted the thread to mend some of her own items, or to send back home to her brethren, but instead she’d tucked each skein of vibrant, silk-soft thread into the bottom of his pouch with gentle paws, cryptically talking about how strong a material it was, and how nice it looked when woven. Kyle has never touched a loom in his life, but now he’s looking at someone who he definitely knows has.

His stomach drops. Hadn’t Tsukino looked particularly smug ever since he’d lingered on the blueprints for Blessed Rain after getting a look at its stats and required materials?

“She got me,” he groans. His friend just looks at him bemusedly, though perhaps with a touch of wariness at his ferocious frown. Hastily, he tacks on: “It’s nothing. I, uh—I just remembered that I needed to tell Tsukino something. Important. Later, when I find her again.”

“Alright,” she says, though she doesn’t quite look like she believes him. “A quest’s a quest, though, so I won’t keep you here. The bow really is pretty though. I know I just said it doesn’t match your image and all but I really don’t think you can go wrong with something you like. You’ve got the skills for it, anyway.”

“Thanks,” he croaks, feeling a little overwhelmed. He manages two whole steps out of the nook before he pauses, worrying at his lower lip. “Actually,” he says sharply, spinning around on his heel and nearly causing his friend to startle right into a spice display. “How long are you staying for?”

“However long it’ll take to upgrade my sword, I guess,” she says after she collects herself, the words lilting into a question. “Three days or so, I guess?” She skirts nervously away from the glaring vendor, careful not to overbalance on her greatsword.

“Cool,” Kyle says with a nod, steeling himself. “Great, even. Look, how about this. Your last visit to Lulucion was terrible—” an understatement, “—so when I get back from my hunt I’ll show you some of the better sights Lulucion has to offer. There’s a hole in the wall that I think you’ll like. Dad used to take me after hunts—they grill really nice queen shrimp. And the parapets—you can climb them, and they’ve got all these little carvings in the stone that you can search for like a scavenger hunt.” He’s keenly aware that he’s rambling again, but she looks interested, so he barrels on. “I’ll come pick you up tomorrow just as soon as I can get a nap in. We can stay in the city or take Ratha out to the Barrens, down by the water. Just make a day of it.” He’s pretty certain that he looks at her with something akin to hope as she considers. It feels like a lifetime before she finally comes to a decision.

“I want to take Ratha out in the evening,” she says finally. “I don’t want him to be cooped up too long here ever again.”

“Yeah,” Kyle breathes out, the word rushing out of him in a flood of relief. “Yeah, I can work around that.” She beams at him.

“I’ll look forward to it,” she says, sincere and looking more than a little surprised despite herself at the prospect of looking forward to doing anything in Lulucion. “I’m staying at the inn closest to the stables. Pretty sure I’m the only Rider there currently so they’ll know who I am.” Kyle nods, and lets himself get his hand squeezed again, though not without her hands first hovering in an instinctual bid for his cheeks before she remembers herself.

“Good luck on your hunt. If I see Tsukino I’ll let her know you’re looking for her.”

“She’ll show up in due time,” he mutters darkly. “I’ll let you know if Reverto gets back early or if he’s just been loafing around this entire time. For your next upgrade or whatever.” She laughs, bright, and then slips off into the crowd to wrestle her way into the smithy’s queue. Kyle is left staring in her wake before his gaze is drawn back down to his bow.

“This is all your fault,” he tells it. Predictably, it doesn’t answer. Also predictably, Tsukino takes that exact moment to drop down from seemingly nowhere.

“I didn’t know we had another job lined up,” the Felyne says delicately, carefully brushing crumbs off of her coat. Kyle groans, sheathing his weapon.

“Don’t tease me,” he huffs. “I’m going to the shooting range. Are you coming?”

“Hmm,” says Tsukino. “I suppose I can spare the time.”

“Of course you can spare the time!” Kyle hisses, indignant. “You just spent the day eating donuts and eavesdropping!” He pointedly doesn’t look towards the smithy, where his friend was patiently browsing the display while another Hunter was getting their hammer looked at.

“One must always be prepared with the latest intel,” Tsukino says mildly. “I’m glad the upgrade went well.”

“It’s got good stats,” Kyle protests weakly in what is quickly becoming a tired argument. “The rapid shots have been going very well. And I had a surplus of Mizutsune parts.”

“Yes,” his hunting partner agrees readily enough. “Have you thought of what you’re going to do with the thread?”

“This conversation is finished,” Kyle says abruptly, making a very determined push towards the market’s exit. “Either come or don’t, so long as we meet at the gate for tonight’s hunt.”

Tsukino looks at him with exasperated fondness, which is frankly a little insulting, but readily falls into step next to him. Kyle wonders how many rounds he’s going to have to shoot in order to clear his head again and rid it of thoughts of Hazepetal Garden or Mizutsune or high-grade thread that he’ll never use himself. He’ll examine them again someday—because he’s not a coward—but that day is most certainly not today.

He does his rounds in the training arena and marvels at the way the string slides off his fingers with a satisfying twang, even though it’ll still be a good few days before it’s fully broken in to his liking. Tsukino’s saved him a donut, the cakey sweet sticky with honey and practically melting in his mouth. He’s got some free time even after stocking up for the evening hunt, so he takes a few minutes to browse the quest board, taking careful note of the jobs that were situated near the Harzgai Rocky Hill, or the ones from further afield in Alcala that’ll take him closer to Rutoh. And when he leaves the city, he pointedly doesn’t look up at the familiar shape circling in the dusky sky, even as he knows that they’ll surely see the last rays of the setting sun winking off of the plates of his bow like a beacon.

#was anyone going to tell me that HR Kyle gets a MIZU BOW #You were just going to withhold this vital piece of information from me?#anyway here's 3k words about the significance of Mizutsune to one (1) boy that I love #I wrote this specifically with my idiot in mind #but asides from the gender and a few other lines I guess you can generalize to any other Rider #monster hunter kyle #monster hunter stories 2 #Annie writes

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iam93percentstardust · 3 years

Note

A very happy birthday month to you! I’m a fan of your Stony fics. If you’re still taking prompts, could you do one with a Las Vegas backdrop? Maybe Steve’s first time there with Tony for some reason? I was supposed to have my first trip there ever but Covid cancelled it. Maybe at least they can have a happy ending there. 🙂

Thank you! I’m glad you’re enjoying the Stony fics!

So sorry your Las Vegas trip was cancelled, that’s really awful. I sort of went to Vegas once (it was a layover in the airport). The only thing I remember about the whole thing was the 5 bajillion slot machines in the airport terminals

Since I know so little about Vegas, I ended up going with the getting married in Vegas trope instead of something about the casinos. I also hope you don’t mind that I used this for my bingo square, but I saw the happy ending part in your ask and got inspired for my happily ever after square (details below the cut)

Here’s to Las Vegas

The day after Steve gets married, he wakes up in a Las Vegas hotel with a ring on his finger and Tony Stark snuggled up beside him.

Most days, Steve wakes up the second his alarm goes off, alert and ready for his run. This day, however, he drifts into wakefulness slowly, comfortably lying on his back. He’s warm and there’s a heavy weight on his stomach and chest, pressing him down into sheets that feel so much nicer on his bare skin than the ones he has at home. That’s the second thing he notices: he’s not wearing any clothes, not even the boxer-briefs he normally wears in lieu of pajamas. And the third thing he notices is that there’s something soft tickling his chin.

He slowly blinks his eyes open. He’s somewhere with high vaulted ceilings and an expensive-looking chandelier, which means it’s not Tony’s place (he thinks chandeliers are tacky) and it’s definitely not Steve’s (he can’t afford a chandelier). Whatever it is on his chest shifts and Steve looks down. Tony is draped across him, the top of his head tucked under Steve’s chin, their arms and legs tangled together. He’s breathing deep and even, still asleep even though sunlight is pouring through the window.

Steve smiles at the sight and raises his head enough to kiss Tony’s curls. He doesn’t often get to wake up with Tony. Steve lives in Brooklyn and Tony lives in Manhattan and they’re both so busy—Tony with SI’s R&D and Steve with his teaching—that they decided early on in their relationship that spending every single night together was a bad idea because one of them would always end up late to work. So this makes for a nice change.

Tony stirs, inhaling deeply. Steve brings his hand up to stroke over Tony’s hair, the way he likes it when they both have a rare day when neither of them have to be anywhere so they can spend the night. That’s when he sees it.

The ring.

The one that’s sitting on the ring finger of his left hand, exactly where it should be—except he’s not supposed to be wearing it for another week.

In the sleepy haze of waking up, he’d forgotten what they’d done last night but the memories are filtering in. Flashes of Tony excitedly talking him into finding a chapel and wrangling a couple witnesses from off the street and filing the marriage license a whole week early because both of them were more than tired of the wedding planning, the swell of emotions he’d felt at hearing Tony declared his husband and sweeping Tony off his feet and back to their hotel, kissing the whole way and probably scandalizing their Uber driver.

He groans and tips his head back against the pillows. Tony makes a low sound and yawns widely before slowly opening his eyes. He looks a little like an adorable kitten and Steve can’t resist kissing the top of his head again.

“Wuzzgoinon?” Tony mumbles sleepily.

“What’s going on,” Steve says, “is that your mother is going to kill us. No, she’s going to kill me, because you’re her darling angel who can do no wrong and she’s never once thought I’m good enough for you.”

“No, you’re better,” Tony says around another yawn. “Why is my mama going to kill you?”

Steve picks up Tony’s left hand and waves it in front of his face. Tony goes cross-eyed trying to make out what’s different about his hand. “Oh,” he says eventually and lays his head back down on Steve’s chest.

“Oh?” Steve asks. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“If Mama didn’t want us to elope, she shouldn’t have sent us to Vegas by ourselves to pick up the rings,” Tony says, as though he’s pointing out something reasonable, even though this is the most absurd thing that’s ever happened in Steve’s entire life—and his best friends are Bucky and Sam. Those two are the very definition of absurd. “Everyone knows what happens in Vegas.”

“This is your fault,” Steve informs him. “If you hadn’t insisted on this particular jeweler—”

“Hmm maybe I was planning this,” Tony hums, closing his eyes again.

And that’s… that’s actually entirely possible. Ever since they got engaged, Tony has been complaining about the big white wedding Mrs. Stark wants them to have and threatening to steal Steve away to the courthouse to elope. Steve had thought he’d calmed down about the whole affair after Mrs. Stark’s tearful outburst about her just wanting her baby to have the perfect wedding (Tony is nothing if not his mama’s boy), but maybe he’d been planning on this instead. He had thought it odd when Tony had insisted on a small-name jeweler in Las Vegas who wouldn’t ship to New York, thereby forcing them to travel to pick up the rings, but if Tony had been planning this all along…

“Did you?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Tony stares up at him for a long moment, blinking. Then he dryly says, “Yes, Steve. I, who has never made a decision that wasn’t impulsive even once in my entire life, somehow managed to both plan out a trip to Vegas to get married and keep it a secret from the love of my life who knows everything I’m thinking before even I know it.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Steve says, grinning at him. What they’ve just done hits him and he laughs giddily. He sits up, pulling Tony up with him to give him a closed-mouthed good morning kiss. “We’re married.”

Tony smiles happily and kisses him again. “Yeah, we are. Good morning, Mr. Stark-Rogers.”

He likes the sound of that. He really likes the sound of that. Another kiss. “What are we going to tell everyone?” he asks.

“Hmm. How about we got so caught up in the thrill of picking up the rings that we abandoned all reason and got married here? It’s not like the big white wedding my mama wants even really matters in the grand scheme of things. It’s the marriage license that counts.”

“She’s still going to want it.”

“Undoubtedly. And we’ll give it to her. But this is nice, isn’t it?” Tony peers up at him anxiously. “No fuss, no caterers with ten different meal plans for all the restrictions, no Great-Auntie Mildred who shouts for the minister to speak louder. No stress at all.”

Steve leans back against the headboard, thinking about it. Tony’s right. They dealt with a lot less stress by getting married this way. But it isn’t just Great-Auntie Mildred that they left behind, it’s their friends too. It’s hard to know how he feels about that.

But then he starts thinking about the wedding picture the photographer had handed them before they left the chapel last night. Steve had tucked it into his wallet for safekeeping, and he reaches over to the bedside table to grab it, pulling the photo out so he can look at it. It’s a picture of their kiss. They’re holding onto each other so tight he’s not sure a piece of paper would fit between them, smiling so broadly that it’s barely a kiss at all. And he thinks about the engagement pictures Mrs. Stark had sent out in the announcement and wedding invitations: poised and perfect and not a smile to be seen anywhere.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, pulling Tony against his chest. Tony snuggles in, warm and beautiful and all Steve’s. “This was pretty damn perfect.”

Tony sighs contentedly and presses a kiss right over Steve’s heart. “Good.”

“But your mother’s still going to kill me.”

“We just won’t tell her,” Tony replies dismissively. “We’ll get married again and we won’t have to worry about the wedding because we’ll know we’re already married.”

“She’s going to notice the rings.”

“Not if we spend the whole week here.”

Steve stills. He hadn’t thought of that. It would solve a lot of problems, not least that Mrs. Stark would finally have free reign to do whatever she wanted with the wedding without any input from either of them. She was doing anyway, but at least now, they don’t have to hear about how their small family affair has turned into the society event of the year.

Tony continues in a wheedling voice, “Call out all our friends, treat it like an extended bachelor party—or our first honeymoon, take your pick.”

Steve stops him right there with another kiss, lingering this time. “And what are we going to do on our first honeymoon?”

“Blow all our money on slot machines. Count cards at the poker table. Go see some really truly ridiculous shows,” Tony says with a shrug. “What everyone does when they’re in Vegas.”

“Hmm somehow I don’t think counting cards is what everyone does.”

“I suppose everyone didn’t grow up with Ana Jarvis,” Tony muses. Steve laughs because it’s true. Howard might think that Tony is a troublemaker all on his own, but everyone knows that Tony learned it from the best.

He’s distracted out of his thoughts by Tony picking up his hand and gently kissing his wedding ring. “It’s the first day of the rest of our lives, darling,” Tony murmurs. “We can do whatever we want.”

Details for @tonystarkbingo

Title of Fill: Here's to Las Vegas Collaborator: iam93percentstardust Card Number: 4012 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29676711 Square Filled: A3 - Free Square Ship/Main Pairing: Stevetony Rating: T Major Tags/Warnings/Triggers: Established Relationship, Fluff, Marriage Summary: The day after Steve gets married, he wakes up in a Las Vegas hotel with a ring on his finger and Tony Stark snuggled up beside him. Word Count: 1558

#alle writes #alle answers #stevetony #if you like please consider reblogging #mistyendings #tsbmiv

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raineydaywrites · 3 years

Text

Step-Son Zone

Inspired by the TAZ Crystal Kingdom graphic novel and all the amazing jokes about Lucas being Lucretia’s stepson that I have recently seen.

"Package for you, Luce!" Lup said, entering the family room. She'd gone to get the mail hoping for a package she'd ordered, but sadly, it had not yet arrived. She loved Faerun and everything, but she had to admit she still missed package tracking. Having to go to the actual mailbox every day to figure out if her things had gotten here yet? Like an animal? Gross.

Letters were not an uncommon thing to find in the mailbox, a lot of which were fan mail. Saving the multiverse made one pretty popular after all. When the letters had first started coming, they were an onslaught, though now, months after the start, they were less frequent.

Still, it wasn't exactly unusual to find something from an address they didn't recognize in their mailbox these days. It was a little more unusual for the mail to be addressed to only one of them, but far from unheard of. Plenty of people liked to address their fan mail to some particular favorite in the family.

That didn't mean that Lup wasn't still pretty curious to see the package, but she had boundaries! She'd at least let Lucretia see it first, before she swiped it for a peek.

"Thank you, Lup," Lucretia smiled up at her from the couch as she took it. Some of their other family members- Taako, Barry, Merle, and Magnus- were also gathered in the family room, but there was still plenty of room to sit down, since they'd designed this room knowing exactly how large their family was and with decades of frustration at the relatively small size of the Starblaster common room in mind. Lup still plopped down immediately next to Lucretia anyway. All the better for reading over her shoulder, and it wasn't like any of them had much respect for each other's personal space anymore.

Sure enough, Lucretia didn't even look over at her at the invasion of her space, just shifting slightly to the left to make a little more space for Lup between her body and the arm rest.

Instead she looked down at the package, read the address it came from, and immediately turned and threw it in the garbage.

"Oookay," Lup said, curiosity even more raging now. "What the hell was that?"

"An admittedly nice gesture that I have no interest in reciprocating," Lucretia said crisply.

"From who?" Magnus asked, glancing over at the trash bin as if he wanted to dart over and grab it, but was restraining the impulse.

"Lucas," Lucretia said, with a long-suffering sigh.

"Miller?" Taako questioned. "What's that dick writing you for?"

"The holiday, I presume," Lucretia said, waving her hand vaguely.

It made zero sense to Lup that Lucas would be sending Lucretia something on holidays, and the weirdness was only compounded by the fact that she couldn't think of any recent holidays that she could be referring to. Glancing around at the confusion the rest of them were displaying, she was pretty sure it wasn't just because she was the least familiar with Faerun holidays of their group.

"What holiday?" Merle asked, scratching his head in confusion. "Only holiday I can think of around now is Mother's Day, but obviously it's not that."

Lucretia's mouth opened and closed in confusion for a moment, before her eyes widened. "Oh. Right. I'd forgotten you didn't know."

"Didn't know what?" Barry asked, head tilted to the side in curiosity and confusion.

"Lucas' mother Maureen and I- we were together. Married, actually," Lucretia said, glancing down at her hands in her lap as she said it. "It was pretty common knowledge, at the Bureau, so I thought you would have known- but I guess I assumed wrong. Which isn't that surprising, really, since nobody mentioned it too much after Maureen's death-"

Lup's had automatically reached out her arms when Lucretia started to sound sad, turning her lean into an embrace before her shocked mind could catch up with what had been said.

"What the fuck, Lucretia! How do you forget to mention the fact that you were married?" Taako squawked, even as he came over to them and gave Lucretia a quick, tight hug.

"I really thought you knew! It doesn't come up much with most people; I assumed it was the same here!" Lucretia defended.

"You thought we wouldn't have anything to say about the fact that you had a wife and she died?" Taako asked, still incredulous.

"Most people don't bring it up. It makes them awkward and uncomfortable," Lucretia said.

"Uh, yeah, obviously, but we talk about Julia with Magnus sometimes!" Lup said, wincing immediately afterwards and shooting a concerned look at Magnus. She hadn't meant to be so flippant about that.

Magnus looked a little shaken and wide-eyed, but he threw her a smile and a careful thumbs-up, so Lup knew she was okay.

"That's different," Lucretia said. "Magnus has been always been less private about his emotions than me."

They all knew what she wasn't saying. And also, Magnus didn't do what she did. And yes, those things were true, but like fuck was Lup going to let Lucretia think that they would just leave her to deal with her trauma and grief alone, just because she had betrayed their trust. They loved her way too much to do that to her.

"So? Being a private person doesn't mean your family isn't going to hug the living shit out of you when you lose somebody!" she said, squeezing her arms tighter to prove her point.

Lucretia chuckled softly, and her eyes got very soft and warm. "Thank you, Lup, but I promise, I'm okay. Now, anyway. Maybe we can talk about it another time?"

"Yeah, alright," Lup agreed, not totally loosening her hold.

"Wait, fuck, okay so it is Mother's Day? That's the reason Miller's sending you shit?" Taako asked, his face shifting from irritation and concern to a shit-eating grin.

"Presumably," Lucretia said. "He's done it before. And usually, when he writes me, it's just a letter, nothing more."

"Oh my god, he's your stepson," Magnus snickered.

"Yes, that is what it means when you marry someone's mother," Lucretia agreed, an indulgently amused look on her face.

"I can't believe you didn't tell us! We've been missing out on some choice goofs because of that, Lucy!" Taako said, faux indignant.

"Again, I thought you knew! I figured you didn't bring up Lucas being my stepson because he is, you know, terrible."

"Solid reasoning, but not quite," Barry chuckled.

Lup let go of Lucretia to push herself up and move toward the package in the garbage.

"Lup?" Lucretia questioned, watching her.

"Just 'cause he's an ass is no reason to throw out free shit before you even know what it is! Come on, Lucy, use your head! Might be something nice, and you don't gotta talk to him to accept free stuff," Lup explained.

Lucretia laughed, taking the package from Lup's outstretched hands. "I suppose you have a good point."

She opened the package and inside was a set of paints.

"Oh," she said softly. "These are- These are my favorites. Maureen used to get me this same set all the time."

"See! Nice!" Lup chimed. "You can just toss the letter and keep the paint!"

"Yes," Lucretia nodded, "you're right."

But she didn't move to throw the letter away.

Instead, after several long moments of internal debate, she said, "Lucas wasn't always such a dick. When he was younger, he could be a real sweetheart. When he wanted."

"Why don't you look at the letter, Lucy?" Merle said, soft. "Seems like you really want to."

"I don't," she said, firmly. "Lucas used the Philosopher's Stone in a way that was insanely risky. He didn't care about how it would affect anyone but himself and Maureen. And that was hardly the least of it, either. Maureen- wasn't always the most cautious when inventing or researching, but she only ever put herself at risk. She didn't hurt people. Lucas was grieving, yes, I understand, but that's not an excuse. And it certainly doesn't excuse what he did to the bugbears or- any of the other incredibly inethical things he did! Maureen would be disappointed in him. And so am I."

Even with the tirade, she hadn't tossed the letter.

"Yeah, that was fucked up," Magnus chimed. "Nobody's going to make you read it or talk to him ever, you know that, right?"

"Uh huh," Lucretia nodded. "I think- I think I'll take these to my room."

She waved the paints as she said it, and only the paints, but she still took the letter up with her. And when she came back down and threw out the mess of packaging on the floor, she didn't have the letter anymore.

(Notes: Okay, so I personally can't really stand Lucas, especially in the podcast with the whole, uh, enslavement debacle, but in a fandom that has so much focus on family and forgiveness and redemption and hope and moving on, it felt weird to just completely shut off any chance of Lucas redeeming himself and being less of an asshole and rebuilding that relationship so. I left it open-ended. Feel free to assume he never does though, if you want!

Additionally, I really wavered on whether to go with podcast canon of the control chips and basically enslavement of the bugbears or the graphic novel canon of intelligence enhancing chips, because the latter is less uncomfortable for me personally, but also the fact that the former is a thing is part of why I wrote Lucretia feeling so harsh towards Lucas, so I decided basically to leave it vague. You can assume the bit about what Lucas did to the bugbears refers to either podcast canon or something shitty in gn canon depending on your own preferences.)

#taz lucretia #lucas miller #taz gn #taz #taz fic #taz graphic novel #not spoilers #my writing

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passionate-reply · 3 years

Video

youtube

This week on Great Albums: a Great Album that your average rock critic would actually agree with me about! Find out how Kate Bush got her groove back with her fifth LP, Hounds of Love, and whether she ever came down from that hill. Full transcript below the break!

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Ever since I first conceived the idea of Great Albums, I’ve always intended it to reflect nothing other than my own personal “canon”--not necessarily a list of albums that were influential, successful, or acclaimed by anybody’s standards but my own. But in this installment, I’m making a somewhat uncharacteristic move, and diving into an album that really doesn’t need me to advocate for it: Hounds of Love, by Kate Bush, often considered Bush’s greatest masterpiece--if not one of the greatest albums of all time.

Released in 1985, Hounds of Love was Bush’s fifth studio LP. Her career had started off surprisingly strong in 1977, with the release of her debut single “Wuthering Heights,” written when Bush was only 19 years old. With a high-concept theme, based around the titular novel by Emily Brontë, it would set the template for much of Bush’s subsequent career: irreverently eccentric, high-concept art-pop with the intensely personal passion of a singular singer-songwriter. But just how much patience for that sort of thing does the general public have, beyond letting the occasional “Wuthering Heights” through as a sort of novelty hit? Bush’s subsequent work in the early 1980s met with inconsistent reception, with her fourth LP, 1982’s The Dreaming, marking a particularly low point. The first album that Bush produced all by herself, The Dreaming took even more radical creative liberties, pushing her sound into increasingly experimental territory.

Music: “Get Out Of My House”

Following the fairly cold reception of The Dreaming, Bush took several years to produce her next album, but it would prove to be the one that redeemed her career, and arguably turned her into a bigger star than ever before. Hounds of Love managed to stay true to the core principles of the Bush aesthetic: moody and introspective, full of rich and complex narratives, as well as musical risk-taking. But it honed and refined that sound into something that was also remarkably pop.

Music: “Running Up That Hill”

“Running Up That Hill” was one of the biggest hits of Bush’s career, and arguably dethroned even “Wuthering Heights” as her signature song. I think the secret to its success is its ability to balance Bush’s experimental impulses with an intuitive, deep-felt emotional quality that makes her best work resonant in an accessible way. On paper, “Running Up That Hill” is as high-concept as anything else in Bush’s catalogue--a song about making a deal with God to swap sexes with your lover, and feel what life is like in another body? But at the same time, the song has an ability to “work” even if you don’t know all of that. Who hasn’t longed for a way to bargain with supernatural forces, for a chance at the impossible? There’s a certain applicability to its themes, which I think is a chief reason why it’s inspired so many covers and reimaginings over the years. But even when one listens to the original, the stately washes of digital synthesiser and the powerful conviction that propels Bush’s vocals make it easy to sympathize with. It feels grounded and physical, rooted in the most carnal aspect of the human body. Positioned as the opening track of the album, “Running Up That Hill” feels like an obvious lead single--in the best way possible. But it’s worth noting that not everything on the album is quite so radio-friendly.

Music: “Cloudbusting”

Perhaps one of Bush’s most compelling narratives, “Cloudbusting” is also, ostensibly, fairly high-concept, portraying a heavily fictionalized episode from the life of Wilhelm Reich. A controversial figure both in life and legacy, Reich is best remembered for his work in psychology, heavily influenced by the spectre of Sigmund Freud. But “Cloudbusting” focuses on his later-life fascination with the physical sciences, and his belief that a mystical energy called “orgone” was responsible for both human emotional woes as well as disturbances in the Earth’s atmosphere. Reich attempted to develop a machine that could manipulate this energy, and hence achieve the longtime dream of technological weather control, but there’s no evidence his “cloudbuster” really worked, or that there’s any such thing as “orgone.” But Bush’s “Cloudbusting,” and its accompanying music video, portray Reich as a tragic hero, silenced by government authorities who sought to destroy what they couldn’t understand, conflating his work with cloudbusters with his censure by the FDA for his questionable medical devices.

The song was inspired chiefly by the memoirs of Wilhelm Reich’s son, Peter, with Bush explicitly portraying Peter’s naive childhood perspective on his father, and that does allow for some substantial nuance here...but at some point we have to ask ourselves what responsibility an artist has to the truth. “Cloudbusting” is the musical equivalent of a film that’s “based on a true story,” and I see no reason why music can’t be just as capable of spreading misinformation as the Oscar-bait biopics of Hollywood. Just how accurate, or how beautiful, does a work of art need to be, for us to allow a bit of playing loose with the facts for the sake of a great story?

Setting aside these quandaries presented by its subject matter, “Cloudbusting” undoubtedly delivers musically. Across its sprawling runtime, it develops and earns a sense of grandeur, building from its infectious percussion and cresting with Bush’s fragile, but assertive prayer: “I just know that something good is going to happen.” If you listen closely to the percussion tracks on the album, you’ll notice that there’s no cymbal or high-hat utilized anywhere, which helps give the album its particular hazy, meandering ambiance.

That effect is perhaps even more pronounced on the second side of the album. Hounds of Love is divided quite sharply into two sides. The first side, also sub-titled Hounds of Love, opens with “Running Up That Hill,” and finishes with “Cloudbusting,” which serves as something of a bridge between the two, combining a singable hook and a pop-like verse-chorus structure with a taste for more visionary narrative. While the first side is home to all four of the album’s singles, the second side, sub-titled The Ninth Wave, strays much further away from the standard expectations of pop.

Music: “Under Ice”

Going by the tracklisting, there are seven tracks that make up *The Ninth Wave,* though their smooth transitions and willful defiance of verse/chorus structure create a seamless oratorio or song cycle feel, not unlike many of the great “album sides” of the prog tradition. The Ninth Wave also departs from the feel of the first side in its instrumentation. While the Hounds of Love side has its fair share of exotic instruments, such as a balalaika on “Running Up That Hill” and a didgeridoo on “Cloudbusting,” The Ninth Wave is more richly baroque, with elements like that jarring violin on “Under Ice.” As it progresses, the breadth of timbres increases, climaxing in the Celtic-inspired “Jig of Life.”

Music: “Jig of Life”

The explosion of folkish, backward-looking sounds of “Jig of Life” and “Hello World,” with their fiddles, whistles, and full choir, represent its protagonist’s return to the realm of the living, after the trauma represented by earlier tracks like “Under Ice.” The abstract, though affecting, narrative presented by The Ninth Wave seems to be a tale of death and rebirth, with a narrator who drowns themselves, only to be reborn--whether literally revived from a failed suicide attempt, or metaphysically reincarnated after a passage through the realm of the dead.

Much more has been written about the themes of *The Ninth Wave* than I’m getting into here, but suffice it to say that many people consider it the relative highlight of the album. But I think it’s worth questioning that a little bit, and taking the time to look at Hounds of Love a bit more holistically. Just because the first side is a bit less overtly experimental doesn’t mean it doesn’t have just as much to offer, artistically, or that it isn’t a part of what makes this album truly great. At the end of the day, I think we can probably agree that far fewer people would have ever heard The Ninth Wave if it weren’t for those more accessible singles on side one, moving copies of the record and adding to Bush’s widespread acclaim. Without “Running Up That Hill,” Hounds of Love might have gone down in history as a fairly niche cult classic like The Dreaming, instead of the era-defining album that it got to become.

On the cover of Hounds of Love, we see an image of Bush reclining and embracing two dogs--who were, in fact, her own pets. The image’s saturation in purplish pink and Bush’s perhaps sultry expression combine to create an impression of traditional femininity, which resonates with the album’s themes of gender and sensuality. Framed in by large white borders, we might read the composition of the cover as evocative of a personal locket or memento, a sort of furtive glimpse into Bush’s more private or intimate essence, fitting for the introspective and emotional focus of much of the music. This “framing” is perhaps also evocative of the idea of the domestic sphere of life--and hence, again, of femininity.

While the title track of the album portrays the “hounds of love” as figures of menace, who are said to “chase” after its narrator, the submissive and comfortable-looking canines portrayed in the cover art seem like a foil to that idea. In the history of European art, dogs are often used as symbols of fidelity, particularly in the context of romance. Titian’s Venus of Urbino, painted in the 1530s, is often considered the progenitor of the Western “nude” as an archetype. Alongside the titular goddess, paragon of eroticism and the feminine, the painter has also included a lapdog, peacefully dozing beside her. It’s tempting to see the composition of the cover of Hounds of Love as doing something similar, invoking confident sensuality alongside a symbol of faithfulness to portray the essence of idealized love.

After the release of Hounds of Love, Bush would once again take several years to produce her next LP, 1989’s The Sensual World. More closely related to The Ninth Wave than the A-side of Hounds of Love, it was nonetheless another commercial and mainstream success for the artist.

Music: “The Sensual World”

From the mid-90s to the mid-00s, Bush took an extended hiatus from music, focusing instead on her family and her personal life. Despite uncertainty surrounding the future of her career, she would eventually return to the public spotlight in the 21st Century, and remains active, if somewhat intermittently, to the present day. At this point, it’s safe to say that Bush has a fairly enviable position, having lived long enough to become a cultural institution, and able to bask in the cult following her unmistakable and distinctive work has earned her. For as much as I’ve praised the more commercial side of Hounds of Love in this piece, I still believe in the power of the truly unfettered creative soul, and I’m still happy for Bush that she’s achieved that kind of freedom.

My favourite track from either side of Hounds of Love would have to be “The Big Sky.” In the context of the album, it stands out for its rousing, triumphant crescendo of energy--a marked difference from the languid, introspective sensibility that dominates most of the material. And it manages that without bringing the cymbals back, either! Thematically, its emphasis on weather and the sky prefigures that of “Cloudbusting,” perhaps providing a more hopeful and naive vision of what weather can do, which resists being “clouded” by political drama. That’s all I have for today--as always, thank you all for listening!

Music: “The Big Sky”

#music #great albums #kate bush #album review #album reviews #classic album #classic albums

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riversofmars · 4 years

Photo

Okay, so as everyone is going mental about this first preview, here is my contribution! Oneshot inspired by the picture, very dark, psychologically unstable Doctor. At least she has River there to talk to... or does she? Rated M for emotional distress and trigger warning for referenced suicide attempt. Thoroughly cheerful read all in all! Read on AO3 or keep going under the cut :)

How Many Second In Eternity?

The Doctor ran a second horizontal line through eight vertical ones, completing another count of ten on the floor of her prison cell. She had run out of space on the dark walls, so she had turned to the floor. Carefully she returned her piece of chalk to the trouser pocket of her red jumpsuit, she had only been given the one and it had taken a lot of begging, so she had to look after it. It had also become precious to her as it was the only thing she owned. Within minutes of her arrival at the prison they had taken everything from her. Her sonic screwdriver, her psychic paper, everything else she carried in the pockets of her long coat, the clothes themselves of course, along with her dignity.

She sat cross-legged in the floor, tapping a steady rhythm with her index finger. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. She tapped in perfect time with her heartbeat, which was the only thing she could hear apart from her breathing. The walls of the prison were thick, sometimes she thought she was the only one here, and outside the one window was nothing but the emptiness of space.

“Must we do this again?“ A voice sounded behind the Doctor but she didn’t move, she didn’t even look up. That particular voice had long lost its startling qualities and element of surprise. There was a predictability to it by now.

“Apparently we do.“ The Doctor’s voice was weak and feeble, barely above a whisper.

“Why always me?“ River Song stepped out of the shadows and into the Doctor’s field of vision. She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“Who else would it be, River? You are always here to me. I can always see you.“ The Doctor spoke the words almost like a mantra without looking up at her. She was just going through the motions, it had become a sort of ritual.

“Why not my parents for a change? Or Donna? You miss Donna! Clara perhaps?“ River suggested looking around the cell, clearly annoyed. It was only them here.

“You know there is only you…“ The Doctor huffed and, looking at the new line she had drawn, she wiped a tear from her face. She was surprised that they still came every now and then. She would have thought she’d run out of tears. They didn’t announce themselves and sometimes she didn’t notice she’d been crying for hours.

“Because you still think my data ghost could actually be here and that would mean you’re not crazy.“ River concluded throwing her hands in the air, thoroughly exasperated. She shook her head and started circling around the blonde woman on the floor.

“Great, so let’s do the dance again but let’s try to save some time.“ River carried on and clapped her hands together.

“You will ask if I’m here and I will drop cryptic hints one way or another and you will avoid them - pretending like you didn’t hear - because really, you don’t want to figure it out.“ She laughed in a bitter sort of way.

“Because if I’m not really here, then I’m a figment of your imagination. That makes you certifiably crazy and that’s not a very nice thing to admit to yourself.“ She paused for a moment, waiting for her words to sink in but she didn’t get a response. So the carried on, even more annoyed: “Or I am some sort of data ghost and I am here. In which case my mind is still trapped in the Library and you never came to save me. Therefore, I’m a constant reminder of your failure.“ She came to a halt in front of her and crouched down leaning in.

“Am I close.“ She questioned, the Doctor didn’t answer and avoided her gaze. One-two-three-four, her fingers tapped one the cold floor. So River straightened up again and carried on wandering around the cell, getting more and more angry for her lack of response. “So we keep pretending like it could be either and you hope you’re not crazy but equally struggle to face your mistakes and regrets. And you’ve had so much time to think about this. About the times where you went wrong and the things that you didn’t do and now might never do. And somehow I’ve come top of that list.“ She laughed. “And that’s a pretty high bar, you have so many regrets, so many mistakes…“

“And I’m paying for them!“ The Doctor snapped, suddenly jumping to her feet, she took some threatening steps towards her and jabbed her finger at her.

“This is new.“ River realised, taken aback for a moment.

“I’m paying for my mistakes, River, when will it be enough?!“ The Doctor buried her face in her hands, letting out a sob. Her legs gave way, clearly not used to carrying her own weight anymore. River remained silent for a moment, just watching her curl over, shaking with sobs, all the while her fingers tapping the same four-time-beat. It had sped up. Just like the Doctor’s heartbeat upon her emotional outburst.

“What’s with the tally?“ River asked softly. It was a question she had never asked before. She looked around the cell, covered in chalk marks. “They’re not days, this is an astroid, there is no day or night, so what’s with the tally?“ River pushed on when the Doctor didn’t answer.

“They’re the people I’ve killed, River.“ The Doctor whispered at last.

“You’ve never killed anyone.“ River was quick to correct her. She had never intentionally harmed anyone.

“Not killed then.“ The Doctor breathed and gave a shrug. “The people who’s deaths I’m responsible for, does that sound better? People I didn’t save.“ She wiped her eyes and looked up at her. Her gaze was distant now, her voice devoid of emotion, as if all emotion had drained out of her along wth her tears. “Every time I remember another, I add them and think about what I should have done to save them.“ She traced an idle finger along the closest set of lines on the floor. “I never realised there were so many. This is what happens when you have time to think… You’re right, I have made so many mistakes, so many regrets…“

“Doctor, this isn’t right.“ River spoke firmly. “You can’t hold yourself responsible for not being able to save someone, you’re not a God, you can’t save everyone.“

“I’m holding myself responsible for not saving you. Every day.“ The Doctor’s voice was bitter, angry and regretful. It wasn’t so much the fact that she had allowed River to sacrifice herself all those years ago. It had been her choice and the Doctor had done what she could. She had saved her consciousness to the Library’s data base and without knowledge of who River was at the time. She didn’t blame herself for that. It was the fact that she had never gone back. After learning who River was, falling in love with her more and more after every encounter in their reverse timelines… even after Darillium when their story had come full circle, why had she never gone back and tried to save her? For fear for failure? For feeling too guilty? She liked to tell herself it was, because she hadn’t figured out how to save her yet. She hadn’t wanted to give her false hope or cause her pain by paying her visits before the day she could save her. None of the possible explanation took away from her self-loathing.

“You did the best you could.“ River spoke softly.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this River, how many more lines will I have to draw?“ The Doctor sobbed, her emotions returning like a tidal wave, sweeping her away. Her distress turning into fear, into blind panic. “My brain just won’t stop!“ She buried her face in her hands, then ran them through her hair, pressing against her temples unable to remain still. “Thousands of years worth of memory… going at a frantic pace… It’s only when you’re here that I can even…“ One-two-three-four.

River crouched down next to her and took her hand, stilling her tapping fingers. For a moment, her touch felt real, comforting and warm and everything else disappeared. The Doctor’s racing thoughts ground to a halt, focusing on her wife’s hand on hers.

“It’s okay, I’m here.“ River reassured her with a smile.

“Of course you are…“ The Doctor said softly, firmly, as if it was the obvious, inevitable conclusion as her emotions ebbed away. She didn’t allow herself to doubt. River sat down next to her and put her arms around her. The Doctor leaned against her and closed her eyes. She could sense her there even if she didn’t feel her. There was no warmth radiating from her body, her didn’t hear her breathing or her heartbeats in the silence or smell the sweet perfume she missed so much. Whether she was a ghost or a part of her subconscious, either way she wasn’t real. Her brain was tricking her into feeling her touch and rationally, she knew that.

How much longer would they have to keep doing this, she wondered. What was a life sentence to an immortal? She had potentially infinite regenerations ahead of her. Whole of life in prison, in other words, eternity. And it wasn’t even like she could put a premature end to it. She had nothing but her piece of chalk…

There had been one time when she had tried - probably too early on - when she had still got cutlery with her meals… it had been messy and she didn’t do a good job of it, it wasn’t even serious enough to make her regenerate but there had been no cutlery since. She hadn’t had the strength of her convictions back then, it had been born out of anger and impulse. She would do a better job of it now but that option was gone. And even if she managed to injury herself seriously enough, she had no means of interrupting the regeneration process. Entertaining the idea, as tempting as it was at times, was pointless.

At the time, they hadn’t even bothered to bandage up her wrists, they had just taken the fork away. It had been River that had looked after her. That had been the first time she had appeared to her. And she had told her that she was a idiot to think she could cheat eternity like that.

“How many seconds in eternity, River?“ The Doctor whispered, barely audible.

“You know… there is this mountain of pure diamond…“ River retorted with a sad smile stroking her wife’s hair.

“I know.“ The Doctor sighed. “It takes an hour to climb it and an hour to go around it.“

“And every hundred years a little bird comes and sharpens its beak.“ River hummed.

“And when the entire mountain is chiselled away the first second of eternity will have passed.“ A tear ran down the Doctor’s face again as she felt her age in her bones. The millennia weighing her down. “And the fact that you’re quoting that back to me means you’re in my head and not really here.“ She should just accept that and be done with it.

“Or, I’m stuck in the greatest Library in the universe and where there is plenty of books on the Brothers Grimm.“ River countered.

“Hm.“ The Doctor huffed, taking her point.

“All I’m saying is: You’re one hell of a bird.“ River kissed the top of her wife’s head.

“Ha. That’s funny. Cause I’m a girl now. That’s funny.“ The Doctor laughed despite herself. She couldn’t believe she had actually just dropped a pun in the middle of her emotional breakdown. She kept laughing and it felt good, though her muscles barely remembered how to.

“All I’m saying is, don’t give up.“ River chuckled.

“There it is again!“ The Doctor exclaimed suddenly and stopped laughing. She leaned forward, listening.

“What my love?“ River frowned as her wife pulled away, barely paying attention to her now.

“The knocking…“ The Doctor jumped to her feet and rushed to the other side of the room, pressing herself to the wall to listen. She knelt down and knocked herself, almost as if answering. One-two-three-four.

“Can’t you hear it? There is always four knocks. Almost sounds like…“ She looked around and River was gone. One-two-three-four. The Doctor’s head whipped back around to the wall as she was sure she heard knocking again, more insistent, again and again, like the sound of drums. “It’s always here when you’re not…“ She mumbled and turned round to check again but River wasn’t there anymore. So she tapped her fingers, one-two-three-four.

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baby-grayson · 4 years

Text

Sweet Enigma| Part 7

words: 2.7k tw: discussion of death/sickness, angst tags: @wheezeatmedolans @styles-dolan @prettyboydolan @evergreendolan @baby-turtles @dolanstacoma @kombuchagray @not-gbd @graysavant @someonetogray @dolansficsandpics @batgirl009 @voguekristens @letsgoget-high @crossedbone-kat @graysonsdollface

Ethan was angry. Ethan was very very angry at his brother. Outwardly, he knew to be understanding and compassionate in Grayson’s very trying time. But as a business partner, he silently wished that Grayson would end his romantic escapade with a past flame and return from Jersey to help Ethan launch two business endeavors: the lingerie & underwear line to extend their clothing company and the Wakeheart bath bomb launch.

When Ethan looked to Twitter, to find Sherry’s public break up with Grayson: all frustration left his heart. Even from 3,000 miles away, he could feel his twin brother crushed under the weight and impact of his own lovestruck decisions. Ethan managed to get him on the phone later that night, surprised to hear Grayson’s cool tone, “It’ll be alright E,” Ethan could hear some rustling from the background of the call, “I’m flying home—taking a red eye and I’ll be there in the morning.”

“You’re coming back?” Ethan was surprised: at both how confident Grayson sounded but also how quickly he was turning from his impromptu escape.

“Yeah but—yeah you can wear that one—sorry, but I want to go see Sherry. I want—I want to apologize in person, maybe see if I can do anything to make this better on her.”

Ethan’s eyebrows raised when he heard a girl’s voice in the background. He hadn’t asked Grayson about the photos of him and Kate, but he never pegged his brother to be unfaithful, even in the rockiest relationship, “Make it better?” Ethan mentally swore at his brother for being so idealistic, “You were caught out chea—with another woman Gray,” Ethan groaned into the receiver, “Are you sure going to see her is the right thing?” “Yeah I am,” Grayson sighed in acceptance, “I have to try—to try to apologize more than anything.” Grayson eyed Kate’s back as she innocently left his bedroom, “and E—I wasn’t with her, not like that when I was with Sherry. We’ll talk more when I get home but—those pictures make it look a lot worse than what it was.” “So, you’re saying you tracked down an old girlfriend to be nothing but platonic?” Instead of trying to mask the disbelief in his voice, Ethan leaned into it—hoping the comic edge took the sting off his words.

“No—” Grayson made a grumbling noise over the phone, “got it on in the shower a few hours ago.” “Gray!” “I know—I know. But she’s—I know that I need to apologize to Sherry and sort through everything right now before we can—before I have a chance with her. But like I said, I wasn’t with her when I was with Sherry, I wouldn’t lie to you about that E.” “Okay yeah bro, you didn’t have sex with her—sure. But your heart wasn’t with her?”

Ethan’s observation struck a chord in Grayson’s heart: joining the symphony of guilt that had been building in his soul over the past few weeks. For someone as familiar with pain as Grayson was, he hated causing it in others, especially when he considered them good people. He considered Sherry a good person, for all her faults. She was loyal, dependable, and positive. Despite his growing feelings for Kate, he was genuinely broken when he tried to face the emotional trauma, he caused his former fiancé.

In a white and gold bedroom in a house on the hills, Sherry Maddox clutched a framed photograph in her hands. Her long nails clacked against the glass of the frame while she sneered down at a happier version of herself, Grayson, Ethan, and Ethan’s ex-girlfriend on a beach in Tasmania. The only physical photographs Sherry owned were of her and Grayson from the past 18 months. She much preferred Instagram, but Grayson’s nostalgia had inspired her to collect happy memories of the two of them: memories that transformed her heart into a tainted space, left empty by the memory of who she thought he was.

Huffing, she slipped the photo from the back of the frame and pulled it out. She set the rose gold aside on her nightstand, letting it lean on a pile of a dozen others. In a swift motion, she passed the photograph through a shredder and watched as dozens of little strips came out the other end. The edge of the strips was not yet released from the shredder’s blades when she reached for another frame and began the process over again. Earlier that day, she commissioned an artist to construct a mosaic of herself, made from the shreds of her memories with Grayson.

The image of Kate shined in Grayson’s eyes, but her words made no sense to him, “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

His voice held the full weight of a dubious question, as if the letters did not belong sitting next to each other in the words they formed. His eyes looked down at Kate, not wanting to accept the truth that they would be separated, if just for a short while, after being reunited for the first time in years. Having her again just reminded his heart of how difficult it was to be without her. She nodded and assured him, “I need to go see my mom. For real. And you need to—you have stuff you need to do without me anyway.” Kate reached up to a hand through his hair and down the side of his face.

On the drive to Philadelphia from New Jersey, Kate thought long and hard about whether or not to tell her mother about Grayson. She considered the possibility that her mother might have seen the pictures of her and Grayson in the tabloids but decided that her mother never knew when a royal wedding was happening, much less when a scandal hit the papers. She tossed any thoughts of Grayson talk out of her head: it was not official enough to put on her mother’s radar. Instead, she spent the next few days at her mother’s bedside.

She held her mother’s hand and reminisced about the good old days. She told stories about California until she saw her mother’s eyes close, welcoming the sweet embrace of sleep. Kate tiptoed out of the room and gracefully closed the door behind her. She welcomed the warm aroma of pumpkin soup as she made her way down the stairs of the brownstone and to her grandmother in the kitchen. When she let her anxieties out and asked why this had to happen to their family, their tiny family who didn’t have people to spare, her grandmother put a knowing hand on her shoulder.

In a semi-hoarse, but loving tone Bethel insisted, “Family is more than the souls you share this Earth with dear. They’re the inspiration and the aspiration of everything you want to be and everything you can be. Your mother gave you everything you need to soar in this life and the next: I should know, I taught her everything she knows.” A few of Kate’s tears spilled onto the black and white tile of the kitchen floor while Bethel continued, “Your home isn’t an anchor: it’s a port in a storm, a refuge from the hardest of times but not a forever shelter because you were always meant to sail harder and farther than the rest of us.”

As Kate’s heart wrenched with the acceptance of the hardest parts of her life, Grayson’s twisted in agony on the other side of the country for a much different reason. Impulsive and filled with hubris, Grayson never formulated a plan for what he wanted to say to Sherry: he expected inspiration to strike him with brilliance in the moment. This is how he stupidly ended up pulling the door knocker on the Maddox West Coast home and waiting on the front steps.

Grayson’s eyes went wide with fear when the door cracked to reveal the lanky figure of Calvin Maddox standing afront of two massive security guards.

“Don’t you know when to quit?” Calvin’s voice was sharp as his elbows from where he crossed his arms.

Grayson stammered and twitched his jaw, his eyes excavating the scene for some kind of a way out.

“Now,” Calvin started with his low Southern drawl. He peered down his nose at Grayson, twisting his upper lip as he spoke “Let me tell you how this is –”

“—Daddy!” Sherry’s voice cut the tension with a shrill acidic screech. She moved between the security to stand in front of her father with crossed arms, in an identical pose to him. Grayson’s mouth went dry. “I’ll take care of it,” she asserted. Minding her father’s disappointed look, she turned to the security guards and waved with her hands, “Shoo.”

Sherry gracefully stepped out of the threshold and closed the door behind her, careful to match her father’s antagonistic stare. She huffed out of her nose and closed her eyes, her hand rested on the doorknob. She looked like she was about to open the door and go back inside when she said, “What could possibly be left for you here?”

Grayson opened his mouth to start to speak but was cut off by her harsh tone, “I mean—don’t try to tell me you want me back. I would never. I could never after you embarrassed me like that—no woman who knows her worth would return to a man who pulled your kind of stunt.” Her words fired from her lips like projectiles that battered at the sack of guilt Grayson had forged in his own stomach.

Grayson nodded and balled his mouth into a tight knot, “I know. You’re better than that. And I will say this until the day I die, but I’m so sorry Sherry. I—I –I—” Grayson reached out for something imaginary in the air, “I was fighting a war in my mind and I took you down with me as collateral and you—you never deserved that. You were never anything but good to me,” Grayson’s eyes welled in kindness and sadness. Sherry stared at him coldly and narrowed her eyes: still not convinced he wasn’t about to ask for her back.

“I would never want to be yours again,” Sherry retorted, trying to anticipate his next move, “The world would never believe it. The entire world would look at me like some kind of doe eyed, brainless Nancy.”

“You have every right,” Grayson nodded, breathing heavily and feeling his chest tighten with every syllable, “You—you ended us and you had every right to Sher—”

“Every right to?” her words came so slow they were slick on her tongue. “I had no choice to. What was I supposed to do?” she sneered, “post motivation quotes on Instagram and keep telling my family that it was just a phase?”

Grayson nodded and his sweaty palms found a home in his pockets. He looked at the floor, where he noticed an obtuse patch of dirt on the toe of his shoe. “I’m sorry,” his voice was barely above a whisper, “I’m so sorry. I’ll always be Sherry. I can only imagine what I put you through—and you didn’t deserve any of it.”

Grayson was shocked when she laid a delicate, graceful hand on his jaw. She drew him in and placed a puckered kiss on his cheek, “Grayson,” she stepped away from him, “you made me an underdog,” she placed a hand on the door knob, “and everyone loves an underdog.”

She turned to leave but twisted her upper body in his direction, “Was that all?” her tone was flat and devoid of any emotion.

Grayson gnawed at his lip and circled his head, “If—well—those pictures weren’t what it looked like—that girl, she’s—”

Sherry held out an intimidating, long, perfectly manicured finger in his direction. She spoke through gritted teeth, “Don’t.” She unlocked her jaw, “Don’t tell me a single word about her. I’m not about to spend the rest of my life swimming in those kinds of comparisons.” Sherry made a calculated move to swing her backside while walking away and closing the door behind her.

***

Later that night, Kate hung up the phone with Grayson as she leaned her backpacks against the dresser in her childhood bedroom. She dropped on her bed and eyed the science fair ribbons and faded polaroids strung on her wall. One of them showed her old cat, sleeping contently on a dusty couch. A few of them featured her friend Tabby: each iteration of Tabby wearing a different hair color. Kate never had many friends: tending toward shyness and introversion. Her eyes locked on one on the far left. She sat up and reached out for it. She thumbed the faded glossy surface carefully. The photo showed her and her mom on her 16th birthday: in front of a grocery store cake decorated with a few candles. She thumbed the surface again but standing up and walking over to put it in her bag to bring to California.

On her nightstand, her phone started ringing. She stared at the unknown number flashing across the screen. She questioned the chance of a paparazzi being on the other end: she swallowed hard and pushed the thought away that it might be Sherry. Throwing caution to the wind, she picked it up “Hello?”

“Hey..Kate. How are you?” Even three years down the line, she could tell the difference between Grayson’s voice and Ethan’s.

“Hi Ethan! Oh my god, how are you?” She turned on the speaker phone and sat cross legged on her bed: mimicking a pose she used to take when Tabby would come over to gush about boys. She hunched forward, leaning in as if Ethan was in the room with her. “I’m good.” Ethan started plainly, “Gray told me you were flying back tomorrow?”

“Yeah I should be there by lunch, I’m leaving at like 6 in the morning,” she started. She sighed and looked down at the phone. In that moment, she was struck by the fact that Grayson and her had yet to share the details of their mundane lives in the past few weeks, that had been anything but mundane. “Do you two still live together?”

“Yup,” Ethan let out a breathy chuckle, “I get to smell him every morning.” Ethan sucked in his top lip, wondering if it was too soon to make that joke in their relationship. “Um but yeah I wanted to call you, say hi.” He shrugged from where he stood, “Let you know that if you need anything, I’m here.” He was silent for a moment. “I’m happy the big guy came to his senses and found you again. I think the best version of my brother happened when he was with you.”

“That means more than you know Ethan.” Kate sighed and fell back against her pillows, “I just—this is so complicated. You don’t think that’s a bad sign or anything?” She spoke openly, feeling relief to have a place to candidly think out loud about the situation for the first time.

Ethan breathed through his nose and picked his words carefully, “It’s what you make of it. And as his brother, I know I’m--I’m biased, but all he wants is just an honest chance. He’ll come through if you let him. Just because things are twisted, doesn’t mean they’re broken.” “Thanks Ethan, that means more than you know.” Kate’s words fell heavy onto the phone. She sat up, as if somehow powered by the idea that twisted did not equal broken.

“Don’t stress about,” Ethan’s voice came with a promise, “If anything, you two taught me something about love last time around. You shouldn’t be worry about it.”

A/N: I feel like this part is kinda boring and I am sorry!

#grayson dolan #grayson x oc #dolan twins #youtuber #influencer #Ethan #ethan dolan #fanfic #angst #romance #fluff #concept #blurb #smut #long fic #chapter

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fmdkiana · 3 years

Text

*youtuber vc* WHATZ up famerz. i’ve got another SICK character for you to get to know! so SMASH that follow button! MAIM me with that like!

...anyway hi i’m demi, the famed hag, and this is my fourth child (following sung, andy, n jeonghwa) her name is kiana, also goes by ki and kiki, and if that nickname brings to mind anything But kiki’s delivery service u shall b Wrong. she’s fuse’s main dancer and lead vocalist, iconic qwen. here’s her pinterest, bio, public profile, private profile, timeline [wip for links], plots, & social media [wip for insta]. i’ll leave a condensed version under ze cut <3 you can reach me easiest at fmdjoosung or demi#6468 on discord if you’d like to chat abt this girlie!

okay first things first i’m gonna nip this in the bud. if ur like excuse? iu in fuse? ur coocoo for cocoa puffs for that one. u would be right! and i intend to prove to u that she Is fitting. example a-z demonstrates an at home kiki and a fuse ki. thank me later for all this pretty laydee content

background

may 28th, 1994 ya girl is a gemini

from seattle

born to a pediatric surgeon and a software engineer (who specializes in ai bc her mom is Cool) kiana developed a love for science... then tossed it away to be A Star

not immediately though

really it all stems from the desire to be unique in a positive way

with seattle’s large east asian population, she was lumped together with everyone else, and places where she stood out, kids made fun of her for

she felt like an outcast in every sense of the word, which is why when A Boy gave her the genuine time of day, she latched on

they quickly became bad for each other, codependent at its best

kiana’s lil ass rly thought they were romeo and juliet torn apart when her parents made them break up

she kept sneaking out to see him, and eventually it became troublesome enough that her parents decided to move the fam to korea

heartbroken and with the desire to feel desired, she auditioned for gold star

since she was young, she had dance classes, just as her mom did before giving it up for something more stable

dance isn’t what drove her as much as the feeling of a crowd being entertained by her

trained for 3 years, gold star had high hopes for her given her dance background + looks, hence her role in impulse’s a

a couple years after debut, the company manages to snag her an ost, and when that does well, they shove her onto as many osts as possible, but it manages to do basically nothing to help her or fuse’s fame, no matter the impact of the song itself, and they slow down on trying

that *big bad wolf vc* my dears, is what sets up her overall Thing, that no matter what she does, or how many people claim to love her, they don’t show up for her as a solo celebrity

it leaves her a little dejected, fearful, worried, but idol life isn’t something she minds doing anyway. part of her still wants to strive for more attention, and claw her way there, because she aches terribly to feel special and different, and to a degree, idol life will always give that to her

personality

the archetype of the kid in middle school who calls themselves L and only draws in anime style and comes to school in cosplay and naruto runs around and randomly speaks japanese........ yeah, that was kiana as a kid

and really, she’s only let the problematic parts of it go. she’s still a big fat weeb (& has lots of other fandom type interests too)

an internet kid, someone who never got a big following. draws fanart, has written fanfiction, engages on fan forums. stays at home unless she’s dragged out by friends

she’s a very Normal, Everyday type person in most ways, and that bugs her to no end

she’s someone who as a kid thought she had superpowers, like full on believed it, and to this day still thinks well maybe it’s just not kicked in yet

considers herself ~an empath~ because she naturally has very strong emotions, and seeing or “feeling” the emotions of others makes her feel that way too. that includes positive And negative emotions

she can and is wrong about what she “feels” from others, but the emotional effect on herself is still the same

and because that happens so much, kiana retreats into herself

she has a very small inner circle, and isn’t very interested in more than surface level relationships with most people because it’s exhausting to feel so much all of the time

that means usually, most people meeting her will meet someone who can be doin a little doodle, you’ll say hi, she’ll say hi back, then go right back to her doodle

she’s Nice and polite enough, but doesn’t take those first steps. some ppl might view her coldly bc of it

HOWEVA if someone were to bring up one of her ~special interests, she would come off like a completely different person

animated, kinda loud, won’t shut up. that’s more often the type of person her inner circle gets to see

she’s also a reversal of the hard shell soft inside trope, as a lot of her outward self and personality can seem soft, gentle, maybe even naive depending on someone’s view, but there is a core to her affection thats... dangerous

but i’ll leave that for the dms

and finally, here’s a phat list of personality traits that apply to kiana, depending on her relationships with who she’s talking to and how she’s feeling. yes some are complete opposites. see: gemini. if you wanna kno how to get a certain trait from her, i’ll be glad to explain

abnormal, apathetic, artistic, clingy, contradictory, dedicated, demure, disorganized, earnest, effeminate, emotional, empathetic, excitable, fanatical, guarded, hesitant, insecure, introverted, jealous, loyal, mercurial, modest, neat, needy, nervous, numb, obsessive, organized, overthinking, passionate, persevering, protective, quiet, romantic, scatterbrained, silly, stubborn, tactful, temperamental, vigilant, vivacious, volatile, wall flower, withdrawn

fun fax

claims her style inspiration is the 70s but really mixes in influences from ~the 40s to 80s

if she’s dressing herself, heavily prefers skirts and dresses over pants

doesn’t like being touched unless she’s really close with someone, then she likes a lot of it

plant mom. apartment basc a greenhouse

insists one day she will make her own jam but has yet to get around to it so she just has a bunch of jars in her apartment and uses them for plants and paper clip holders and the like

her fictional character romantic Type is the tsundere. is convinced fictional characters are the best dating partners

always wears glasses when at home, and a good amount of the time when not working in general

her mario kart main is link bc nostalgia and valuing a strong stat set that favors zoom zoom

the furthest she goes for environmental impact is always using a hydroflask

prefers having bangs and hair with a wave

always carries bandaids and bandages in her bag because she gets eczema patches when she’s stressed and it’s Embarrassing to her so she covers em up

#fmdintro #'condensed' i say #tbf this muse is well over a year old i just have a lot to say abt her #i luv her v much

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dragonswithjetpacks · 3 years

Text

Inspired by an argument they had in my head. And this post.

Tangle

-dragonswithjetpacks

Summary: Upon returning to camp, Ferelith finds her possessions have been disturbed. Without a doubt, she accuses Astarion who does not deny he is at fault. What begins as a squabble between the two ends in a fiery confrontation of how Ferelith begins to feel about her vampire companion.

Notes: To reference the tome in question, you can kind of read it in Campfire Conversations. I wrote that before I knew about the actual necromancy tome in game. Ferelith sort of collects all kinds of books and tomes and spells

Read here on Ao3.

The camp had been entirely quiet. It should have been a typical night with nothing but stars and campfires. But the silence was interrupted by an angry Ferelith, who upon her return had discovered her books had been misplaced. Her bag, neatly tucked away with her bedroll and belongings, had been pulled aside. Her books were out of order. And her necromancy tome had been opened. There was only one person she could accuse of rummaging through her things. And he was not shy about admitting the deed he had committed. Ferelith erupted into anger, storming out of camp in hopes she could calm herself. Astarion was hot on her heels, ready to admit his faults, but without a hint of guilt. She tried to ignore him, but it was no use. And she stopped as she passed through the old building.

"All I've asked is that you keep your grubby little hands to yourself," she shouted.

"It's not all that bad," he defended himself. "You can't blame me for slipping from time to time."

"Slipping? Slipping? Astarion, you can't just 'slip' into someone's belongings."

"I don't see what the big deal is. It's as if I've touched your precious tome."

"They're all my tomes," she pressed her fingers to the side of her temple, feeling the burden building from the stress.

There was a strong drink and an herbal tea coming after this conversation. She was certain.

"And you're being stingy. What if there is something useful in there? You know anything could help me."

"If there was anything I could do to help, I would have said something."

"Would you?" his eyes grew large, as they always did when he mimicked how one would feel if they were actually hurt.

"You should trust me. At least a little," she threw her hands up out of desperation, ready to be done with him and his games.

"I said I would," he shrugged.

Ferelith's brow tightened, the wrinkle of tension forming across the bridge of her nose. The tone suggested he was not taking her seriously. He very rarely did, but this was a different circumstance. He knew those books were important. And he knew by touching them he was violating her privacy. Again. She had been done with his prying. Done with his carelessness. And done with his selfish reasoning.

"You're not even trying!"

"How dare you. I've attempted and all you do is ignore the effort."

"What little effort that is."

"Ungrateful. That's what you are incredibly and undeniably-"

"I'm not ungrateful, I specifically asked-" they shouted over each other, their voices echoing off the old stone walls.

"And stubborn," he stepped forward aggressively. "Without reason, just... stubborn."

"I have enough reason, thank you. It's the only way I can tolerate you."

"Tolerate me? Ferelith, you despise me. Don't fool yourself."

"Despise isn't quite the word."

"How cliche of you," he was baring his fangs, now. "Yes, let's lash out with angry words because we don't know how to label our feelings."

A piercing stab jabbed her straight through the chest, sharper than any arrow she had felt. He was right. Her emotions had remained in a neutral state for so long, she did not know how to describe them. If she wasn't feeling emotions in all their intensity, she didn't feel them at all. Even when she desperately wanted to dislike Astarion, she couldn't. And she knew no word for it.

"Do not insult my intelligence with your mockery."

"Oh, but it's perfectly fine for you to insult mine? Your precious ego can't handle criticism? Let me guess your next tact... you'll wonder why you hadn't placed a bolt in my head, yet. Please, the threats are getting old."

"Maybe I can come up with something new," a flash of red flickered on her fingertips.

Astarion saw it from the corner of his eye, his instinct heightening his reflexes. It was almost one large sweep of his legs and he was over her. But she didn't flinch. The rush, however, caused her to lose concentration, dropping the magical energy she felt. It wasn't the surprise of his action that caught her off guard. No, it was the display in his eyes and the anger she felt looking up to him, causing her to widen her sight. She drank in all the anger he poured into her, filling up her body with a cold chill that drove her desire to defy him. Her shoulders straightened and her chest rose with contempt.

"You're not quick enough," he barked back at her.

It was not enough to knock her down. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to feel the contact of his face on her hand. And as she looked up, her face grew hot. His red eyes beamed down at her in rage. Her jaw clenched and the heat from below came swelling, bubbling up hot into her chest. That stupid face not two moments ago was attempting a sorry expression of pity. And now he was glaring down upon her with his fangs below curling lips. Her hands came up, but he was right. She was not quick enough. He caught them before they could reach their destination. She balled them into fists, rising up on her toes. She came dangerously close, but he was curious to see what action she so boldly came up with. The feeling of her lips on his mouth had not been an option he had considered.

What have you done?

The voice rang clear through her head, but it didn't stop her. Astarion, who she had expected to coil back with surprise, tightened his grasp, bending down to reinforce their kiss. He opened his mouth to hers, catching her breath. She sighed heavily, giving into the release of anger and feeling her body relax. He was afraid to let go, afraid she would pull away. But he had not initiated this. So his hands fell loose around her with the anticipation of her withdraw. The urge to push him was still there, and he could feel her hands lingering with doubt. But she did not tear herself from him. She stepped closer.

There wasn't another second of hesitancy, the moment he felt her hand over his chest, he knew his touch was permitted. His fingers stretched across the back of her as she grappled him. The doublet tightened with her pushing and pulling as her mouth opened and closed, using her anger to fuel the kiss. He did not question it, either, only relishing in their moment of passion and wondering what could be done to further it. A hand found it's way to her neck, a finger to the back of her ear and caressing the side. The touch. Just the soft touch. His fingertip pressed into her skin. Followed by another. The feeling of his fingertips sliding down her neckline brought a sensation that sang through her body, reminding her of the thoughts she had buried. His hands crawling across her. It felt like the night he drank from her. The image caused her to tense and her grip tightened as the singing grew louder.

Astarion defied her rigidness, scooping her lower back into him, closer, capturing her into his embrace. The hand, the one with it's gentle touch, had suddenly changed, becoming aggressive and hungry and wanting. It stretched to the back of her hair, his fingers tangling into it's long waves. They curled, pulling her head backward as he leaned into her. It sent a jolt of pleasure down the rest of her body, causing a soft moan to escape. Her eyes flew open, suddenly aware of what was happening by the unintentional sound she had made. She shoved him away, wiping her mouth and glaring at him. He stood, a thumb to his bottom lip and his eyes awaiting her next move. There was no evidence of shock on his face. Not in the least. It made her feel sick. She let out a sharp exhale, shaking her head as she left the ruin.

"Well..." he rubbed his lip in thought. "... that was certainly new..."

***********************************************************************

As the birds began to sing their song of the new day, Ferelith had already woken. While she would have preferred to be alone that night, she also did not want to risk running into Astarion in the wood. Her place had been warm by the fire all night, brooding and cursing quietly under her breath. She had remained undisturbed, even when Astarion had first returned. He was relentless with his stare, however, and refused to give her a moment of peace. Even if he said nothing at all.

The look from him alone was all she needed for her insides to curdle with regret. Or so she assumed. There was also a slight flutter in her chest when her eyes met his, a hint of secrecy in the enjoyment of her impulsive actions sparking the fire that flushed across her face. She would eventually needed to speak to him. Though Astarion was not patient enough to wait for that. She knew there was nothing more he wanted than to make her feel unconformable as soon as possible. And as she felt him approaching her as she packed her bag, she crossed her arms with a heavy and under prepared sigh.

"I hope you had a good hunt last night," she interrupted him just as his mouth opened to speak.

"I..." he looked at her curiously, "I did..."

"Good."

"I'm not sure if you wanted-"

"Shut up," she glowered, her voice dripping like venom. "Get your things. I need you."

"I knew you would," he grinned with enormous gratification.

Her composure held as long as it needed to, which was just enough to endure his gaze. The moment his back turned, her mind scattered into a thousand thoughts, some not even of her own voice. There would be a time for her to sort them out later. For now, she needed to keep her strength in appearance.

#astarion #astarion fic #astarion x mc #angry kiss #unresolved tension #astarion x ferelith #ferelith #ferelith moonshade #ferelith writing tag #dwjp writing tag #i will more than likely reblog this over a couple days #because friday evenings suck and i know some of you won't see it

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artificialqueens · 3 years

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It'd Be Easy if I Hated You (Crystal x Gigi) - A-tresia

What else is she supposed to do when the things she loves about Crystal, her favorite bits, the little pieces that she wants to keep as happy memories are all of the same bits that make her feel like a bruise?

Written for the song fic exchange for @goodemethyd. Inspired by If I Hated You by FLETCHER.

If I hated you, I know that I could do this on my own

Gigi’s having a day so she decides that maybe doing mundane chores on a Wednesday afternoon will distract her enough from going into a full-blown bad mood. She’s standing in the freezer aisle of the grocery store, busy deciding between mint chocolate chip and cookie dough ice cream, when she gets a whiff of something and suddenly it smells like hot summer nights spent high as a kite, laying out on the grass in the backyard looking up at the stars. Suddenly it smells like cold winter afternoons spent cuddling under an itchy knitted throw, watching Love Actually for the eleven-hundredth time. Suddenly it smells like Monday mornings scrambling to get ready to beat the morning traffic rush, occasionally stopping to button a blouse or tuck in a stray piece of hair. Suddenly it smells like neck kisses. Like lazy make-out sessions. Like angry fucking. Like makeup sex. It smells happy. And sad. And comforting. It smells like a hug – the hug – Gigi knows she badly needs today.

This – what just happened – she’s not sure she likes it. It feels too visceral.

The plan is to do groceries, wash the dishes that are a seemingly constant presence in the sink, clean the apartment, maybe organize her closet if there’s still time. The plan isn’t to think about her. The plan is never to think about her – not anymore. But this smell, obviously not distinctly her because she’s enveloped in it and she’s not here (Gigi checked), is sending her mind into a mild panic. How silly, she thinks, that her heart is slamming so hard against her ribcage because of this perfume. A perfume of all things. So maybe chores can wait until the weekend because her mood just took a turn for the worse.

She’s pouring herself a third glass of gin and tonic (more like three-quarters gin and a teeny tiny splash of tonic, for show) when Gigi decides that she’s in this mood and in her feels anyway, why not go all in. She allows herself to think about Crystal and the way things ended between them. It’s not ideal and she knows it’s not healthy but sometimes, she thinks, it’s what she needs. Maybe to figure out what really went wrong, how she could have changed things, how she could have saved them.

She thinks back on the way she tugged on Crystal’s hand and the way Crystal turned to look at her like she already knew what she was about to say, the way her chest hurt when she tried and failed to get the words out, the way Crystal’s face didn’t break when she said “this isn’t working anymore, isn’t it?”, the way her tears fell when she nodded yes. If she concentrates well enough, she swears she could feel the way Crystal squeezed her hand before she dropped it, she could hear the way Crystal’s voice cracked when she said “I’m sorry”, she could feel the warmth that Crystal seems to always radiate when she hugged her one last time.

Sometimes, Gigi thinks, it would be easier for her if she harbored negative feelings towards Crystal. It’d be easier to move on with her life if Crystal was a jerk and they ended things on a bad note. But she isn’t – Crystal could never be the bad guy, at least in her eyes. And the breakup wasn’t even bad – it was mutual and amicable and just the bookend to a relationship that was gradually unraveling.

This isn’t the first time Gigi finds her thumb hovering over the keyboard, the cursor blinking at her almost tauntingly. On better days, she’d like to think her emotional intelligence is high enough to stop her from texting but alcohol makes her reckless, making her make decisions out of impulsiveness and neediness.

Hey.

Delete.

Hi Crys.

Delete.

Hey, what’s up?

Delete.

I miss you.

She presses send before she overthinks it and as it is, finds herself passing out on the couch with her phone still in her hand.

Gigi doesn’t see Crystal’s reply until she blinks awake at ten in the morning – late for work, late for life.

Miss you too G xx

It’s strange, she thinks, that she spent eight years of her life knowing everything there is to know about Crystal – how she’s particular about the soft scramble of her eggs, the exact length of the scar down her thigh from a biking accident when she was twelve years old, the exact way she can kiss her neck to make her putty in her hands – and then to sit here like an idiot, not knowing if Crystal telling her she misses her too is real or not real. If she concentrates on it too hard, she knows she’ll drive herself crazy trying to make sense of it all.

The only wish Gigi makes every day when she wakes up is to just be okay. Most days, Gigi can not tell how she got there – there, where she can stand in front of her closet and pick out clothes that don’t remind her of the ways Crystal has taken them off her, where she can use her favorite coffee mug without thinking of the way Crystal chipped her tooth with it and just laughed the whole drive to the dentist, where she can buy the toothpaste they used to use together without thinking of the way Crystal tastes when she kisses her goodbye every morning.

Some days, and today feels like one of those days, she feels like she’s still here – here in square one. It really isn’t easy. In fact, it’s work – a lot of work – to make a conscious effort to stop herself from thinking, overthinking, remembering.

And of course, because she allowed herself to be in her feelings, the universe thinks she has the right to pile on. Crystal is in everything. She’s everywhere.

In the lady who had to repeat to the barista not to add any sugar to her coffee because she likes it black black.

In the car with their top-down next to her at the stoplight blasting Fuck the Pain Away by Peaches.

In the child who was throwing a tantrum at the store, insisting that he wants a donkey piñata at his birthday party.

In the speck of glitter that she finds stuck on her elbow after she’s done cleaning her car.

In the pumpkin spice scented room spray Nicky bought for her that just smells absolutely horrendous. She remembers almost throwing up when Crystal bought this exact same room spray, thinking it smelled delicious (it doesn’t).

In the bottle of almost-gone seasoning mix that she can’t even read the name of – one that Crystal insisted they needed to buy to make this one thing that they only made once.

Wish I could’ve loved you better Wish you’d kiss me; wish I wasn’t me

“You’ll get home okay?” Jaida asks her, tucking some hair behind Gigi’s ear.

Gigi nods. “Happy birthday, sweets,” Gigi says, leaning in to hug her friend.

“Happy birthday to you too,” she says, returning the hug. “It was a good one this year, no?”

Gigi shrugs and makes a non-committal sound as she releases Jaida from their hug.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just different this year.” It’s the first time in eight years that she’s celebrated her birthday without Crystal.

Jaida knows why it’s different this year, why she finished a bottle of tequila alone, why she kept on looking at the door to see who’s coming in. “You still love her.” It’s not a question. And Gigi thinks it will never be a question.

“I- Just- Jaida, I want her to be here.”

“Okay, okay,” she says with a comforting pat on the back, “We’ll talk more about this when we’re both sober, okay? We’ll figure out how to patch you right back up.”

Gigi nods, deciding that this is the end of this conversation. They wait in silence for Gigi’s Uber to come. Jaida kisses her cheek good night when it does and makes her promise to text the moment she gets home and of course says yes. She buckles herself in and waves goodbye.

The ride home lulls Gigi to sleep and she finds herself woken up by her Uber driver, letting her know that she’s home. She thanks him and gets out of the car only to discover that she, in fact, isn’t home. Not her home. Not anymore.

Gigi recognizes her surroundings and quickly sobers up – as sober as she can get after eight (she’s not really sure of how many, might have been the whole bottle) tequila shots. She looks at her phone and figures out how she got here. Of course, her Uber app still has this address set as home even though she hasn’t lived here in six months.

She knows she should just order another car and head home like this mistake never happened. But she’s already here. And she’s really fucking drunk. And she’s been thinking about Crystal all week. And if she wants to be honest with herself, she misses her so much it hurts.

She reaches the door and rings the bell before she can think any better of it. She checks the time after she rings the bell and thinks maybe it’s a bad idea. It obviously is – she’s drunk and it’s three in the fucking morning. But she’s here. She’s already rang the bell. And now she can hear movement coming from the inside, she can hear the door unlocking, she can see the door opening, and she can see Crystal’s sleepy face as it shows up from behind the door.

“Hi.”

“Gigi?” Crystal rasps, still trying to wipe the sleep off her eyes.

“Why weren’t you there?” Gigi tries to sound mad and accusatory but all she sounds right now is sad and pathetic.

“Where?”

“At the party.”

Crystal scratches her head. “I didn’t think you’d want me there,” she whispers.

“What about Jaida? Didn’t you want to be there for her?” Yes, Gigi thinks to herself, be mad on Jaida’s behalf.

“She knew I wasn’t coming,” Crystal shrugs. “I’m taking her out for a birthday lunch sometime this week.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

“I didn’t know you weren’t coming and I wanted you to be there.”

Crystal takes a deep breath and Gigi, for a split second, thinks she was going to say that the breakup has been a mistake and they should forget about everything that has happened and they could ride into the sunset to live happily ever after. Instead, she asks Gigi what she’s doing at her house, drunk, at three in the morning.

“I - I don’t know.”

Crystal moves to open the door wider. “Do you want to come in?”

“I don’t, no,” she says. And she really doesn’t. This isn’t her space anymore; it’s Crystal’s. And her drunk self can’t take it. She doesn’t want to see Crystal pattering around in a space that they once shared and sit there as a guest – unexpected, maybe unwanted, but still a guest.

She turns to sit on the front step instead. She shuts her eyes and lowers her head between her legs. If this is to stop herself from throwing up or to stop herself from looking at Crystal with the heart eyes she knows she has, she’s not quite sure. But she keeps that position until she hears the door shut, until she feels a warm presence beside her, until she feels an arm encircle her.

The way she immediately leans against Crystal and lets her wrap her in her arms is instinctive and she catches herself before she could bury her face further against her chest – where it smells like warmth and clean laundry and just the vaguest hint of her woody perfume.

“Sorry,” she whispers as she scoots away, looking slightly embarrassed at the way her body reacts to Crystal.

“Did you have a good time at your party?”

Gigi raises a brow at her. “Is this what we’re doing?”

“What?”

“Sit here and make small talk like we don’t know each other?”

Crystal takes a deep breath as if trying to think of something to say – but she says nothing. She sits there quietly, hands tugging her robe closer for more warmth, hair disheveled from sleep, eyes curiously looking at Gigi.

Gigi lets the silence sit between them for a beat before word vomiting everything she’s been holding on to for the last six months.

“I just miss you all the time and I’ve tried to get over it, get over you but nothing is ever good enough.”

Get over is the wrong phrase to use because she’s not over her and she probably never will be. She can learn how to be Crystal’s friend, maybe – but she’s not sure she can learn how to balance that with still being in love with her. Gigi thinks she needs to start getting used to living a life without her.

“I keep thinking about how I used to feel like we were a forever thing and wow, fuck, now we’ve been broken up what? Six months? And I’m running out of reasons to justify why we aren’t together anymore.”

She looks over at Crystal who has suddenly found the ground and her feet to be more interesting. She knows this Crystal, though – this Crystal who would get up from bed in the middle of the night and sit on her front step cold and barefoot and in her pajamas to listen. This Crystal would let her ramble on just to get her feelings out. This Crystal is not thinking of anything to say back; she’ll think about that when Gigi has said her piece.

“Do you know how fucking hard it is to lay in bed at night, in the dark, and not miss you? To keep on telling myself that dreaming about getting back together with you is only a dream?” Gigi takes a deep breath and tells herself not to cry. “It’s so fucking hard, Crystal. Wouldn’t it be easier if I hated you so I didn’t have to feel this way?”

Crystal sighs and shifts to take a good look at her. Gigi gives her a moment to collect her thoughts. But she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she reaches her hand up to Gigi’s face and Gigi looks at her suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Eyelash,” she says, picking it up from her right cheek and showing it to Gigi. “Make a wish.”

Gigi closes her eyes for longer than necessary. She wishes for a lot of things – she wishes she wasn’t here right now, she wishes Crystal would kiss her, she wishes she’d forget but also not forget, she wishes they’d get back together. But the alcohol in her bloodstream is just the right amount of warming to let her be honest about her biggest one. “Wish I could’ve loved you better,” she says with her eyes still closed.

She hears Crystal whisper her name in a way she knows she’s about to say something sweet, something meaningful, something so very Crystal so she groans out loud to stop Crystal from saying something. “I need to go home,” Gigi says, getting up from the step.

Crystal gets up with her, making sure she’s near enough in case Gigi stumbles. “Let me drive you home,” she offers.

“I can just order a car,” Gigi says, pulling out her phone from her coat pocket.

Crystal rolls her eyes at her. “I’m here; my car’s right there.”

“Okay,” Gigi nods.

Crystal tells her she’ll be quick to get her keys and a coat and Gigi contemplates ordering a car anyway. But Crystal’s back as quickly as she promised.

“Ready?”

Gigi nods. She feels a warm hand on the small of her back guiding her to the car. It feels natural, it feels them. But Gigi knows it shouldn’t. She quickly buckles herself in the passenger seat and leans her head against the window.

She’s not quite as drunk now but she’s not quite sober either; everything is still a bit fuzzy around the edges. It hits Gigi, as she sees Crystal sliding into the seat, how fucking awkward this is. They haven’t seen each other in months yet here they are at almost four in the morning being whatever it is they are right now. This feels like what it really is – exes awkwardly trying to reconcile what’s left of their friendship.

“I’m sorry,” Gigi says, breaking the awkward silence that’s been sitting between them since they started driving.

Crystal glances quickly at her. “For what?”

“For things.” For dragging Crystal out of bed to drive her home. For looking a mess and feeling like it too. For how things ended – for ending things at all. For still being in love with Crystal.

There’s still a lot to say and also nothing else left to say. It’s quiet the rest of the ride except for Crystal humming to a song playing in her head.

Crystal pulls into Gigi’s driveway and Gigi doesn’t move to get out right away, feeling like there’s something important she still wants to say amongst the drunken rambling she’s already done. She wants to stay but she also wants to leave. And when she finally decides it’s taking too long and it’s making things too awkward and she’s one leg out of the car, Crystal stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Gee?”

“Yes?”

“You said you wish you could’ve loved me better and I don’t think you could have.”

“I– Crys, what do you mean?”

“You loved me enough and you loved me best.”

“Oh.” Gigi stares at her for a beat, hand gripping the car door handle tighter.

“Just– it’s just I know it’s not great right now between us but…”

“Crys?”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks for driving me home,” she says, getting out of the car – finally. Her heart can’t take any more emotions.

“Right, of course,” Crystal nods to herself as Gigi shuts the door.

Gigi waves goodbye as she watches Crystal drive away, waiting for the sound of her car to fizzle out completely before making her way inside.

You know I dream about Getting back together in the future I could focus on you

It starts when Gigi decides that she most definitely must text Crystal a thank you for driving her home and an apology for waking her up in the middle of the night. It’s short and simple and direct to the point. It doesn’t leave room for misinterpretation and room for extra conversation.

What she doesn’t expect is for Crystal to keep texting. For it to spark a whole chain of texts.

First, it’s just the casual hi, hello, how are you?

Then it’s a Merry Christmas.

And a Happy New Year. With a lingering unsaid wish you were my new year’s kiss. But it’s okay, I’d rather have none than it to be not you.

Then it becomes hey, I saw this and remembered you. A link to a funny Twitter thread. A depreciating Tumblr post. A viral TikTok video. A YouTube clip from a TV show they used to watch together.

Then they’re randomly hanging out to get coffee for a long catch up. Then it becomes a standing afternoon snack coffee date.

Out for lunch. First to try that place near Gigi’s work. Then once a week.

Out for dinner. Always just the two of them, both scared to involve other people and acknowledge whatever it is they are – casual places first then eventually date night places that they used to go to or places they said they’d try.

“Are we friends?” Gigi asks her one night.

“I don’t know, is that what you want?”

They aren’t friends. They’re more than that but they’re also less than that.

It’s not like things between her and Crystal ended on bad terms. Sure, it was a bit disjointed in the end when they both realized they wanted different things out of the relationship – Gigi wanting independence and flexibility and Crystal wanting constancy and marriage. But really, there’s no denying that there was love there. That there’s still love here.

“I don’t know either. But I like this, whatever this is,” she says. And it’s true.

It’s natural. This. Them. If anything, the weirdest thing about this is how natural it feels, how easily they fall back into a routine as if they’d never stopped.

Gigi’s phone keeps blowing up when she’s at dinner with Jaida. She instinctively reaches out to her phone every time it buzzes, always so quick to respond.

“Geege, have you met someone new without telling me?” she teases, trying to peek at Gigi’s phone.

“What?”

“You have that look on your face.”

“Oh, um, it’s just Crystal,” she says, showing Jaida her phone – not like there’s anything to hide. But also, yes, there’s something to hide. Jaida doesn’t have to know that the lock screen on her phone is still that picture of her and Crystal at Coachella.

“I didn’t know you were friendly again. When did that happen?”

“Since our party.”

“That long?”

Gigi nods. Yes, that long. It’s now already Spring, almost Crystal’s birthday.

“That stupid look on your stupid face is a look I haven’t seen in almost a year.”

“What about it?”

“I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. I’m just saying I think you should be careful.”

Part of her is screaming not to get her hopes up – that maybe this is just them talking it out and getting the closure that they need. But there’s also the other part, a bigger part, that hopes this is them finally swallowing their pride and fixing what they couldn’t fix. But the thing is, Gigi’s hopes are already so up there.

“What is it you want from her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to be friends? Do you want to close the space a little? Do you want to try getting back together?”

“I don’t know how to be around her and not fucking feel everything.”

Ideally, she would like to reach a point where thinking of Crystal, talking about Crystal, talking to Crystal doesn’t leave her aching inside. But she feels like a string that has been pulled on too many times. Gigi feels defeated and just allows herself to acknowledge everything that her brain has already taken notice of.

“I want her back. She’s the love of my life, Jaida. How did we let this happen?”

Jaida goes on a whole tirade about something or another but Gigi doesn’t hear any of it because she’s busy dying inside from the text exchange that is happening.

Thinking of opening a bottle of wine and starting a movie. Want to join?

Gigi’s feeling bold and flirty.

Miss me already?

And she expects nothing but honesty from Crystal.

Yes.

She looks up at Jaida, she can’t hear her but she’s still talking. “J, I have to go,” she says.

I don’t know if you know this but you’re very hard to stay away from.

Don’t start without me.

The way the space between them on the couch shrinks gradually each time one of them gets up and comes back from the toilet or back with snacks and drinks does not go unnoticed. They don’t say anything about it and they don’t shy away when they start leaning into each other. When Gigi notices Crystal starting to doze off in the middle of their second movie, she lets her rest her head against her shoulder.

Crystal shifts against her, shoulders rising rhythmically, breath steady, sighing quietly in her sleep. Crystal tucks her face further into Gigi’s shoulder, and Gigi presses her cheek against Crystal’s head, and she knows she’s going to be stuck loving this person in her arms for the rest of her life – whether Crystal loves her the same way or not.

She thinks back to the last time they sat on this couch, supposedly watching one of Crystal’s favorite movies, but giving up the pretense of paying attention to the movie about fifteen minutes in to enjoy each other’s mouths instead.

This feels intimate, far too intimate for what they are right now. In the back of her mind, Gigi finds it hard to believe how she had tried to imagine a future with this intimacy and togetherness and decided that it wasn’t for her.

It’s a little past midnight and if Gigi is being totally honest with herself, she doesn’t ever want to leave. She sinks her nose into Crystal’s hair and inhales deeply – her smell always intoxicating; now smelling like a dream she once had.

“Crys,” Gigi whispers, gently shaking her awake. She really doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want this night to end, doesn’t want to say goodbye (tonight or ever again).

“Hmm?” Crystal grumbles, leaning in closer without opening her eyes.

“I have to go.”

Crystal stays still and Gigi thinks she’s fallen back asleep.

“Crys, I have to go,” she repeats.

Crystal sits up straight to look at Gigi. “Or you can stay,” she suggests, still blinking the sleep out of her eyes.

Gigi turns to look at Crystal straight in the eyes, silently hoping that Crystal understands that really, she doesn’t want to go home either. But they both know she should. “I really shouldn’t be here.” Gigi reluctantly gets up from the couch and holds her hand out to Crystal. “Are you going to walk me to the door?”

Crystal lets herself be pulled up to her feet and stretches out her neck and back before grabbing Gigi’s hand again to walk her to the door. Gigi drops Crystal’s hand when she puts on her shoes and when she straightens up again, she sees a look in Crystal’s eyes – it’s familiar but it’s also hesitant.

“This was good, right?”

“It was, I’m glad we could spend time like this.”

Gigi sees Crystal hesitate for a fleeting moment and what she says is not what Gigi was expecting at all. “You were it for me, you know? You still are. And I want that back, what we had,” Crystal says reaching out to take Gigi’s hand in hers again.

There’s still that space between them that hasn’t been breached yet. And Gigi isn’t sure how to get past it. But apparently, Crystal can dive into it headfirst.

Gigi tries to keep her face neutral but it isn’t so easy when her heart wants to beat out of her chest. She’s in love with her. She always has been. And she thinks she always will be, in all of the best and worst ways.

“I’m scared it will be the same. But also not the same. Do you know what I mean?”

All they’d ever done was love each other so much, too much, and it still had not been enough.

“It doesn’t have to be anything, does it? It just has to be you and me.”

#rpdr fanfiction #crystal methyd #gigi goode #crygi #angst #song fic #exes with feelings #atresia

17 notes · View notes

dwellordream · 3 years

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“...In the efforts of girls to be good and repress self, diaries seem to have had a moderating effect. Certainly keeping a diary which recorded successes and failures along the road to virtue was an additional incentive to be good. A success could be recorded and celebrated. At the same time, an always-listening, never-judging diary was something of a tonic. Girls who talked enough about their efforts to be good availed themselves of a simplified version of the ‘‘talking cure’’ which would soon be used by Sigmund Freud and Josef Breuer with middle-class Viennese girls. (The disproportionate number of adolescent or late-adolescent females in Freud and Breuer’s early work, and indeed the role of hysteria in their formulation of psychoanalysis, corroborates the special salience of language therapy for Victorian girls.)

…Within their diaries, girls assiduously recorded their efforts to be better— echoing, internalizing, and ultimately softening parental imperatives. Just as diaries moderated parental dictates, they mediated parental identifications. As the critic and analyst Katherine Dalsimer suggests, diaries proved to be revisited ‘‘transitional objects’’ useful in the processes of adolescent separation. No other metaphor quite captures the depth of attachment which girls sometimes demonstrated to their ‘‘darling’’ diaries than that analogy to the anthropomorphic blanket or teddy bear of early childhood.

Within vessels chartered and christened by parents, Victorian girls embarked on imaginative journeys which did not threaten to take them too far from home. Though often received from parents as gifts, diaries nonetheless granted more freedom than parents did. In diaries, girls could take on new attachments without abandoning old reliances. Thus when Margaret Tileston went away to boarding school and developed a crush on an older girl, she recorded it in her diary—as well as the news that she had just written a twelve-page letter to her mother, ‘‘the longest letter I ever wrote.’’

And when Helen Hart fell in love with her cousin, she confessed to her diary the prolonged anguish. Such confessions to diaries replaced those to parents—but with parents’ informal acquiescence. The diary was thus a tool for legitimating the ongoing reorientation of girls from parents to peers. Often the diary’s role in this transition was not symbolic at all, but quite concrete. Like rolling hoops, diary keeping was a late-Victorian recreation which girls sometimes shared with friends. Mary Boit and her cousins hid secrets in each other’s diaries, sometimes simply for the fun of the surprise alone.

In fact, the playful fabrication of different personae in diaries was an engrossing amusement within Victorian friendships. Girls described writing diaries together in their rooms, on New Year’s Eve, at boarding school, and even in the park. Shared diary keeping, of course, carried more possibilities than rolling hoops for emotional experimentation, and diaries often became actors in the friendships themselves. Girls frequently wrote about each other, producing provocative documents that became the stuff of suspicion and intimacy. Writing diaries became a way of confessing, protecting, or creating secrets too private for speech.

…For the same reasons that parents might encourage their daughters to write to them—as a way of communicating without the embarrassment of face-to-face expression—girls might use their diaries among themselves. Writing channeled unseemly emotions. That seemed sometimes to be the point of girls’ diaries. Self-governance was expected in feeling no less than conduct, and the diary could prove both a convenient receptacle for—and an incitement to—emotional spillover. In addition to moderating harsh norms and mediating new allegiances, a girl’s diary could inspire and then compartmentalize confusing emotions.

Almost all diaries contained at least one moment of a confessional nature—sometimes crossed out, sometimes written down the spine in minute handwriting, sometimes just left dangerously on the page. For some the diary’s primary purpose seemed to be to provide a safe ground for documenting, exploring, and disciplining nascent sexuality. Victorians strictly limited open expressions of sexuality, but as Michel Foucault persuasively argues, diaries dramatically encouraged discourse about sexuality.

Precocious sexuality was both most censured and most discussed—an adult secret imperfectly kept from adolescents themselves. Harriet Burton’s diary, written between the ages of thirteen and seventeen, is a document ‘‘saturated’’ with desire. Initially, when she embarked on her diary at the age of thirteen in 1887, she was reticent: ‘‘I find it rather hard to confide all my ‘inmost soul’ to a journal for my ‘inmost soul’ is— very inmost!’’ But before long, she had discovered the purpose for which she came to rely on her diary—what she would later call her ‘‘de-praving—deep raving.’’

Although she felt that her passion could not be ‘‘natural’’ for anyone her age and imagined ‘‘how anyone would laugh, how greatly amused they would be at the mere idea of a ‘mere-child’ of fourteen—loving,’’ she found her feelings ‘‘sweet’’ and despaired at the difficulty of doing them justice— of keeping them from seeming ‘‘small and weak.’’ Such self-descriptions as this passage after her arrival for a summer visit in Oneonta, New York, are as of one crazed:

‘‘I am in a very hilarious frame of mind today, and can hardly curb my prancing spirits enough to ‘wright’ as this scrawl bears witness. My silvery voice has been heard at all hours of the day rolling forth in diabolical waves of laughter, and striking terror into the souls of the inhabitants of the house. My mind is so filled with plans which wont come true that I’m nearly crazy. My emotions for other people . . . become so conflicting that they brake from the narrow bounds of my inner man and find vent in a mad race around the house.’’

Despite her descriptions elsewhere of complete freedom for outdoor escapades of all kinds, Harriet Burton described herself here as a confined hysteric, very much within the mode of the ‘‘madwoman in the attic’’ of gothic romances. Her confinement was clearly metaphoric, a fictive imprisonment of impulse within fragile shell. As in much of women’s gothic literature, Burton saw herself as really two people—a passionate inner self and an outer mask, ‘‘a placid calm expression of contentment on my face.’’ And she lamented ‘‘how dreadful has [providence] been in giving no times of solitude times which the soul may assert itself and the face throw off the mask, and break out and away from conformity and be itself.’’

In this context, Burton equated her authentic self and her sexuality. For Harriet Burton, the only place where her passion could be confessed—with all its inadequacies—was in her diary. ‘‘It seems so ridiculous and sentimental to think of writing in a journal, and I would not for anything have anyone know that I keep one,’’ she wrote. ‘‘But I will confess it to myself it is a sort of comfort to sit and write, although it is only talking to myself, and it is often putting down in black and white the things I most despise myself for.’’

…After a many-paged reverie of unfocused fantasy, Harriet Burton checked herself with her own ‘‘will and good sense’’: ‘‘The wisest thing that I can do is to go and duck my head into cold water, eat something then go downtown where I can see plenty of faces, real ones, then come home study my latin—real latin, then go to bed, a real bed,—to real sleep, get up in the morning eat a real breakfast, go to school make some real recitations, by that time I may be in the realms of reality and common sense!’’”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Writing and Self-Culture: The Contest Over the Meaning of Literacy.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#history #victorian #sexuality #american #gender #jane h. hunter #how young ladies became girls

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ftcoye · 4 years

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[Ao3 Link.]

Lan Wangji does not touch others often.

It is not a fact that would strike many others as strange – he is the ice cold Hanguang-Jun, separate from others, seeming to be carved out of jade. Yet… that does not mean he does not enjoy it.

His students, he touches on occasion. A hand on the shoulder for a job well done. It makes their eyes alight, makes them flush with pride, and it brings him great joy.

Sizhui is his son – he was not someone who grew up with many embraces, from his brother on occasions only, and he makes sure that his A-Yuan and then his Sizhui has never wanted for such. That he has always known that there is a safe place for him within his father’s arms, should he want it, that he need never fear to reach out and touch, that he will always be accepted. Sizhui is not overly physically affectionate, but he knows he can be if he wishes, and that is what matters.

When he was a child, he hugged his mother – when she was gone, and he a little older, the only one whom he touched was his brother. He still does, of course, but it is different. Long gone are the days in which they would hug each other, curl up in bed together as brothers, just a few years apart and so achingly close.

He loves his brother dearly, still considers him to be one of his most important people, but he is not so achingly close, and touches restrict themselves to the occasional touch to the back, his brother setting a hand on his shoulder.

The others are like drops in a lake. Ripples. Quiet and calm – affecting, but not greatly so.

Wei Ying and Huaisang are sweeping waves.

They are whirlwinds of energy, of touch – in different ways, in very different ways, but they came into his life like a storm, left just as suddenly, and now are here to return, an endless wind that churns the lake, and Lan Wangji revels in it.

He likes touch – he likes to be able to reach out to those he cares about, feel their warmth, the signs of them breathing, perhaps even their heartbeats under his fingers. But he is… not used to it. Not in this way. Not with them.

They are patient, and he loves them for it.

---

They tug him by the wrist.

Wraps their fingers around his wrist and pull him, gently or not-so-gently, and he always allows himself to be led. Huaisang used to lead him this way when they were children. When he and his brother visited Qinghe Nie, he would wrap his arms around Lan Wangji’s wrist and pull him carefully and they would walk. He liked to show him around – like to explain the architecture, the paintings, the history, and Lan Wangji would dutifully listen. “Lan Zhan,” he would ask periodically, anxious and wanting to be sure, wanting to keep this friend. “Is this okay?” And Lan Wangji would always tell him yes.

Wei Ying wraps his fingers around his wrist and tugs so hard Lan Wangji has to run, sometimes, to keep pace. “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, come look at this!” he yells, tugging and pulling, as if Lan Wangji will not come if he simply asks, as if he needs to latch onto his wrist and not let go to be able to get him to see whatever it is, do whatever it is he wishes to do. Lan Wangji does not tell him this – he does not wish to change it, and perhaps Wei Ying does know and does not care.

He wonders if they can feel his heartbeat under their fingertips. If their thumbs rest just right to feel that flutter, to feel the beat of his soul as he’s touched by the two that he loves.

They hold hands.

It’s strange, the first time it happens. Wei Ying on his right and Huaisang on his left. They glance at each other and then, easy as breathing, slip their hands into his. He- pauses. He misses a step, just a faint little stumble that probably only they notice.

They interlace their fingers together, and Lan Wangji’s breath comes short, fast, and he wonders if they can feel the way his head reels through the touch, if the palm against palm is as hot as it seems. Wei Ying swings their hands, chatting merrily, pumping them up and down as he grins at Lan Wangji, each step more a skip than a walk.

Huaisang is more serene about it – when Lan Wangji looks at him, he lifts his eyebrows in a silent question of Is this okay? Lan Wangji doesn’t know if he can verbalize a response, can even give a little nod, but both of them can read him. Both of them know him, know the minute movements of his face, and Huaisang smiles as well and squeezes his hand.

They walk, hand in hand – and yes, a few stare. Even though all know how important they are, how highly he regards both Wei Ying and Huaisang, knowing he holds them in esteem and holding hands with them are two different things, two different factors.

But the juniors do not care. Their eyes light up when they spot them, spot the three hand in hand, and Wei Ying laughs and waves eagerly with his free hand, summoning them, as Huaisang hides behind his fan with a grin of his own.

Lan Wangji has no hands to motion, no hands free to hide his face if he so wishes.

He has no desire to.

Instead, he squeezes the hands of both of his beloveds, and lets himself smile, just slightly, as the juniors approach.

---

He knows hugs – knows embraces. Knows the warmth of someone wrapping their arms around you and holding you close, even if it has been years since he has received one like that.

Sizhui has hugged him. He thinks that Sizhui is the only one that has hugged him in the last decade, more than a decade, until Wei Ying returned from the dead and shot himself back into Lan Wangji’s life. Of course, Sizhui’s hugs were not the same as his mother’s. Hugging your child… you’re enfolding them, keeping them safe, holding them tight – not the other way around. And even when Wei Ying did return, did vault out of the past in another man’s body with a flute to his lips and a sparkle in his eye – his hugs were not like that, but for Lan Wangji to shield him. To protect him. (From dogs, primarily.)

In the morning, Lan Wangji awakens first – this is how it always is. He awakens, perfectly on time in according to the Gusu rules, even though he is not currently in Gusu.

Huaisang is always second – later to rise than Lan Wangji by a few hours, getting up at a respectable time of seven, emerging to give him a smile. He is often not functional for a few minutes, until he has drank some tea and eaten a little, but he is conscious. Wei Ying, of course, is last, dragging himself out of bed with a groan at nine.

So it is one morning, in the hours in Qinghe when it is just Lan Wangji and Huaisang, that the other hugs him.

Lan Wangji does not know what inspires it. Huaisang appears to have been thinking, thoughtfully and carefully. He is not an open book like Wei Ying often is – Lan Wangji cannot always tell what is on his mind, but he trusts him to share if it is necessary.

And sure enough, he does. They sip their tea, the morning rays illuminating his love gently from behind, when Huaisang sets down his cup and looks steadily at Lan Wangji. “Lan Zhan,” he asks, his words thoughtful – he is the least impulsive of the three of them, the least likely to make a snap decision. “May I hug you?”

To say that Lan Wangji does not startle would be a lie – he does. His startlement is more of a still, the cup paused partway in its rise to his lips, and he blinks at Huaisang once, twice. “Only if you’d like,” he says, as if there was anything that Lan Wangi could possibly like more.

He sets his cup down. Gives a careful nod. “I would like,” he says, and Huaisang enfolds him.

Huaisang pulls him down, as the shortest of the three, wrapping his arms around him and letting Lan Wangji gently rest his head on his shoulder, cheek pressing against the material of his robe. It is… it is good. Soft. Not just the fabric but the feel of Huaisang’s fingers curling in Lan Wangji’s own robe, the little breaths of the other that stir his hair, warm his neck, the quiet little hum that Huaisang lets out as he reaches up with one hand to curl in Lan Wangji’s hair. It is… good. Welcome.

He has not been held like this for a long time, and if tears prick at his eyes and wet Huaisang’s robes, the man says nothing.

---

When Wei Ying holds him, it is done with much less ceremony.

There are days when it is… it is difficult. He needs to rouse himself often in the night to reach across, to reassure himself that Wei Ying is here, that he is alive. That he needs to look for the rise of his chest, the simple breaths and exhales.

Seeing Huaisang is less a reminder that he is alive and more a reminder that he is here, that both of this men are truly here by his side and that this is not some wild dream he has concocted that will fade like the mist when he awakes, where he and Huaisang have never done more than greet each other like old classmates and Wei Ying is still gone from this earth.

So sometimes he wakes and has to check to make sure that Wei Ying is breathing – and one time, Wei Ying wakes as well.

“Lan Zhan?” he asks quietly, sleepily, as Lan Wangji leans over him. “What’s wrong?”

He cannot lie to him, even if he wishes, and so Lan Wangji tries to find words that will reassure him and send him back to sleep, but they stick in his throat – he’s never been good at putting emotions, thoughts into words, into statements that others will truly understand.

Wei Ying is one of the few that can read him, though, and whatever his face is doing, it’s enough to make Wei Ying reach for him. (Or perhaps Wei Ying simply wants to reach for him – either thought is enough to delight Lan Wangji.)

He reaches for him, pulling Lan Wangji gently down on top of him and wrapping one arm around his shoulders, the other cradling his head as he places his head directly on his chest. “The heartbeat, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, his words slurred with the sleep that he will soon fall into once more, but he is warm, every part of Lan Wangji seeping with that gentle warmth where they touch – like a fire in winter, a soothing warmth, a soothing heat. “Listen to my heartbeat, okay?”

Wei Ying slips away, once more, but his hold does not fade – he embraces Lan Wangji, holds him close, carefully and cherished and loved, and Lan Wangji listens to his heart against his ear, beating in time with his own.

---

When they sleep, no one is ever alone – there are never any partners nor pairs, never any single beds nor nights spent apart. Not anymore. Not when they have taken so long to get to this point.

Sometimes Wei Ying is in the middle. He throws his limbs askew, curves an arm over one of them and a leg over the other, drooling on someone else’s pillow as he snuggles into someone. He twitches in his sleep, sometimes, wriggles or maybe says some words, but it is no bother. Nothing can ever be a bother, not after so long without him.

Sometimes Huaisang is in the middle. He likes to be held, or be on top of another, warm and content. He wakes easily to noise, to movement, but sleeps easily just as well, shifting between the two as easily as breathing. He buries his face in Wei Ying’s chest, or Lan Wangji’s neck, breathing warm and hot as it spills over whoever it may be, the other person with a hand hooked around the crook of their arm, tucked into his back, holding him all the same.

Sometimes, it is Lan Wangji.

He cares little for how he sleeps, for the exact arrangement. Perhaps he will be on his back, both of them curled into him from either side. Perhaps one will lie on top of him – perhaps he will be on top of someone else. Legs may cross or they may not, hands may curl together, pillows may be shared – breathing may ghost across another’s skin or maybe it will be a back to him, instead, warm against him.

The only thing Lan Wangji requires is both of them – is each of his loves, however they want to be, with him.

He will never be bereft of them again.

#lan wangji #wei wuxian #nie huaisang #wangsangxian #wangxian #wangsang #wei ying #lan zhan #mdzs

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